Hell's Kitchen.
The most chaotic and dangerous place in New York.
This is a ghetto, where poverty and crime create their own kind of wealth. Illegal industries thrive, and it is a paradise for all kinds of dangerous villains. At night, order has abandoned Hell's Kitchen, and the huge gap between rich and poor has given rise to its own set of rules.
When the last ray of sunlight fades, the laws of this place change. The righteous police no longer dominate here; instead, the underworld rules with its own code. More than ninety percent of the police who appear at night are corrupt or illegal. Drug addicts and red-light districts are out in the open. In the dark corners, shady deals are struck. Robbers mug people in the streets, pimps and women stand under streetlights, and the illicit wealth generated here is enough to make the authorities turn a blind eye.
Although some "messengers of justice" haunt these streets, hoping to make a difference, it is impossible to freeze three feet of ice in a single day. Order is a luxury, and the fragile balance here is not easily disturbed.
A pickup truck rolled in, its flashing lights echoing Ferdinand's nervous mood. As a small-time gangster who bullied others on the street, Ferdinand was only halfway into the underworld. He could scare kids elsewhere, but here in Hell's Kitchen, he was just another bad guy. Sweat poured down his face, his body trembled, and he chewed his lip several times before he could speak.
"Here, here we are," he said to the person in the back seat, forcing an ugly smile.
John sat in the back, idly rolling a pencil between his fingers and looking out the window. "This place is better than I expected."
If any New Yorker heard that, they would have called him a dreamer. There is no worse place in the city than Hell's Kitchen.
John opened the car door and stepped out. The moment his shoes touched the pavement, the pickup behind him started to pull away in a hurry.
"By the way, wait for me here, Ferdinand," John said casually.
Ferdinand froze, his eyes wide with horror. He had never told John his name. How did this man know?
John ignored his shock and walked deeper into Hell's Kitchen, a city within a city. Although it is part of Manhattan, Hell's Kitchen is like a stain on the city's canvas. John held an address in his hand and slipped past drunks and addicts.
He stopped at the entrance to a bar, where two burly, bald men in tight shirts stood guard with unfriendly expressions.
"Hell's Angel Bar?" John put away the slip of paper and nodded. "This is it."
The bar's neon sign was a mix of devil and angel wings, flashing in the night. Even from outside, the pounding music was loud. Hell's Angel Bar was Simon's base and the most notorious spot in Hell's Kitchen. All kinds of deals happened here, and in this lawless zone, drunk women often became prey.
John was ready to enter.
"This is a private club," one of the guards said, blocking John with a massive hand.
The white security guard's sinister face loomed over John. "I don't see how other people can go in." John asked, feigning confusion.
"They have proof of bliss," the guard replied.
Proof of bliss? John watched a woman walk in next to him. She lifted her shirt to reveal a tattoo of a demon with eyes and wings on her ribs. That was the proof.
To enter the Hells Angel Bar, you needed a certificate of bliss.
John's mind raced. He covered his left arm with his right hand and smiled. "Actually, I also have—"
"You are here?" A voice interrupted.
The guard turned to see a man in a suit and red sunglasses, holding a guide stick. He seemed to know exactly where he was going as he approached John.
"Sorry, I think he's in the wrong place. He's my friend," the newcomer said.
The guard's expression softened. "Matt, you should hear what your kid says. He is going to the Bliss Dinner."
"I think he just heard stories about this place from adults," Matt replied, placing a hand on John's shoulder and smiling. "Young people are always curious and like to show off."
John was confused. Who is this man?
"For your sake, Matt," the guard muttered, "you helped my sister get some money back from that bastard last time."
"Thanks, Jack," Matt replied.
Matt pressed down on John's hand, trying to lead him away. With his unusual strength, he should have been able to move anyone, but to his surprise, John did not budge.
"Follow me," Matt whispered in John's ear.
John had been about to force his way in, but hearing no malice in Matt's voice, he decided to follow.
They walked together through Hell's Kitchen. It was odd—Matt was clearly blind, yet he avoided every thrown bottle and obstacle as if he could see.
They arrived at a law office, though calling it a law firm was generous. The place was far from the clean, spacious offices of the city's elite. Inside, a fat man scratched his head. When he saw Matt, he grinned, but when he saw John, he stood up quickly.
"You can't bring the lost lamb here every time," the fat man complained, but he made a cup of coffee and handed it to John. "Would you like some milk?"
"No, thanks."
"I hope you won't find it too bitter…" The man trailed off as John took the coffee and drank it straight.
He stared in shock. "That's freshly boiled water."
"I think the temperature is just right," John shrugged, setting down the cup and looking around with interest. "So… you are a lawyer?" he asked Matt. "I hope you don't want to blackmail me."
"I really want to," the fat man grumbled. "We need a legal fee this month. By the way, you can try the plaice Mr. Li sent tonight."
The fat man looked anxious. As lawyers who had graduated from law school, they barely made a living here. Sometimes he even wished he could offer his services to the criminals themselves.
Matt just smiled. "Although Mr. Li lives in poverty, he is a good person."
"What about him? Is he also a good person?" the fat man asked, nodding at John.
John sipped his coffee again, saying innocently, "I'm also curious why you brought me here."
The fat man insisted Matt explain. "He said he had a certificate of bliss, Foggy."
Fudge? John's mind flashed to the former Minister of Magic he had dismissed.
(TL: I think the author got his name wrong as fudge…. I will be changing it to Foggy or Fuggy Nelson.)
When the man named Foggy heard this, he quickly stepped back. "I didn't know you had this fetish, Matt."
Judging by his reaction, the certificate of bliss was something no one wanted to be associated with.
Matt sighed at his friend's overreaction. "Of course I'm not. This guy just wanted to get in. He doesn't even know what the proof means."
Foggy looked at John's young face and realized he had gone too far. "That's the stupidest excuse I've ever heard."
Matt turned to John. "Drink your coffee, get in a taxi, and leave this place. I have a driver you can use."
"What is the Bliss Proof?" John asked, genuinely confused. "What are you two talking about?"
"The Bliss Certificate, also called a Slave License," Foggy explained, "was created by Simon, the owner of the Hell and Heaven Bar. Having this mark means anyone can do whatever they want with you. It's how he attracts customers."
Foggy slammed the bar. "Women who want to survive here have to get this proof. Last time I saw someone near the bar, a fight broke out in the alley, and they even skipped paying rent."
John's face darkened. So that was how this disgusting thing was used. He shuddered at the thought of almost copying one himself.
"How do you know he's not one of them?" Matt? asked Foggy. "You can't see."
"Smell," Matt replied, tapping his nose. "Not many of those guys are so clean. Like a newborn baby, you must be well protected. Uh… what's your name?"
"Call me John," John said, covering his face in embarrassment. "You don't have to describe my smell."
The Witch King's reputation was nearly ruined by the Bliss Proof, and John became even more determined to find Simon.