Chapter 6: The Story

When I was about seven years old, one summer, I went hiking with my parents. Back then, I was quite daring and loved to explore dangerous cliffs. My sense of balance was excellent, so walking along those narrow, precarious mountain paths felt as natural as walking on flat ground.

On this particular occasion, we had climbed halfway up the mountain. It was drizzling, but as usual, I stepped onto a natural stone bridge suspended in mid-air. I still vividly remember the undulating ridges, where rainwater trickled down the slopes, converging into countless tiny streams. They danced among the mountains like mischievous sprites before finally flowing into the river at the foot of the mountain, creating a gentle, murmuring sound...

“Stop, stop right there,” Drake interrupted with a frown, holding up his hand to halt Mark’s storytelling. “We’re not Sherlock Holmes, and you don’t need to write like Watson to captivate your audience. Can you just get to the point?”

“Oh, but it’s fine,” Mrs. Camilla said with a smile, gently patting Drake. “Mr. Mark does have quite the knack for storytelling.”

“In short, I fell off the cliff while climbing and ended up in a cave,” Mark quickly simplified his tale. “Inside the cave, there was a Santa Claus roasting reindeer. He told me that if I shared this story with someone else, it would cure all their ailments. Then he rode off on the remaining eight reindeer.”

“...” Mrs. Camilla couldn’t help but frown. “Mark, I’m a Christian.”

“Ah, sorry,” Mark shrugged. “At least now we know Santa Claus really exists.”

“Hmm?” Drake instinctively glanced at Camilla, his pupils suddenly contracting sharply.

Mark crossed his legs and hummed a tune, feeling an inexplicable sense of ease.

“The old tree outside buds anew, the withered wood inside blooms again~”

Strands of dark hair sprouted from her once-bald head like willow branches in early spring. Within seconds, a cascade of golden hair flowed down to her waist. Her gaunt frame gradually regained its fullness, returning to a graceful, feminine figure. Her pale, sagging skin swiftly regained a rosy, taut glow, no longer sickly and wan.

Watching his wife, who had suffered for years from illness, transform back into the beautiful woman he first met within seconds, tears welled up in Drake’s eyes.

So beautiful... just like the first time I saw her.

Camilla gazed at her newly smooth, fair hands, instinctively brushing the golden hair that cascaded over her shoulders. Leaning silently against Drake’s chest, tears slipped down her cheeks.

“So much unsaid over half a lifetime—”

Mark continued humming a song neither of them understood. Drake held his wife tightly, suddenly at a loss for words.

He had endured with her for so long—through hair loss, the wasting away of her body, the dullness of her features; through weakness, brokenness, and near decay.

She had endured with him too—through lost jobs, sold homes, drained savings; through mounting pain, despair, and hysteria.

Almost at the brink of giving up, she thought, nearly surrendering.

Fortunately, she endured, he thought, grateful he hadn’t given up.

My first rapid recovery of life is gone, Mark thought. Drake better find me a decent job.

******

The next day.

“Drake, how long have you and your wife been in Gotham?”

“About a year. Why do you ask?”

“You waited for Victor for a whole year?”

“More precisely, eight months. After that, Dr. Victor disappeared in that accident. I’ve been trying to contact his former collaborators, but they died too quickly. So recently, I’ve been searching for clues about cryonics.”

“Good thing you haven’t found anything.”

Mark shrugged. “Since you’ve been here a year, you must have some connections and leads, right?”

Drake immediately understood Mark’s implication. “I’ll do my best to find you a job suitable for outsiders, something not too dangerous. But you must remember, Gotham doesn’t have truly clean work. If we want to live decently here, we have to abandon moral boundaries—everything is for survival.”

“That’s a bit tough...” Mark sighed. “Given my physique, murder and arson are unrealistic; with my intelligence and skills, theft and fraud would probably get caught on the spot. I don’t want to rely on my looks to mooch off some violent gangster’s rich lady, nor can I earn money with my lousy writing here—”

“Alright, alright, no need to go on,” Drake waved his hand. When Mark finished the first two sentences, half the jobs in Drake’s mind were eliminated; after the last two, only three remained.

“Let me ask clearly,” he tried to soften his tone, “besides writing, do you have any other skills?”

“Driving, counting,” Mark tilted his head thoughtfully. “That’s it.”

“How about cleaning, cooking?”

Mark smiled awkwardly but politely. “A little, but not much—enough to keep me alive.”

“...”

They exchanged glances. In the thick silence, Drake asked, “Do you have any money?”

“If I had money, why would I be looking for a job?”

“...Maybe you should consider going back to the cave to find Santa Claus?”

Mark realized his request was a bit much and coughed awkwardly. “As long as the job is relatively safe.”

Drake pondered deeply, then an idea struck him. “How about waiting tables?”

“No problem!”

Relieved by Mark’s agreement, Drake exhaled. “Gotham is different from other cities. Its industries, big and small, are controlled and protected by gangs—some even run by them. Over this past year, I’ve built a connection that might help you get a foothold in a restaurant. But you must understand, whatever job you take here will have some ties to the gangs.”

“As long as they don’t ask me to wield a knife while working, and no one brings a knife to work to attack me, the rest isn’t a big deal.”

At this, Drake snapped his fingers lightly and pulled out his phone to make a call.

“Ring ring ring—ring ring ring—”

After ringing for two full minutes, the call was finally answered, and a rough male voice came through.

“Drake, what do you need?”

“Bang!”

Mark heard the unmistakable sound of a gunshot on the other end of the line.