13. The Sewer: If You Love Her, Trust Her

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The morning breeze swept across the barren lands of Las Vegas, making the saltbushes quiver like bashful beauties. Pale light poured through the window, illuminating a bruised face on the bed in the second-floor bedroom. Dean sprang up with a swift motion, stretching luxuriously; his spine and vertebrae crackled like firecrackers. He glanced at the system.

80 out of 100.

Last night, he sparred with Paquay from eight until midnight, and his combat proficiency had leapt by nearly fifty points—far surpassing the results of his recent solo training.

Practical drills were so much more effective!

"Thank goodness that guy doesn't pull his punches, even with his own nephew!"

Remembering the ordeal of last night, a trace of lingering fear crossed Dean's face.

Paquay, it seemed, much preferred wrestling to boxing. Under his "hands-on" teaching, Dean had been introduced to a "few" wrestling techniques: single-leg takedowns, double-leg takedowns, back throws, neck drops, armbars, rear chokes...

Paquay's teaching style was blunt and efficient, offering only a few words of guidance at key moments. The rest of the time, he repeatedly threw Dean to the ground in various ways, subduing him over and over.

According to Paquay, "When you've been thrown a thousand, ten thousand times, you'll naturally learn how to defend, and how to take down your opponent."

Dean had been battered hundreds of times; his wailing silhouette haunted the front yard lawn. Every inch of his body ached. His face, especially his ears, had swollen and reddened from so many close encounters with the ground.

Yet, thanks to his Ironman talent, Dean endured to the end and even earned a rare word of praise from Paquay.

Unfortunately, Dean's mind was a bit muddled, so he hadn't absorbed much of the wrestling technique—except for a new habit of nervously spreading his legs and lowering his center of gravity.

...

This morning.

With his uncle’s post-training massage and the rapid recovery of his Ironman ability, Dean felt invigorated and full of energy. Even his insomnia had quietly vanished.

Besides a few lingering surface injuries, he was in perfect shape!

"A little pain now is better than being killed by criminals later. Tonight, another round with Paquay—let’s try to level up combat!"

Having made up his mind, Dean pulled on a black hooded jacket that covered him from head to toe, sports pants, and sneakers. He went down to the kitchen, toasted some bread, fried eight eggs and six slices of bacon.

Half he ate himself; the other half he left for his uncle, still snoring on the living room sofa. He’d have to buy more bread at school—ever since gaining his Ironman talent, his appetite had grown significantly.

...

Dean gazed for a moment at his uncle’s rugged, haggard face.

"Bye, Paquay!"

Grabbing his gear, he pushed open the door and rode toward school, accompanied by the cheerful chirping of birds on the roadside branches.

...

Not long after.

Dean met up with Rust at the school gate. He quickly noticed the odd, faintly fearful glances from the surrounding students.

Everyone avoided them as if they carried the plague, loudly discussing nicknames like Herring Master and Biochemical Gas Expert.

A black girl in shorts and a tank top fanned the air before her nose as if driving away a foul smell.

Even Bob Lowe looked uneasy at their approach, no longer daring to threaten them as before.

The spot where the two stood became a strange no-man’s land.

"Dude, your new haircut is awesome... Too bad our reputation at school is toast now." Rust, also clad in a black hoodie, sighed theatrically, but a hint of pride flickered across his boyish face for yesterday’s exploits. "It’s going to be hard to make friends from now on."

"So what? Better to be feared than bullied!"

"True. Hey, check out our new equipment."

Rust pointed proudly toward a rugged black Ford F-150 in the parking lot, though it had only two seats.

"Grace’s truck. She’s too busy with work to use it much. It’s loaded—flashlight, baseball bat, masks, lunch and dinner. If we’re exploring the sewers, we need to be prepared!"

Dean marveled, "What did you tell your mom?"

"We’re going camping! She’s too busy to check in at school."

"Do you even know how to drive?" Unlike most guys, Dean wasn’t a car enthusiast, but he’d already gotten his license.

