On Monday morning, the air in New York’s Hell’s Kitchen was perpetually filled with the sour stench of overnight stale beer and rotting garbage.
William pressed down on the rusted doorknob and stepped through the deep blue vortex.
The subtle shift in gravity caused a brief moment of vertigo in his semicircular canals.
He habitually rubbed his temples, leaving the endless, cold rain of Gotham City far behind him.
Compared to that gothic asylum in the DC Universe, The Slums of Marvel’s New York actually had a bit more of the hustle and bustle of human society, even if that atmosphere was mixed with the smoke of gang warfare.
Walking to the street-facing exit, William grabbed the bottom of the rolling shutter door, which was plastered with small advertisements for drain cleaning and fertility services, and lifted it with force.
Accompanied by a harsh metallic screech, the murky morning light cut diagonally into the dim clinic.
Someone was standing outside the door.
A tall, sturdy girl, wearing a worn-out black motorcycle leather jacket and faded jeans, was leaning against the peeling door frame.
She had unkempt dark short hair that fell messily onto her shoulders.
Her bare face showed no traces of makeup, and there were two prominent dark circles under her eyes—the mark left by long-term late nights and extremely poor sleep quality.
The girl was holding a piece of paper in her hand.
William recognized it at a glance; it was the job posting he had just taped to a utility pole with clear tape before leaving yesterday.
The edges had already become wrinkled from the night dew.
There was no fidgeting or anxious hand-rubbing typical of ordinary job seekers, nor was there the professional fake smile used to curry favor with an interviewer.
The girl straightened up, her leather boots hitting the concrete steps, and slapped that yellowing A4 paper onto the iron table in front of William that served as a triage desk.
“This says salary is negotiable.”
Her voice was slightly raspy from long-term smoking or drinking, crisp and efficient, without any hesitation.
“Give me a straight answer, how much can you pay a month?”
This kind of street-wild demeanor actually fit the ecosystem of Hell’s Kitchen quite well.
William’s gaze paused for half a second on the frayed knees of the girl’s jeans, then he stepped aside, clearing a path.
“Come in and talk.
Close the door.”
The girl didn’t hesitate at all, striding with long legs into the basement clinic filled with the pungent smell of disinfectant.
She pulled the rolling shutter door down behind her, shutting out the noise from outside.
William walked to the water dispenser in the corner, tore open two packets of cheap Nestlé instant coffee, poured them into two paper cups printed with a fast-food restaurant logo, and added hot water. Get faster updates on novelping.com.
He walked back with the paper cups and pushed one of them in front of the girl.
“Thanks.”
The girl took the paper cup, didn’t even test the temperature, and immediately tilted her head back to take a large gulp.
The bitter, inferior brown liquid slid down her throat, and she didn’t even frown.
In the interval while drinking the coffee, the girl’s gaze swept over the interior of the clinic like a high-frequency radar, passing over the rim of the cup.
The load-bearing columns with peeling paint, the yellowing fluorescent tubes, the shelving unit missing a leg and propped up with bricks.
The hardware facilities in this place were even worse than an abandoned warehouse in Brooklyn.
But when her gaze landed on the surgical area, her pupils contracted slightly.
A brand-new shadowless lamp imported from Germany hung from the ceiling; next to it was a professional multi-functional surgical bed made of stainless steel; on the cart sat a portable defibrillator with ECG monitoring functions; the glass medicine cabinet was neatly stocked with high-purity anesthetics and antibiotics that were extremely difficult to obtain on the market.
These expensive medical devices, so out of place in the dilapidated environment, all signaled one fact to her: this seemingly shabby black-market clinic had an extremely stable supply channel and a level of professionalism far exceeding that of ordinary street quacks.
William pulled over the swivel chair with its foam cushion spilling out, sat down with a bold posture, and crossed his fingers over his abdomen.
He did not miss the shrewdness that flashed in the girl’s eyes as she looked around.
“For someone who understands basic medical care and nursing, can help me pass instruments, and handle pre-suture wound work, the base salary is 10,000 U.S.
dollars, plus a surgical commission.”
William said in a calm tone, stating the stakes.
Hearing the four words “10,000 U.S.
dollars,” a startling light instantly erupted in the girl’s eyes, which had originally been filled with exhaustion.
Her fingers holding the paper cup tightened unconsciously, and the rim of the cup became slightly deformed.
William took in her reaction, then changed his tone and threw out the second half: “For a complete novice who knows nothing and can only do manual labor like cleaning, moving medical waste, and holding down patients’ limbs, the base salary is 5,000.”
The light in the girl’s eyes dimmed visibly.
She subconsciously licked her dry lips, clearly having an extremely clear understanding of her own medical knowledge reserves.
“I’ll say the ugly things first.”
William ignored her disappointment and continued to add the terms of employment.
“I am an unlicensed black-market doctor who specializes in handling trouble for those who cannot see the light of day.
There is no medical insurance here, no weekends off, and certainly no statutory holidays.
Furthermore, working here requires absolute discretion.
If you see someone walk in with their intestines spilling out, or hear any gang secrets, you must keep it all to yourself.
The girl listened quietly, not scared off by this bloody warning.
On the contrary, when she chewed on the number “5,000 U.S.
dollars” again, her breathing rhythm became noticeably heavier.
It was 2008.
The clouds of the subprime mortgage crisis were looming over the entire United States.
Wall Street elites were lining up to jump off buildings, and life for ordinary people was even harder.
In a high-cost country like the United States, the average monthly salary was only about 3,000 U.S.
dollars.
She had previously worked as a bartender at that smoky, chaotic bar on the street corner, occasionally moonlighting as a dock porter, and after working herself to death for a month, she couldn’t even scrape together 2,000.
The landlady was pounding on her door every day, demanding the three months of overdue heating bills.
What was worse, she also had to support her younger sister, Tracy, to attend that acting school with ridiculously high tuition.
Tracy had just called last week saying she needed to sign up for a professional body training class, and it cost 2,000 U.S.
dollars right off the bat.
5,000.
No need for a degree, no need to sell her body, just keep her mouth shut and do some manual labor.
For her right now, this money was no different than an oasis seen by someone dying of thirst in the desert.
The girl looked at William again.
This time, the defensiveness and wildness of a street thug in her eyes had faded by more than half.
Replacing it was a kind of fanaticism, as if looking at a god of wealth.
She stared straight at the young black-market doctor sitting in the swivel chair, her gaze so scorching that it almost burned two holes into William’s white coat.
The subtext in that look was obvious: I will take this job even if it costs me my life; whoever dares to compete with me, I will twist their head off and stuff it into the toilet.
William felt a faint chill down his back from being stared at by this direct and highly aggressive gaze.
In his past life, he had seen countless anxious looks from patients’ families in the emergency department, but in Hell’s Kitchen, being locked onto by such a “devouring” gaze from a local girl in need of money still made him feel a hint of physical discomfort.
He had to tactically cough, tap his knuckles against the iron tabletop, and forcibly pull the interview back on track.