17. Everything Returns to the Origin
Dean strode swiftly across the dance floor.
Neon lights cast their glow on his composed face, utterly at odds with the pulsing music and energetic dancers around him.
He had not anticipated what was about to happen.
A blonde girl suddenly shoved her partner aside, swinging her long legs as she stepped right up to him. She blinked her bright green eyes at him, her smile fiery, and reached out with both hands.
Her skin was snow-white.
Her lips curled with a playful smile.
Her graceful body swayed to the music.
“Asian boy, don’t you like to dance?”
One way ticket
One way ticket…
The disco throbbed, wild and exuberant.
Dean had no mind for disco now. He lowered his head, intent on leaving.
But the girl seized his left hand and stepped back, blocking his way yet again as he tried to turn.
Now
Only tear drops are all that I could see
The music seemed to electrify every cell.
Ooh
The girl swung her hands deftly, moving her feet back and forth, twisting her thighs, a scorching vitality radiating from her.
The fresh scent of shampoo teased his nose.
Ooh
Get one way ticket to the blue
A long sigh.
Her body, from neck to chest, waist to thighs, moved with the gentle melody in a beautiful, wave-like rhythm.
Dean stood motionless.
Gasps rippled through the dance floor.
“No wonder that kid doesn’t drink—he’s here to date a beauty! Too stiff though, like a stick,” joked a vagrant from the edge of the room.
Gotta make a trip to lonesome town
The tune soared.
The girl placed her hands on her waist, lifted her pointed chin, and crossed her legs rapidly.
A passionate, exaggerated smile bloomed on her pretty cheeks.
Dean pondered how to respond.
A tall, thin young man suddenly barreled between them.
“That’s enough, Lily! I just messed up a little, you don’t need to find a chink to spite me!”
He yanked the girl’s pale wrist, turned, and glared viciously at Dean, his sharp features illuminated by the spinning lights.
“Fuck you, ching chong! Get out! If you can’t dance, don’t embarrass yourself!”
What the hell? Are you idiots sent by God to give me experience points?
She was the one who started this!
Can’t you just be quiet for a moment?
Dean’s face darkened, a flash of impatience in his eyes.
The man didn’t stop at insults; he reached for Dean’s collar.
Dean’s left hand moved reflexively, locking the man’s wrist. He spun, instinctively pulling the arm over his shoulder.
His back pressed against the man’s torso.
Hands pulled forward, hips pushed backward.
Just like Pacquiao tossing opponents hundreds of times.
Legs, waist, spine, and shoulders twisted into a single burst of force!
Smooth as silk, he threw the man forward…
A heavy thud!
The polished floor trembled.
Everyone in the hall was stunned. It all happened too fast—before anyone could react, the Asian man spun around.
A flick of the wrist.
The loudmouthed friend who had shouted “ching chong” was hurled like a sandbag, landing two meters away on his back.
“Ah!”
The man howled in agony, his face contorted.
Three women covered their mouths, screaming in shock.
“Go to hell!”
One of the unlucky guy’s friends, seeing this, charged from five meters away, aiming a kick at Dean’s side.
He kicked nothing but air—the target was gone.
He was too slow!
Dean dropped low with lightning speed, dodging the kick, and grabbed the man’s standing right foot, pushing forward, his head striking the man’s chest.
He lifted him off the ground, charging ahead.
The man was hit like a crash-test dummy by a speeding train, losing balance and resistance, thrown two meters forward.
He didn’t even have time to cry out!
A mountain’s weight pinned him to the floor!
Crunch!
The searing pain whitened his eyes; he couldn’t move.
“White trash!”
Dean, with a look of contempt, made a dismissive gesture under his arm, when suddenly a muffled grunt escaped him.
A third man struck from behind, landing a punch on Dean’s neck.
---
But before he could savor his triumph, Dean spun without looking and slammed an elbow into the man’s face.
The man’s vision went dark; he staggered back two steps.
Dean surged forward, grabbing both arms and pressing them down, his right knee shooting up!
Thud!
Dean’s knee drove into the soft belly like a hammer, and the man curled up like a boiled shrimp, his face turning liver-colored, collapsing to the side, clutching his stomach.
Less than ten seconds, and the fight was over.
Dean was exhilarated.
His first real test—he could feel the improvement in his body after training.
Now, under normal circumstances, he could handle two or three untrained men with ease.
But these three were weaklings, and their defeat barely boosted his skill.
“Stay back, don’t come near us—we’re calling the police.” The three beautiful girls huddled together, trembling, looking at Dean as if he were a ruthless criminal, including the blonde who had flirted with him moments before.