"Who doesn’t have a license? Grace just never bought me a car!" Rust patted his overstuffed backpack, which thumped twice. "I spent a fortune buying out the department store’s herring cans. We’ve got all the ‘ammunition’ we need!"

"Oh, and I already got you excused from class!"

Dean grew ever more pleased—the kid was truly a reliable sidekick.

...

"Haha, Detective Duo, on the move!"

Rust shouted with enthusiasm, carefully driving due south as the terrain gently sloped downward.

"Relax, man. Personally, I think your driving is excellent. If you go any slower, you’ll rival a pro racecar driver," Dean teased, suppressing a laugh.

Rust’s small size and baby face behind the wheel gave the whole scene a comical "kid driving a big truck" vibe.

"Buckle up and watch me!"

...

The F-150 rolled into the peaceful outskirts, surrounded by endless, untamed grasslands and sandy wastes dotted with signposts and windmills. Occasionally, wild rabbits or bighorn sheep could be seen feeding or playing among the thickets and pools.

There was a certain wild charm to the place.

...

After about half an hour, the truck turned off the main road into a sandy patch. A muddy creek wound through waist-high elephant grass, and piles of plastic, clothing, and umbrellas were scattered around.

The truck stopped behind a low trash heap.

Not far off stood a circular drainage pipe several meters in diameter, its interior pitch black and unfathomable, with the little river originating from its depths.

The two got out and crouched behind the trash heap, watching carefully for a while and confirming there were no illegal activities nearby. They both sighed in relief.

"Relax, man," Dean said, pulling on a black mask and gripping a baseball bat in one hand, a flashlight in the other. "I’ll take the lead—just follow my instructions."

He strode forward.

Rust took a deep breath and followed close behind.

As soon as they entered the drainage pipe, darkness engulfed them, followed by an unusual chill.

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Though it was blazing hot outside, the temperature in the tunnel dropped several degrees—cool and pleasant.

Dean suddenly thought that, in a few months, this place would be perfect to escape the searing forty-degree summer heat.

A faint musty, sour odor lingered in the air, but after yesterday’s herring can ordeal, it was nothing worth mentioning.

"This place is a bit like a bridge underpass, cleaner than I expected. Living here might not be so bad," Rust observed.

They stooped along the left side of the tunnel, their flashlights illuminating the center.

A thin stream flowed through the mossy channel, its water cloudy but not the cesspool of filth Dean had imagined, and the smell wasn’t all that strong.

Higher platforms on either side were strewn with plastic bags, toys, and tattered clothes, but there was little bulky trash. Wild grass and fungi sprouted from cracks in the walls, adding a touch of green to the damp gloom.

...

Following the water, Dean occasionally marked numbers on the walls with a pen to avoid getting lost.

After a few instinctive choices at junctions and about five minutes’ walk, the sunlight behind them faded. Beyond the beam of the flashlight, the darkness was absolute.

The cramped space, oppressive silence, and stagnant air weighed on their spirits.

"What’s that?" Rust pointed to a rubbery object in the corner, eerily shaped like a human.

"An old love doll," Dean said with a smirk.

"What’s a doll that big for?"

"You’ll know when you get a girlfriend."

Squeak! Squeak! Suddenly, two sharp cries.

Rust jumped, jerking the flashlight toward the doll—where a pair of reflective eyes stared back. A massive black rat stood its ground, unafraid, eyeing the trespassers for five whole seconds before scurrying into the darkness.

"God, what do these things eat? It’s bigger than a pet store cat," Rust gasped, clutching his bat.

"Living in the sewers, what else is there but trash? Looks like you like it—want me to catch one for you as a pet?" Dean joked.

"Shut up! Scare me again and I’ll drive off, leaving you here alone!" Rust snapped, but then saw Dean crouching at a crossroad, examining a small object on the ground.

"A syringe?"

Dean looked down the tunnel. "I think we’re close to something."

...

Dean’s hunch was right. Less than two minutes down the left passage, they entered a wider corridor.

On the left, someone had strung up a rope and hung shirts and vests to create a private "room."

A dim yellow light glowed from within.

"Anyone there?" Dean called out as gently as he could.

