By the time William returned to his pigeon-coop-like apartment, the Moon had already climbed high.
Its cold radiance cut several pale patches of light on the floor through the dust-covered windowpane.
He gently placed the briefcase, which had performed admirably tonight, on the creaking old sofa, treating it as if it were a rare treasure.
On the surface of the bag, a deep dent was clearly visible, a mark left by a crowbar, like a gnarled scar, silently recounting the terrifying moment not long ago.
He dragged his heavy steps to the mirror.
Those eyes—they were now gleaming with a light he himself found unfamiliar.
In the depths of his pupils was the calm after a storm, mixed with the slight tremor of surviving a disaster, and a hint of… an irrepressible eagerness to test his own strength.
Trajectory Prediction, Resilient Skin.
Just these two seemingly ordinary, even somewhat shabby, primary abilities had actually allowed him to turn the tide and emerge unscathed from the pincer attack of two adult robbers wielding weapons.
Although the process was as messy as a stray dog, the outcome was so good that he himself could hardly believe it.
The feeling of being in control made the corners of his mouth unconsciously curl into a slight, dangerous, and intoxicated smile.
Yes.
He had to admit.
This feeling… it was a bit addictive.
But what followed was an even deeper unease.
It was too unfamiliar… He vigorously shook his head, trying to cast aside the chaotic thoughts that tangled like a messy knot.
"Ring-ring-ring—!"
A sharp, piercing phone ring, loud enough to penetrate eardrums, unexpectedly shattered the deathly silence in the apartment.
The sound was like a cold needle, abruptly stabbing into William's taut nerves.
"Damn it!"
He instinctively reached for his waist, where it was empty.
The after-effects were coming too quickly.
He gave a self-mocking grin, walked over to the dilapidated wooden box that served as a coffee table, and picked up the old model phone that was vibrating wildly and making noise on it.
A string of unfamiliar numbers flickered on the screen, with no notes or caller ID.
It's so late, past midnight, isn't it?
Who could it be?
Even insurance salesmen aren't this dedicated, are they?
Could it be… debt collectors?
He was indeed tight on cash recently, but it shouldn't be a dire emergency yet.
William licked his somewhat chapped lips, hesitated for Zero point five seconds, but still pressed the answer button.
What if a client had an emergency?
Professional ethics, yes, professional ethics.
"Hello? Hi, who is this?"
He tried to make his voice sound calm and polite.
The other end of the line was unexpectedly silent for a few seconds, with only a faint static sound.
Just as William thought it was a prank call and was about to hang up, a female voice entered his ear.
"Rodriguez."
It was Jessica Jones!
That violent female detective!
William's heart sank, heavier than when he faced the two robbers earlier, as if it had plummeted directly into an ice cellar.
When this grand madam calls in the middle of the night, even with his toes, he knew it absolutely, absolutely wouldn't be good news!
"It's me, Ms. Jones."
He tried hard to make his voice sound calm, even forcing out a hint of professional deference, though he felt his vocal cords trembling.
"There's a job."
Jessica's voice was simple and direct, as flat as a line of code, without the slightest fluctuation.
"…"
William felt his Sun temples throbbing, as if two small motors were stuffed inside.
A job?
Her "job"… The shocking image of the last "violent door and window demolition site" instantly flashed through his mind.
And Jessica's "friendly reminder" that echoed in his ears like a curse:
"Next time there's a 'job' like today's, you must come with me."
Could it be… she meant now?
"Ms. Jones, are you saying… now?"
He swallowed with difficulty, his voice dry as he asked.
William tried to confirm if he was hallucinating due to the earlier fight.
"Nonsense."
A clear hint of displeasure came through in Jessica's voice, as if William had asked a foolish question.
"Two minutes to get downstairs, I'm waiting at your apartment door."
"Beep… beep… beep…"
The call was abruptly cut off, leaving only a string of cold busy tones.
William stood rooted to the spot, holding the phone like a wooden post.
Go?
Or not go?
Not go?
The thought was strangled as soon as it arose.
That damned 'superpower experience package' had just been opened; was he just going to watch it expire and become useless?
All the suffering, the risks, and that pitiful bit of anticipation he had before, wouldn't they all become a joke?
Not to mention offending that grand madam… He shivered, and the screams of those two thugs in the alley seemed to echo in his ears again; compared to Jessica, they were mere lambs.
Go?
The afterimage of Jessica kicking down doors immediately flashed in his mind, along with the thrilling moments from the last mission.
With his small frame, going to experience another round of 'Jessica-style' extreme sports, wouldn't he likely fall apart on the spot?
His gaze involuntarily fell on the briefcase on the sofa; the dent left by the crowbar seemed to still ache faintly.
He also recalled the miserable state of the two thugs in the alley, and that strange feeling, a mixture of fear and complete control, when he kicked and broke one of their shins.
That feeling… damn it, it was actually a bit addictive!
Following Jessica Jones, that woman was practically a walking disaster aggregate; every step could be on a powder keg.
But then again, dancing on the edge of a powder keg… it always seemed to yield something different.
At least, he could closely observe how a top boss "gets things done"; then, if he ever encountered trouble again, he'd have a better idea of what to do.
Besides, if these two broken things, Trajectory Prediction and Resilient Skin, could take down two guys.
What if… what if he could pry something else from that woman Jessica, maybe… he could also become stronger?
William's eyes flickered a few times, his breathing unconsciously quickening.
A hint of excitement and craving, which he himself had not even noticed, like a bloodthirsty vine, quietly broke through the fear-soaked depths of his heart, growing wildly, and in an instant, it entwined that bone-deep fear, tightening its grip fiercely.
That craving was a greed for greater strength, a roar to break free from this dog-shit fate!
He gritted his teeth, a faint "creak" sound escaping as they rubbed together.
"Damn it, no pain, no gain! Let's do it!"
He muttered to himself in a low voice, as if cheering himself on, and also as if convincing himself.
His voice was not loud, but it carried a desperate resolve.
Once decided, he acted quickly.
He swiftly stripped off the shirt stained with dust and unknown grime, pulled out a set of relatively dirt-resistant dark casual clothes from the wardrobe, and changed into them.
He patted his pockets—phone, wallet, keys—nothing was missing, which slightly put his mind at ease.
Finally, he took a deep breath, grabbed the battered briefcase from the sofa, his fingers once again brushing over the deep dent, his eyes complex.
Then, he resolutely turned and walked towards the door—outside, was the cold wind of the deep night, and an "opportunity" full of unknowns and dangers.