Cold!
The seawater in early May, at night, is around 10-14°C, feeling quite cold and not suitable for prolonged water activities.
Moreover, Zhang Jie's physique was not particularly outstanding or strong; he would still shiver if he stayed in the seawater for too long.
He himself didn't know how long he had moved forward along the seabed, holding his breath, diving underwater, feeling the reefs and walls, and heading all the way out of Brooklyn.
When he was about to run out of breath, he would quietly surface, exposing his mouth and nose, take a deep breath, then continue diving and moving forward, repeating this cycle.
When Zhang Jie felt he could barely move in the water, he quietly surfaced his head. By this time, he was already very far from the Brooklyn pier.
It was only then that he quietly let out a sigh of relief.
He never expected that going out for a hot pot meal would be so dangerous, almost costing him his life.
After resting for a moment in the water, and when his strength had recovered a little, he swam forward for a while longer before struggling to climb ashore.
Once on shore, he rolled over and gasped for air. This feeling of escaping death was truly unpleasant.
He was soaking wet, and because he had been in the seawater for too long, his whole body looked a little pale and his skin was wrinkled.
He also had oil and grime from the seawater all over his body and hair, and it smelled terrible.
But he didn't dare to stay in this place for too long. He worried that the squad chasing him would search the area, so after a brief rest, he stumbled to his feet again and walked towards the city.
He crossed the grass and walked onto the road, looking back to realize that this was Pier 44 Waterfront Garden.
The pre-dawn sea breeze, carrying the scent of salt and rust, moaned through the empty streets.
He walked a few hundred meters, turned the corner, and a low brick house abruptly shone with light.
The neon sign for Sunny's Bar had several missing letters, leaving only "S nn 's" stubbornly flickering.
The blue paint on the wooden door peeled off like scabs, and the hinges groaned a deathly sound when he pushed it open.
Murky warm light filtered down from the wrought-iron chandelier, mixing with the smell of whiskey, mildewed wood, and cheap cigar smoke.
The bar counter was a ship plank permeated with alcohol, its edges polished to a shiny curve by countless sleeves. In the liquor cabinet, bottles with faded labels looked like archaeological exhibits. On the top shelf sat a glass jar filled with cigarette butts, said to be a "curse" left by a sailor in 1962.
The old-fashioned jukebox in the corner was stuck, repeatedly playing the screech of a jazz trumpet.
The walls were covered with yellowing photos: young men in captain's hats, Beat poets getting drunk here, the bar half-submerged after a hurricane... Most prominently, a handwritten note was tacked up: "Cash Only, Don't Ask for Wi-Fi."
At the end of the bar sat an old man in a frayed fisherman's sweater, paring an apple with a dagger.
The apple peel spiraled down, and he stared at the blade as if deciphering some prophecy.
A woman in a patent leather jacket disassembled and reassembled a lighter, with three empty beer bottles piled at her feet. She looked towards the door every ten minutes, but no one ever came in.
Two tattoo artists arm-wrestled in the corner, their elbows resting on a sketch: a burning sailboat. The loser flicked cigarette ash into the winner's cup, and the winner revealed a gold tooth when he laughed.
The bartender, a burly man with dreadlocks, was wiping shotgun shells (decorations) with a rag, muttering to a lone drinker, "In 1969, a guy killed someone here with a glass... The blood seeped into the floorboards, you can still smell it now."
In the shadows of the back door, a man in a suit poured vodka into a coffee cup, his phone screen displaying an unread message: "Ship arrives at 4 AM."
The ceiling fan rotated slowly, shredding and reassembling shadows. Outside the window, a seagull hit the glass, its dull thud drowned out by the jukebox's final wail.
Just as Zhang Jie pushed open the door, a damp, cold wind carrying a fishy smell poured in, and the jukebox music happened to get stuck on a sour saxophone trill.
Everyone looked up, their gazes fixed on him. His soaking wet suit was too conspicuous.
Standing at the entrance, Zhang Jie was drenched, his black hair clinging to his pale forehead, his suit plastered to his body, as if he had just climbed out of the sea.
His leather shoes left wet marks on the floor, as if each step was taken in a viscous dream, especially the creaking sound of his feet rubbing against the shoes, which made everyone uncomfortable.
Then, time resumed flowing.
The bartender narrowed his eyes, his fingers unconsciously caressing the shotgun shell. The old man stopped paring the apple, and the peel snapped onto the floor with a 'thwack'.
The woman in the patent leather jacket finally lit her cigarette, the flame reflecting a cold smile at the corner of her mouth.
"Whiskey. No ice."
Zhang Jie just wanted a drink to warm himself up; it was indeed too cold.
The bartender didn't move, just stared at him: "We don't serve tourists here, especially not water ghosts just fished out of the sea."
Zhang Jie pulled a soaking wet banknote from his inner pocket and flattened it on the bar. The image of franklin on the bill was blurred by the water, but a faint dark red mark was vaguely visible at the edge.
The suited man in the back door's shadow suddenly stood up, his coffee cup clattering as it overturned. The two tattoo artists exchanged a look, and one of them quietly reached for the folding knife in his pants pocket.
"...Is the ship delayed?" the old man suddenly spoke, his voice hoarse like sandpaper.
Zhang Jie didn't answer.
He took the glass the bartender slid over, tilted his head back, and drank it all. As his Adam's apple bobbed, someone noticed a long, thin scar on the side of his face, whitened by the water.
The bartender suddenly fell silent; he had recognized it as a gunshot wound.
The woman in the patent leather jacket suddenly laughed: "The ghost stories of Red Hook never mentioned Asian water ghosts."
Outside the window, the night was dense.
The jukebox suddenly came back to life, belting out an old sea shanty.
The bartender waved off those who were about to make a move. He already knew that this guy in front of him might be a jinx, and if things went wrong, everyone present could end up dead here.
Besides noticing the wound on Zhang Jie's face, he also saw a bulge under both armpits of the wet suit. That position wasn't just a random bulge; it was the Pistol grip pressing against the suit jacket.
He's a tough character!
"I never thought there'd be someone like you among Asians," the bartender's tone softened considerably, no longer as cold as before.
"Life's necessities."
After downing the whiskey in the glass, Zhang Jie felt a bit warmer, shrugged, and replied.
The bartender's eyebrows raised slightly. From their brief exchange, he had deduced that the other person was not a gang member but an assassin.
Consequently, Zhang Jie's threat level in the bartender's eyes shot up. Fortunately, he had timely stopped those guys' reckless actions.
Of course, this statement excluded the woman in the patent leather jacket, as she was already taking small steps, slowly walking towards Zhang Jie.
The feeling of being soaking wet was quite unpleasant for Zhang Jie, but as the saying goes, if he's already alive, what else matters?
Being alive is better than anything, isn't it?
Zhang Jie felt that John's words were indeed an eternal classic: as long as one is alive, that is the best reward.
--+--
T/N: While I am an inexperienced Translator, I have a Patreon! While it may seem empty as of now, webnovel will get 2 Chapters Every Day, and advanced chapters will be uploaded on Patreon.
It may not seem worth it now, but maybe in the future. Who knows!
patreon.com/TripleCrown07
If you guys wanna check it out.