The wall of clothes parted, and a man stepped out wearing nothing but black shorts, accidentally kicking aside a battery.

He seemed between thirty and forty, with thick, matted hair and a wild beard. His pale skin was stretched tight over his ribs, making him look frail and sickly. His cheekbones jutted out, making his eyes look huge and bloodshot.

"Heh. This is Alex’s turf. No trespassing without permission..." His voice was hoarse, but as his red eyes swept over their bundled-up forms and the gleaming baseball bat, he stepped back, raising his stick-thin arm defensively.

"Alex has no money—spent it all on pleasure. Nothing here worth robbing, take whatever you want, just don’t hurt me!"

Dean noticed a large patch of rough, bark-like skin on the man’s arm.

"Relax." Dean handed his bat to Rust and spread his hands in peace.

Rust illuminated him from behind.

"I’m looking for someone—Mona. Do you know her?" Dean rattled off before the man could answer, "Girl, about eighteen, black hair and eyes, around five-six, medium build."

"Yeah, she has a lovely smile. Likes to wear an old cowboy hat."

"Ring any bells? You know where she lives, right? Or her friends? Speak up!"

"Stop!" Alex grinned.

"Count yourself lucky. I’ve seen her—a memorable, good-hearted girl, a ‘rat person’ living in another tunnel. But I won’t give you info for free. Let’s trade, by God’s witness!"

...

Gurgle, gurgle—

Under the dim lamplight, Alex devoured a piece of pizza, his yellowed teeth tearing off huge chunks before even swallowing the previous bite, cheeks bulging as if he would swallow his tongue.

Dean frowned; in his previous life in the Celestial Empire, he’d rarely seen anyone so hungry.

Unless you were sick, even a few days as a deliveryman would keep you fed.

Rust looked pained. Grace had made that rose shrimp sashimi pizza with care, and now it was wasted on a junkie!

"...Mmm...Alaska Bay rose shrimp...top quality, expensive...last time I had this was three years ago. You two...must be angels sent by God." After filling his stomach, Alex wiped away a tear, slowing his devouring pace.

"How long since you last ate?" Dean asked.

"Five days? A week? The city’s soup kitchens are closed. Us ‘rat people’ just have to go hungry."

"You keep saying ‘rat person’—what does that mean?" Rust asked.

"People who live like rats in the endless dark sewers—like me," Alex replied, his face now satisfied and friendly.

"How did you end up a rat person?"

"No money—can’t afford to live up there," Alex pointed to the ceiling, self-mockingly.

"Poor, but you still use this stuff?" Dean tossed the syringe at his feet, thinking how the pitiable always have flaws.

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Alex shook his head indifferently.

"I’ve quit... Look, the scars and scabs—this arm was riddled with holes a year ago. But now, I’ve beaten the demon. Though I woke up a bit late—my immune system’s shot. The scars will never fully heal."

Seeing the two fall silent, Alex slumped back in his rattan chair, lazily tearing at pizza.

"Believe it or not, I used to be rich—over a million bucks in my account, living it up in Vegas hotels every day, white girls, black girls, Asian girls, tried them all. But I wasn’t just here to have fun; I was chasing opportunities, hoping to turn a million into ten. Then one night, I got hooked in a casino scam... Lost ninety percent of everything overnight."

Alex turned to Rust, sighing.

"Can you imagine what that feels like? Worse than death—I needed comfort, and so—"

His gaunt face aged before their eyes.

"I never expected to fall from one abyss into another."

"But now, I’m trying to climb out."

Dean sighed, a trace of sympathy and pity in his heart. Had he been too harsh on this poor soul?

Maybe he should leave him some money?

But then Dean remembered his uncle’s warning—not to trust too easily. This guy was probably angling for more sympathy.

Besides, no one quits that stuff in just a few years.

"All right, man, I don’t have time for your life story. Tell me about Mona—now!"

"Let me finish, will you? You two remind me of nephews I haven’t seen in ten years. I want to share some life experience, keep you from being dazzled by Vegas’s glitz."

His expression turned misty, his gaze earnest.

