When I opened the door, a mixture of dust and some indescribable musty smell hit me again.
The apartment looked like the ultimate garbage dump, looted by hungry bandits and then dumped by ten garbage trucks.
"How 'heartwarming'." William said self-deprecatingly, pinching his nose.
At least there are walls on all sides and the door can be locked. The most important thing right now is to be able to breathe safely.
He suppressed his physical discomfort and began to clean up the most unsightly part of the mess.
Every greasy, deformed pizza box that smelled of stale food and was thrown into the trash was like reclaiming an inch of lost ground from the chaos, a small but inspiring victory.
While cleaning, his mind was busy - the system, Arc Boy, the police, and this damn time travel, everything was a mess.
He pinched his thigh hard, and the clear pain declared mercilessly: This is not the midnight nightmare theater of some bastard TV station, but the damn bizarre new reality of him, William Rodriguez.
After finally tidying up the small apartment to a point where it was barely habitable, he collapsed on the patched sofa, feeling the springs protesting beneath him.
My stomach growled again, but the nagging hunger I'd felt before finally subsided a little.
Now, it's time to get down to business.
How to find more "customers"? Encountering Arc Boy was a pure surprise. He couldn't expect to "accidentally" run into a novice hero on a rooftop every night.
His eyes fell on a dusty table where an old laptop lay.
William prayed to God, Buddha, and any deity that might control the fate of old electronics, and plugged in the power cord.
The computer gave a death groan and started up at a snail's pace.
The network connection is so slow that it would make even the most patient ascetic want to ascend to heaven.
"Oh, the information age." He muttered unhappily, tapping his fingers impatiently on the table, waiting for the search engine's slow loading bar.
He began typing in keywords: "New York vigilante," "masked hero sighting," "Hell's Kitchen unidentified rescue."
What he needs are the small fry, the street heroes who operate in the shadows but are powerful enough to trigger systemic claims.
The search results came back sparsely: pixelated photos, blog posts of questionable credibility, and heated discussions on various forums about the existence of "that bloodthirsty butcher" or "the devil of Hell's Kitchen."
Most of the information cannot be verified, but certain recurring locations and descriptions vaguely outline some... "hot business areas."
"Okay, there are a few potential targets."
William was writing rapidly on the back of an old utility bill—the only paper he could find—mumbling to himself.
"You have to be strategic about this. You can't just walk up to Daredevil and say, 'Hey, how about some superhero insurance?' He'll probably break my legs first and then ask me how I know his identity."
Thinking of this, he couldn't help but shudder.
The thought of actively contacting these people who live in my memories of my previous life makes my scalp tingle.
But on the other hand, the fate of starving to death on the streets or being caught in a super battle seems worse.
The system interface remained silent, but the initial claim settlement points of 40/50 emitted a faint light in his mind.
He has to find a way to earn back the points, unlock more functions, and gain stronger abilities.
That [Mechanical Sensing (Basic)] is okay for vending machines, but it can't withstand real guns and bullets.
Moreover, that Arc Boy hasn't filed for compensation yet, so I don't know what he will get?
He leaned back, and the sofa beneath him groaned under the weight.
The chaotic thoughts were like boiling porridge, bubbling and rolling in his mind, until fatigue was like a pair of strong hands, dragging him into a deep dream. The sofa groaned again at the right time, just as a goodnight song.
…
The night was like a huge overturned ink bottle. The thick black quickly engulfed the steel behemoth of New York, turning every hideous bone spur and cold scale of it into a blurry and dangerous shadow.
William Rodriguez shrank back and pulled his old, obviously ill-fitting coat tighter around him.
The night wind blowing from the Hudson River was extremely biting, making him miss the warm and comfortable bed and the regular meals before he traveled through time.
"Gurgle..." My stomach protested at an inopportune time.
William sighed and skillfully stopped in front of the vending machine on the corner.
Concentrating his mind, [Mechanical Induction (Primary)] was activated, and the familiar weak wave penetrated into the interior of the machine.
After a few seconds, he locked onto his target - an energy bar that was particularly prone to "accidental" falling due to aging springs.
He pretended to select some merchandise, tapping a button a few times with his fingers, neither lightly nor heavily, while his feet produced a hidden vibration.