“Wow—Chinese kung fu!”
At the bar, Old Time raised a thumbs-up, while the bartender behind him stood eerily still, head bowed, seemingly oblivious to the brief chaos in the hall.
Rast, face flushed, spat and clapped wildly, mouth agape.
Dean ignored them, darting toward the corner stairs, bounding up to the second floor.
Several rooms lined the corridor, all tightly locked.
Except for the room at the far end, its door half open.
Dean approached the crack.
A bald, overweight security guard in black uniform slept slumped in a swivel chair.
Two monitors showed empty street views and six people helping their companions out of the hall.
Surveillance!
Dean’s eyes narrowed; he pushed the door open and strode inside, clearing his throat and demanding in a deep, authoritative voice:
“I want the surveillance footage from the 19th of last month.”
“Ah!” The supervisor’s here?
The fat guard jolted upright, confused and groggy, not turning as he mumbled,
“There’s no footage from last month. You forgot—the storage only holds 72 hours of recordings.”
“What? Only three days!” Dean’s face fell.
His uncle was right—the technology here was so outdated, there’s no way to have footage from half a month ago.
All his efforts had been for nothing.
Dean pounded his forehead in frustration, sinking into bitter disappointment, then left the surveillance room.
Bang!
The door slammed shut.
The guard glanced at the monitors and realized the visitor wasn’t his supervisor, but a strange Asian youth.
“Motherfucker, what a lunatic!”
---
Dean returned to the hall; the group of six was gone.
The vagrant was in the center, dancing slowly, moving his knees, hands alternately sweeping over his scalp as if waxing his hair.
Rast, bright red, flailed behind him, dancing a wild, bone-less monkey routine.
“Hey, kid—drink’s done, it’s dance time, come get happy with us!”
“Sorry, I’m not in the mood.” Dean shook his head, patting Rast’s cheek, “Buddy, wake up, time to go.”
“Huh?” Rast blinked, drunkenly clutching Dean’s hands, shaking his head, “I think I’m poisoned—alcohol burned my brain, I can’t stop, let me dance a little longer.”
“Rast, I didn’t find the surveillance footage. We need to leave!”
“Please, just let me dance a little longer.”
“Cheer up—what are you two looking for, anyway?” Time placed his hands over his chest, “Tell me, maybe I can help?”
Suddenly, the vagrant’s single eye cleared, no trace of drunkenness, and he slowly extended his right hand toward Dean.
Dean instinctively slapped his hand.
“How long have you lived near the Balka Disco?”
“Move your hips, join in, smile!” the vagrant replied.
Dean forced an awkward smile, mimicking the vagrant’s moves. The three of them formed a circle in the center, spinning and dancing a gentle, elderly disco.
“That’s better! I’ve lived here for months. Daytime, I pick trash; nighttime, I drink and dance—life’s as free and easy as it gets.”
“All right, Mr. Time,” Dean shrugged off Rast’s arm, “About half a month ago, April 19th, around ten at night—did you see a girl, eighteen or nineteen, black hair, about… She left Raymond House on this street, should’ve passed this hall. There’s a sketch in the car—I’ll fetch it!”
“No need, I remember her!”
Time smiled mysteriously, revealing yellowed, rotten teeth.
“Don’t recall? I already expected that,” Dean sighed, then suddenly jolted, as if a bucket of cold water was poured over his head—he felt instantly alert.
“Wait! You said you saw her!”
“Old Time’s memory has always been uncanny. Anything I see, hear, or smell stays locked away here forever.”
He tapped his tangled hair with a blackened fingernail.
“If I want, I can retrieve it anytime.”
Dean frowned, wondering if the man was joking.
“You’re not kidding? You really can do that?”
“It’s normal for young folk not to know. There’s a tiny fraction of special people—one in every hundred thousand, maybe a million—born different…”
He suddenly sounded profound and mysterious, his voice resonant and magnetic, like a maxim with hidden power, echoing in Dean’s mind.
Among the masses.
Some are born different.
Time’s voice seemed to subdue the roaring music.
In that moment, Dean felt odd.
The shifting lights in the hall faded from his awareness.
Time seemed to pause.
Even the air around him grew thick and sluggish.
Breathing became difficult.
---
Thump, thump.
His heart pounded in his ears, as if it might burst from his chest.
Am I drunk?
No, I haven’t drunk a drop!
He shook his head hard; the surging music swept him up again, and everything returned to normal.
Dean exhaled, his gaze locking with the vagrant’s single eye, where he saw his own reflection.