"Enough, don’t test my patience!" Dean warned sharply, swinging the baseball bat.

"Fiery kid. Would you be this tough with a gangster?" Alex muttered.

Dean’s eyelid twitched.

"You’re looking in the wrong place. Mona lives in the southern district, dozens of miles away. I’ve chatted with her many times—she looks just like my daughter. My poor girl doesn’t even know her old man’s suffering here in Vegas. I don’t want to burden her..."

"The south side? That’s a huge area," Rust interrupted, rolling his eyes. "There must be a hundred manholes over there, and the sewers stretch for miles. Where do we even start?"

"That, I’m afraid I can’t help with," Alex said, picking his teeth. "I’ve never visited Mona’s home myself."

Dean rummaged through Rust’s backpack, fingering the herring cans.

"Are you sure you can’t remember anything else?"

"Hey, I swear to God, not a word of a lie! After your feast, I don’t want to cheat you. Besides, Mona’s one of your girlfriends, isn’t she? Chasing a girl takes effort; you can’t expect freebies!"

"Who’s a girlfriend!" Rust turned red, bristling with indignation at the thought of the trickery, "She conned my buddy out of two grand! Toyed with his feelings! She’s a bona fide scammer."

"That’s impossible!" Alex looked offended, a flush coloring his sickly cheeks, his bulging eyes glaring.

"Mona may be poor, but she’s cheerful, kind, and more genuine than most girls topside—she’d never scam anyone for money."

"You know her that well?" Dean shot him a glance, signaling him to go on.

"Her parents died when she was thirteen, after drinking bad water down here. She’s been on her own since. She’s tough, always working to move above ground. She never looks down on us rat people. Every payday, she’d buy food to share with everyone."

"If she’d scam you for two grand, then we all deserve to go to hell!"

"The day after she took my buddy’s cash, she vanished. Coincidence?" Rust retorted. "How are we supposed to believe you? Look at yourself—what kind of group are rat people? Junkies, crazies, the disabled... daydreamers chasing pipe dreams of instant riches. And Mona’s an ‘actress,’ right?"

"I told you, I’m fighting the demon," Alex’s voice was faint but resolute. He circled the two, his skeletal frame twitching.

"Most of us dress poorly, stay in the dark, rarely contact the outside. But don’t you get it? People with tragic pasts understand suffering best."

Alex spat as he spoke, nearly shouting himself hoarse.

"I’d rather scavenge for scraps than steal, rob, or cheat! We may be poor, but we’ve got more conscience than those casino and hotel tycoons up above, or the gangsters selling ‘herbs’ to school kids!"

Rust fell silent.

Alex’s passionate defense made him waver, just a little.

"But the fact is, Mona took my money and disappeared, even quit her job at the theater to dodge responsibility."

Dean looked at Alex, a strange, unrealistic hope rising in his heart.

"If she’s not a scammer, why is she hiding?"

"How long were you with Mona?"

"Over three months."

"And that’s not enough to know her character?" In the murky sewer, reformed addict Alex fixed Dean with a steady gaze. "Ask yourself—did Mona ever deceive you? If so, why not go to the police?"

"No evidence, and I’m Asian. The cops won’t care."

"Excuses! If you love her, trust her!"

Dean swallowed, feeling the weight of emotion as he rubbed his brow.

Dean.

Mona.

Dean.

Mona.

Those sweet memories of love began to surge up, clouding his mind.

He checked the system; after Alex’s long speech, the investigation progress ticked up from zero to ten percent, but the clues remained vague.

"If she vanished after taking your money, it wasn’t by choice... or..." Alex added.

"Or what?" Dean pressed.

Alex grew agitated, pacing in circles. Then he changed the subject: "Never mind. I’ll ask around the other sewer dwellers about Mona. But we’re all scattered—it’ll take time. Meet me in two weeks outside the drain, and bring food."

"That’s too long..." Dean took a deep breath; the system only gave him seven days.

"Then you’ll just have to check every manhole in the south side yourselves. I’m tired—unless you mind, let me rest in peace, all right?"