The dim stairwell was lit by a flickering, ancient corridor light that looked like it might give out at any moment. The weak glow barely outlined the surrounding walls and hallway, while faint rustling noises echoed intermittently through the darkness.
Every so often, gray rats could be seen darting past.
Marcus Reed followed Drake through the corridor, carefully stepping around trash and flowing sewage on the floor. Even so, the stench rushed straight up his nose, so strong it nearly made him gag.
"I seriously can't take this. Even in slums, dirty and messy I can understand but why does it have to smell this bad?!"
Drake replied in a muffled voice, "Not sure. Could be a corpse rotting in one of the rooms again."
"…Impressive."
Marcus wondered why Drake's voice sounded odd and craned his neck to look. Turns out Drake had already stuffed something into his nostrils. Marcus immediately pinched his own nose. His voice became equally nasal.
"Why would someone be stupid enough to hide a corpse in their own home and just let it rot?"
"Not necessarily hiding it," Drake said. "Sometimes people just die inside. Landlord said there've been junkies who overdosed, or gang members who crawled back here and rotted away in their rooms."
"And people still dare rent places like this?"
"You could always go book a presidential suite at a luxury hotel," Drake replied flatly. "Or sleep under a bridge. Or in an alley."
"…Suddenly this place feels pretty good."
A penniless nobody couldn't afford a hotel. As for sleeping on park benches or under bridges the best outcome was getting stripped of clothes, money, keys, and everything else. The worst outcome? Getting your throat slit in some forgotten dark corner. And no one would even bury you.
Drake stepped forward and took out his keys, about to unlock the door when Marcus suddenly stopped him.
"Wait. Who's in your apartment?"
"My wife."
"…Then how are you going to introduce me?"
"I can say you're a friend I just met."
"And what's my name?"
"…"
The air in the corridor instantly turned awkward. Marcus barely managed to keep his expression under control.
"Honestly, with that brain of yours, being a criminal has no future. Or staying in Gotham, for that matter."
Drake's face flushed slightly, but he swallowed his anger.
"So what's your name?"
"Marcus Reed."
"That's strange," Drake said. "Sounds kind of… Asian."
"Huh?" Marcus froze for a moment. "What do I look like to you?"
"…Now that you mention it."
Drake looked him up and down. "You're clearly Asian, but you look more like a Gotham local than most actual locals."
Sharp cheekbones. A vicious gaze. A hint of cunning and coldness. That strange aura was so strong it made people overlook his ethnicity entirely.
Marcus felt oddly warmed by that comment. Turns out the system actually did its job after taking his money it hadn't just dumped a fake identity and paperwork on him.
"My name's Drake Lane."
"Then I'll call you Drake. By the way you're not an archaeologist, are you?"
"An archaeologist? No. I'm a software engineer. Why?"
"Thirty three?"
"Thirty three."
Marcus immediately understood. He gestured politely toward the door. "But no matter what, you shouldn't have ended up like this."
Drake paused, key hovering in the lock. After a moment, he looked up.
"I'll tell you everything but once you're inside my place, don't bring this up again."
"Deal."
Instead of opening the door, Drake pulled the key out and turned away. "Come. Let's talk on the rooftop."
The stairwell was pitch black, lit only by faint moonlight and distant city glow filtering through windows. Neither of them spoke as they climbed, footsteps echoing heavily on the stairs. After four floors, Drake pushed open a rusted iron door.
Beyond it lay the rooftop. In the distance, Gotham's skyline shimmered faintly. Beside them stood a massive billboard, barely providing enough light to count as illumination. Rainwater dripped softly into puddles.
"So," Marcus asked, "how did you end up here?"
"…For my wife."
Drake dragged over a battered metal chair, wiped off the water, and sat down. The icy chill made goosebumps ripple across his body but it cleared his exhausted mind slightly.
"As I said, I used to be a programmer in Metropolis. At thirty three, I was already about to be laid off. Before that, I didn't know where I'd go next. And I never imagined coming to Gotham."
"For six months before I was laid off, my wife had been coughing and losing her hair. I kept urging her to see a doctor, but she refused said she needed to focus on work."
"Then one day, she came back from the hospital with a diagnosis. Before that, we didn't take it seriously. Thought it was nothing major."
"But the report said she had a rare disease extremely uncommon. Treatment costs were astronomical. The medication alone was absurdly expensive."
Drake's already thin frame seemed to collapse further. He buried his head into his chest, clawing at his hair, tearing out strands as if pain could lessen his guilt. His voice grew hoarse. Bloodshot eyes. Heavy dark circles. A mind teetering on the edge.
"I drained everything we had… and still couldn't save her. Her hair's almost gone. Two months ago she started coughing up blood. She can barely sleep. Her organs are failing."
"We had no options left. Then an expert told us there's a man in Gotham. Dr. Victor Fries."
"He's a super genius. A cryogenic scientist. He used freezing technology to extend his wife's life."
Marcus's mental state nearly detonated on the spot. He knew this was a tragic moment but his instincts were screaming run.
Victor Fries. To the public, he was better known as Mr. Freeze.
Holy hell. Ice.