Time nodded, continuing:
“I happen to be one of those. Maybe it’s a talent, growing sharper with age.”
“A talent? You mean photographic memory? So why are you living like this, down and out?” Dean asked.
Old Time laughed, his eyes sharp as he retorted,
“Why do you think I’m miserable? Open your eyes and look…” He spread his arms, turning to survey the room as if standing center stage, bathed in countless spotlights, the most dazzling figure in the hall, “I don’t need a job or to please anyone, and I live happily. I come and go as I please. Think about it—I’m happier and freer than most working people, even than billionaires worrying about their next meal or which woman to sleep with!”
“You make a good point…” Dean’s face stiffened; he decided not to argue with this eccentric, for fear of losing his mind. He pressed on anxiously, “Back to Mona! Did she leave alone, did you notice anything strange? Did she argue with anyone, or was someone following her?”
Da-da-da…
The vagrant hummed a few odd notes, turning his back to Dean as he raised his hands and twisted his neck, shoulders, and spine. The multicolored lights painted his back; he writhed like a snake in the shadows.
“All right, by the rhythm above, to thank you for your selfless gift of five dollars last night, I’ll answer you. But kid, from now on, we’re even—I owe you nothing.”
Even?
Dean felt an indescribable sense of loss and emptiness, as if he’d used up some crucial, precious opportunity.
“Deal!”
Time snapped his fingers, catching Dean’s attention. His next words made Dean tense, his focus snapping back.
“When Mona passed by the disco hall, a car followed her slowly.”
“What kind of car?”
“A blue Ferrari 308 GTS convertible…”
Time’s single eye stared toward the hall’s entrance, as if weaving a story in the void.
“I couldn’t see the driver’s face, but I saw the plate—BOL·620502… Old Time thinks if the girl met with trouble, it must be tied to the owner of that car.”
On the dance floor, Dean halted his movements, mouth agape, a surge of familiarity washing over him.
A blue Ferrari convertible—he felt he’d seen it somewhere.
Where?
Convertible.
Dean’s mind flashed back to his second day after crossing over, walking to school.
Disco music blaring, cars roaring past, and the unforgettable ching chong taunts.
His expression changed—
Bob Lowe had a convertible.
Could it be him?
Dean held his breath, rage and anguish gripping his heart.
No, that’s not right!
He shook his head nervously.
Bob Lowe’s car was red, not blue!
Las Vegas is full of rich men and Ferraris—maybe just a coincidence?
“Blue convertible?” Rast, still drunk, heard the conversation, struck a strange pose, legs spread, back bent, peering at Dean from between his legs.
“Hic… Is bully Bob Lowe coming to dance?”
He asked, face flushed and dazed.
“Get serious! Bob’s car is red, isn’t it?” Dean grabbed his neck and straightened him up.
“That Ferrari… hic… didn’t I tell you it was blue before? He just had it repainted red recently.”
“Do you remember his license plate?” Dean’s voice trembled.
“Amnesia? Didn’t you just say it? Why make me repeat it?” Rast slurred, “BOL·620502, got it?”
As Rast spoke, Dean felt the system tremble; the investigation progress jumped from thirty percent to fifty.
So, it was Bob Lowe who followed and took Mona!
Dean clenched his fists, knuckles whitening.
Bob Lowe.
Bastard!
No wonder he keeps tormenting and intimidating me.
No wonder he warned me not to bother the theater staff.
No wonder he told me to die!
He’s afraid!
Afraid I’ll uncover some evidence!
What did you do to Mona?!
Fury, terror, and lingering emotions crashed over Dean like a tidal wave.
What he’d been chasing was always right by his side.
He felt as though the world was collapsing, dizzy and breathless.
The “Find Mona” quest description, once unknown in difficulty, now fluctuated wildly—hard, moderate, easy—cycling endlessly.
But Dean had no time to care, whispering to himself,
“Where’s Bob Lowe? Right, he’s at the Montcarlo mountain villa, throwing a birthday party.”
“Mona, wait for me—I’m coming to rescue you!”
Dean grabbed Rast’s hand and rushed toward the exit.
“Dean, you look awful—are you sick? Wait, where are you taking me? Slow down!”
---
“Some are born different; others become different as they grow.”
“That is fate.”
The vagrant watched them go, rubbing his unblemished eye, where black blood seeped strangely around the socket.
He raised a glass of whiskey to wash away the blood, closed his eyes, and swayed to the disco music, alone beneath the spinning lights, his silhouette vast and solitary.