"It was summer. I must've been seven," Ren began, his voice low and calm. "My parents took me hiking in the mountains. I was fearless back then—loved climbing cliffs and walking along narrow ledges. My balance was incredible. Those tight, dangerous paths felt like sidewalks to me."
"We were halfway up the mountain when it started to rain—light, misty, but enough to soak the rocks. Still, I saw a natural stone bridge, hanging over a drop, and I stepped right onto it, like I always did. I still remember how the rainwater ran down the mountain ridge, forming hundreds of tiny streams leaping between rocks like mischievous little spirits—"
"Stop. Just—stop right there." Drake raised a hand, frowning. "We're not in a detective novel. You don't need to go full Dr. Watson with the poetic descriptions. Can we get to the point?"
Camila laughed softly and gently patted his arm. "Oh, I don't mind. Mr. Ren has a gift for storytelling."
Ren grinned. "Anyway… I fell off the cliff and landed in a cave."
He leaned forward slightly. "Inside the cave, there was a man who looked exactly like Santa Claus, roasting a reindeer over a fire. He told me that if I shared the story of how I fell into that cave with someone—just one person—it would heal all their ailments. Then he climbed onto the remaining eight reindeer and flew off."
"..."
Camila's smile vanished. "Ren, I'm Christian."
"Oh—sorry." Ren shrugged. "Well, the good news is, Santa does exist."
"What?"
Drake turned toward his wife. His pupils contracted sharply.
And Ren? He crossed one leg over the other, started humming a little tune, and smiled like he had just pulled off a magic trick.
🎵 "Old tree by the door blooms anew, withered vines come into view…" 🎵
Before their eyes, strands of golden hair began to sprout from Camila's bald scalp, like new shoots emerging in spring. In seconds, her head was crowned with a waterfall of soft, golden locks that spilled down her back.
Her skeletal frame slowly filled out, bones softened into curves, skin smoothed and flushed with life. Her hollow cheeks lifted. Color returned to her lips. The ghost of illness disappeared.
Drake watched in stunned silence as the woman he had watched wither for years was, in the span of seconds, restored to the vibrant beauty he remembered.
To the woman he had fallen in love with.
She touched her now-youthful hands in disbelief, running her fingers through the golden strands hanging from her shoulders. Then, unable to hold it in, she collapsed against Drake's chest, sobbing in silence.
She didn't say anything.
She didn't need to.
She had survived for so long just to say goodbye. She had nearly given up.
And now—now she was alive again.
Drake couldn't speak. He held her tight, trembling, tears silently running down his face.
Ren kept humming softly to himself, looking away to give them space.
There goes my first "Rapid Regeneration." He thought bitterly. Drake better get me a job after this. A good one.
---
The Next Morning
"How long have you and your wife been in Gotham?" Ren asked over breakfast.
Drake leaned back in his chair. "About a year. Why?"
"You waited for Victor that long?"
"Eight months, to be precise. Then the lab accident happened, and he disappeared. I've been trying to contact any of the companies he used to work with, but they shut down almost immediately. Lately, I've been chasing rumors about Freeze himself."
"Well, thank god you didn't find him," Ren said, stretching his arms. "If you've been here a year, I'm guessing you've built some connections, yeah?"
Drake immediately understood what Ren was getting at. "I'll try to help you find something—something suitable for an outsider. Not too dangerous. But you need to understand something…"
He looked Ren dead in the eyes.
"There's no such thing as 'clean' work in Gotham. Not really. If you want to survive here, you have to let go of your morals. Everything is about survival. Nothing else."
"That's… gonna be a problem," Ren sighed. "I'm not built for arson or murder. And judging by my brainpower and life skills, I'd get caught five minutes into a con job."
He scratched his chin thoughtfully.
"I don't wanna seduce some mafia cougar who thinks knives are foreplay, and I definitely can't make a living here writing web serials."
"Okay, okay, stop." Drake waved him off. "You're killing my hope."
He paused to think.
"Just to clarify... do you have any skills other than writing?"
"I can drive. I can count."
Drake pinched the bridge of his nose. "Anything else? Cleaning? Cooking?"
Ren offered a sheepish grin. "A little of both. Enough to keep myself alive."
"…"
They stared at each other in silence.
Then Drake asked, almost cautiously, "Do you have any money?"
"If I did, I wouldn't be asking for a job, would I?"
"…Wanna go back to that mountain cave and ask Santa for a second round?"
Ren coughed, embarrassed. "Alright, alright. Just… something low-risk, okay?"
Drake leaned back, thinking hard. After a few moments, his eyes lit up. "What about waiting tables?"
Ren sat up straighter. "I'm in."
Drake exhaled in relief. "Okay. Listen—Gotham's industries are all tangled up with gangs. Some are protected by them, some are run by them. I've built a few connections this past year. I might be able to get you a foot in the door at a restaurant."
He looked Ren square in the face.
"But you need to understand. No matter what job you get—it's going to be connected to the underworld somehow."
Ren nodded. "As long as they don't hand me a machete or ask me to 'slice the beef' literally, we're good."
Drake cracked a grin, snapped his fingers, and pulled out his phone. "Then let's get you employed."
Riiing—Riiing—Riiing—
The phone rang for a full two minutes before the other end finally picked up.
A gravelly male voice answered: "Drake. What do you want?"
BANG.
A gunshot cracked loudly through the receiver.
Ren and Drake both froze.