37. Preparation
Strip Avenue, the twentieth floor of the Lowe Hotel, outside the resplendent suite balcony.
A man wrapped in a white bathrobe leaned against the railing, letting the cool morning breeze brush his face.
“Boss, I’ve looked into it. Thirty-five dead, and even more wounded.”
A respectful Italian man in a baseball cap appeared behind him.
“Not enough.” The man shook the glass of deep red wine, his tone calm. “My son loves lively parties and baseball games. If only thirty-five people go to keep him company, he’ll be lonely.”
“There was a change midway. Three of our guys didn’t shoot themselves—someone took care of them and disrupted the action ahead of time.”
“Who?” The man’s voice suddenly rose, sharp and shrill.
“I heard seven fearless ones stepped up, but six of them were too badly injured and died. Only one survived.”
A flicker of absurdity crossed James Lowe’s face, a cold madness glimmered in his eyes as he smashed the wine glass against the balcony with a crash.
“Deal with that little rat first.”
…
Hospital ward.
The slim Morning Band had all come to pick up Dean.
“I have good taste, right? You look great!” Caroline nodded in satisfaction at the man before her, now dressed in brand new gray sportswear and white sneakers, reaching out to feel the soft, elastic fabric.
“Impossible is nothing.” Dean read the slogan on his sleeve, twisting his ankles, wrists, and neck experimentally.
It fit better and felt fresher and more comfortable than his old clothes.
“I like it a lot. How much did it cost?”
“Mate, talking money hurts feelings.” Kadi slung an arm around him affectionately. “This is a gift from the whole band. Of course, our greatest gratitude is our friendship, more sincere than diamonds. From now on, if we can drive Ferraris, we’ll never let you suffer in a Chevy.”
“Come to think of it, I never noticed before, but in those sweatpants, your backside is as perky as any cheerleader’s. Broad shoulders, slim waist, upright posture—if you were a bit taller, you could be a model. Did you get that from cycling two hours a day?”
Liam stroked his chin in admiration, while Dean shivered inwardly and gave Liam’s jeans a God’s-eye scan.
Well, well.
He was running on empty.
Could he really swing both ways?
“Get lost!” Noah spread his arms protectively in front of Dean. “Don’t mess with my brother—if you’ve got any malice, aim it at me! He saved my life; I’d trade my life for his, seal you away, you freak!”
“Ugh!”
“Alright, everyone, time to go. If I stay in this hospital any longer, I’ll rust.” Dean packed his things and strode into the corridor.
He’d been hospitalized for a week, but thanks to his ironclad resilience, the stitches in his abdomen had already been removed yesterday.
Other patients weren’t so lucky. Through the windows of the wards lining the corridor, he saw many still wrapped in bandages, in casts, hooked up to IVs, and some unconscious even now.
“Poor Franco.” Last looked at a boy on a ventilator, face pale, so emaciated from lack of food that his cheekbones jutted and his eyes were sunken.
“I heard he caught a bullet to the spine. He’ll probably be bedridden the rest of his life.”
A plump, gray-haired woman sat at his bedside, her eyes red and cheeks swollen—his mother, most likely.
Everyone’s faces showed sympathy. To be paralyzed so young, what darkness would his future hold? How immense the suffering for his mother?
“If it were me, I’d rather die than become a burden or a vegetable,” Noah muttered.
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“Not just Franco, Lydia, Thompson... Even after they recover, they’ll be left with lasting injuries.”
A gloom settled over the group. Caroline unconsciously gripped the hand beside her, as if seeking comfort.
Dean had been holding her small hand, but let go, suddenly pausing mid-step.
“So many wounded—besides Nevada State High School, who’s going to compensate them?”
He’d always wondered: in America, school shootings happen so often—where do the victims get compensation?
The shooter was already dead.
“The gun manufacturer, Lake Mead Scenic Area, and LVPD all won’t escape responsibility,” Last said. “Don’t worry, Las Vegas is a wealthy city. To save face, the compensation won’t be small. By the way, didn’t Principal Lanz come to discuss compensation with you the other day?”
“Two grand’s already been deposited in my bank account.”
Dean’s savings hit a record $2400.
He’d spent a carefree week exercising in the hospital and still made money—life couldn’t be better.
It was worth mentioning that during this week of recovery, unable to practice shooting or fighting, he crazily familiarized himself with the “God’s-eye view” feature, summoning Shadows of the Past.