With a "clang" sound, the target object fell to the ground.
William quickly picked it up, tore open the package, and gobbled it up. It was better than nothing, at least it could temporarily suppress the emptiness in his stomach.
These days, he barely makes ends meet with this "unique skill" and a few "generous" vending machines.
After finishing the energy bar, he took out the wrinkled utility bill from his pocket and examined the scribbled words again in the dim light of the street lamp.
These are the areas where several "potential customers" may be present, which he has compiled over the past two days based on online information and sporadic rumors on the streets.
He didn't dare to set foot in a place like Hell's Kitchen for the time being, for fear of running into some red-clad devil in a bad mood and being treated as a small fry and "dealt with" directly.
His sights eventually settled on an old industrial area on the edge of Brooklyn.
According to some vague forum posts, a "masked weirdo with a chain" occasionally appears in the area, teaching some clueless thugs a lesson.
He sounds like a standard street vigilante, and since he "uses chains", his equipment loss rate must be quite high.
Perfect target customer.
Having made up his mind, William stuffed the bill back into his pocket and walked towards the subway station.
Although we are short of money, this investment in transportation is still necessary in order to expand our business.
He now only has 40 claim points left, and every point must be used wisely.
I don't know what happened to that Arc Boy. The trial version of the insurance policy was sent out, but he disappeared, and the claim application is nowhere to be found.
This made him start to doubt whether his "golden finger" was not adapting to the local environment.
More than an hour later, William stood in the somewhat desolate old industrial area of Brooklyn.
The air was filled with a strange smell mixed with rust and waste oil. The tall factory buildings cast hideous shadows in the night. Occasionally, a wild cat would dart through the darkness, making shrill cries.
"This place... is truly 'heroic'."
William shivered, half from the cold and half from a little chill.
He took a deep breath and forced himself to calm down.
Working in insurance, you've had to deal with all sorts of dangers... Well, in the past, at most the clients' dogs were ferocious.
He began to move between abandoned factories and warehouses, carefully observing any possible clues.
Battle scars, strange graffiti, or a hero's accidentally left behind... um, underwear? Isn't that how it's played out in TV dramas?
After wandering around for nearly half an hour, he found nothing except a few frightened rats and a pile of industrial waste.
Just when he was feeling discouraged and considering whether he should move to another place to "hunt down", a slight metal collision sound came from an abandoned warehouse not far away.
William's heart moved, and he immediately lowered his footsteps and quietly walked over.
He leaned against the cold wall and listened attentively.
There seemed to be someone moving around inside, accompanied by suppressed gasps and the sound of chains being dragged.
"It can't be such a coincidence?" His heart began to beat faster.
He carefully found a broken window and looked inside.
The light inside the warehouse was dim, and one could only vaguely see a tall figure waving a heavy iron chain at a hanging sandbag.
Every swing was accompanied by the sound of wind, and the heavy sandbag was shaken from side to side.
The man was wearing a dark, tight-fitting suit and appeared to have a mask on his face.
Judging from his figure and movements, this should be the "Chain Brother" he is looking for.
William held his breath and watched carefully.
Brother Chain's movements are powerful, but seem a little...uncoordinated?
William's sight was like an automatic enemy-detecting radar, and he immediately locked onto the obtrusive thick bandage on the man's left wrist.
Sure enough, when the sound of the chain breaking through the air stopped for a while, the guy would subconsciously swing his left hand a few times. Even through the mask, William seemed to be able to see the pain he was trying hard to endure under his frown - hey, isn't this a performance that comes to his doorstep!
"Opportunity!" William's eyes lit up.
Wrist injury definitely falls within the scope of claims covered by "minor injury insurance".
And judging by the way he used the chain, it was bound to be worn out.
William had already begun to rehearse various 'accidental' pick-up plans in his mind: pretending to pass by and then exclaiming, "Hero, you're injured. I have an accident insurance policy. Do you want to know?"
Or maybe I should just be more direct and say, "Friend, I see you're dancing with the chains with all your might. Would you consider the equipment loss insurance and sports injury insurance?"
Just as he was struggling with which opening line would better demonstrate his professionalism without being mistaken for a psychopath, a cold, somewhat mechanical notification tone sounded without warning in the depths of his mind, a prolonged "ding--" sound.