Shadows of the Past had leveled up to lv0(6/100).
“I’ll find us a place to eat our fill, chase away bad luck—my treat!” Dean thumped his chest with bravado.
…
“Hey, Dean, you’re leaving already?” A black youth in patient clothes leaning against the corridor wall shouted, and suddenly the atmosphere fizzed like boiling water.
Several ward doors swung open, revealing youthful faces.
Their expressions were complicated.
But gone was the former disdain for the Chinese.
“Sorry…” An Asian girl who’d once mocked Dean as a country bumpkin blushed with shame.
Dean nodded, passing by the wards. Wherever his gaze landed, heads bowed.
Gratitude, fear, and embarrassment mingled in their eyes.
White kids, rebellious black youths, Asians—all were no exception.
“Dean-san, please wait! I owe you my life! I apologize for my past naivete, stupidity, and offense!”
The Japanese boy, once baptized in fermented herring, now bandaged, stood before Dean and performed a shocking gesture—
He knelt with his knees together, hands flat on the floor in front of him, bowed forward, and touched his forehead to the ground.
A full “dogeza” in front of everyone.
“Please forgive me.”
His cheeks reddened as he looked up, voice full of remorse.
“I swear, I’ll never again let myself be instigated or offend you. I’ll repay your life-saving grace!”
Dean said nothing, walking right past him.
Trusting an apology from a Japanese is less reliable than listening to a dog bark.
“Bro, wait up.” The black youth who’d first spoken blocked his way, bumped fists with Dean, and laughed, pulling a series of exaggerated faces.
“Going out for dinner, huh? Mind if I tag along? I’m sticking with you from now on!”
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Dean shook his head and moved on.
“Hey, didn’t the baseball team apologize? We talked just fine the other day—now you’re pretending not to know us?” The black youth shouted from behind, but Dean didn’t respond.
“What’s there to talk about with the baseball team?” Last asked.
“Secret.”
The group walked down the corridor and reached the hospital entrance.
A blonde woman in a business suit, carrying a microphone, jogged up.
Her platinum V-neck blouse under the suit billowed, waves of allure captivating several men.
Dean was no exception, stealing an extra glance.
Golden curls.
She exuded a strong, pleasant fragrance.
“Dean Lu? I’m Katherine Medici, a reporter for Vegas Morning News. I’ve heard of your heroic deeds—amazing!”
Katherine panted, eyes sparkling with admiration, and flirtatiously tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.
She subtly revealed her slender neck, rosy profile, and a plunging neckline as deep as the abyss.
Gorgeous and sensual.
“Do you have time for an exclusive interview? Rest assured, we won’t shortchange a hero. The pay is generous.”
She pursed her full red lips.
“Sorry, do you think all Chinese look alike? The Dean you’re looking for is still lying in the ward.”
Dean ignored the frantic signals from behind, left the stunned reporter, passed the armed police security, and exited the hospital.
It was evening, and the sky blazed with crimson clouds.
A group of cameramen and crews, blocked by the COP at the hospital doors, waved frantically as the group stepped outside.
“Dean, why didn’t you accept her offer? You could be on TV, promote our songs, and get paid—two birds with one stone, maybe even land a date.” Kadi was tempted. “She’s pretty wild, dressed like she’s not wearing anything—looks easy to handle!”
“Uh, Caroline, are you going to shoot me a dirty look? I’m just joking. Besides, Dean would never be interested in a woman in her thirties.”
…
The group joined their band manager, Robert Wilson, by the parking lot.
“Robert, drive!” Liam urged.
“Where to?” The chubby man smiled.
“Sichuan restaurant on the Strip.”
“The one opposite the Lowe Hotel?”
“Yeah.” Dean leaned back on the sofa, fingers tapping his knee.
Flashes of information from the week in the hospital surfaced in his mind—gathered from Bob’s loyal sidekick Wazell and other baseball team members, and spied through God’s-eye view.
“Boss Bob took us to the Lowe Hotel a few times—so lavish.”
“The most luxurious and extravagant suite is the 20-3 Presidential Suite on the hotel’s top floor, reserved exclusively for Bob’s father, James Lowe. Whenever he’s working in Vegas, he stays there.”
“I had the chance to sneak in with Bob—wow… even a king’s bedroom couldn’t compare.”
Lowe Hotel 20-3.
Wait for me.
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