William Rodriguez clutched the one hundred thirteen dollars and twenty-five cents, sitting in a daze in the morning sun for a full three minutes.
Benjamin Franklin's portrait seemed to silently judge him, its gaze filled with capitalist mockery.
Absurd.
Too absurd.
He, William Rodriguez, was actually paid for a hookup by a superhero in his own bed?
The amount of money was also so precise.
It had change, full of life.
As if to say:
I'm not an unreasonable person; this is for last night's drinks, and the rest is for some tonics for you.
"Hiss—"
As soon as a preposterous thought popped up, William Rodriguez gasped, not from anger, but from pain.
He just wanted to change his sitting posture.
A sharp pain, as if to tear him in half, shot from his lumbar spine straight to the top of his head.
His old back felt like it had been run over by two road rollers a dozen times.
Every muscle was screaming.
Every bone was protesting.
"Resilient Skin (Elementary)"
This ability, in the face of Jessica Jones's superhuman physique, was as fragile as a layer of cling film.
His skin wasn't broken, but the parts inside were about to fall apart!
William Rodriguez grimaced, holding his back, and shuffled out of bed one step at a time.
With every step, he felt his body emitting a creaking sound under the strain.
He now profoundly understood the meaning of "different physiques should not be forced to merge."
He indignantly slapped the stack of money on the nightstand with a crisp "slap."
Two seconds later.
He carefully took it back.
After smoothing it out, he tucked it into his wallet.
Even a mosquito's leg is still meat.
Take what you can get.
He took a hot shower, but the pain didn't subside at all.
Instead, due to the stimulation of the hot water, the soreness and swelling became more intense.
He felt like he had completely transformed into an "old William Rodriguez" now.
Hunching his back.
He walked with the shuffling gait of an eighty-year-old man in the empty luxury apartment.
No, he needed to find a place to save his old bones.
He pulled out his phone and skillfully opened the map.
He typed in keywords like "deep muscle relaxation," "tui na," and "massage."
The screen immediately displayed a bunch of opulent, seemingly expensive, high-end SPA clubs.
William Rodriguez curled his lip and swiped past them.
Those places mostly sold ambiance and service; the technicians' strength might not even be as good as his own.
What he needed was a strong person who could fix his dislocated bones and twisted muscles.
Finally, he set his sights on a physical therapy shop located on the edge of Hell's Kitchen.
It had high ratings, but the storefront photo looked quite modest.
The shop's name was "Harley's Tui Na House."
The comments section was uniformly filled with phrases like "amazing strength," "instantly cured," and "the Master has real skill."
This was it!
...Half an hour later, William Rodriguez lay prone on a massage bed that exuded a faint herbal scent.
His face was buried in the round breathing hole.
He felt like a steak waiting to be pounded.
The shop's environment was very quiet.
Only soothing light music flowed.
A middle-aged female owner, who sounded very kind, greeted him.
After understanding his condition, she only said one sentence: "Our best Master is here today, your back is saved."
William Rodriguez didn't wait long before he heard the door open.
A steady, powerful sound of footsteps approached from a distance.
He didn't look up.
He only felt a tall Shadow enveloping him.
"Customer, where does it hurt?"
A deep, hoarse, but surprisingly familiar male voice spoke.
"My back, and my lower back, it feels like it's about to break."
William Rodriguez replied in a muffled tone.
"Alright."
The other party only replied with one word, concise and to the point.
Then, a pair of large hands pressed onto his back.
William Rodriguez trembled all over.
Those hands were large and powerful.
His palms and knuckles were covered with thick calluses.
They didn't feel like those of a pampered technician.
Rather, they felt like a worker who had dealt with steel and heavy objects for many years.
A warm force transmitted through the towel.
Not too light, not too heavy.
Yet it precisely found the most sore muscle bundles.
"Mm..."
William Rodriguez groaned comfortably.
Professional!
The money was well spent!
As the other party began to exert force, the strength gradually increased.
Like a precise scalpel, it progressed layer by layer, peeling open his tense muscles, reaching the deep fascia.
William Rodriguez twitched in pain, but also felt a sense of clarity as if the source of his ailment had been pinpointed.
"Is the pressure okay?"
The voice spoke again.
"Yes... yes, a little more pressure is fine..."
William Rodriguez said through gritted teeth.
The Master of those hands seemed to let out a soft hum, and the pressure indeed increased a bit more.
William Rodriguez felt his bones groan.
But the dull, stagnant pain that had been lingering in his lower back was indeed kneaded away by this brute force.
While enjoying this feeling of pain and pleasure, his mind began to wonder.
Why did this voice always sound like he'd heard it somewhere before... He tried hard to search his memory.
It was a hoarse voice, carrying a sense of oppression, impatience, yet adhering to a certain bottom line.
Suddenly, a flash of lightning streaked across William Rodriguez's mind.
He remembered!
It was the muscle-bound man in the abandoned warehouse who swung an industrial iron chain with a whooshing sound!
The client he had pitched the "street vigilante minor injury mutual aid insurance (trial version)" to!
Chain Bro?!
William Rodriguez's body instantly stiffened.
"Relax."
The voice above him commanded succinctly.
William Rodriguez quickly forced himself to release that breath.
No way?
Such a coincidence?
He cautiously lifted his head slightly, glancing upwards with the corner of his eye.
He could only see a thick thigh clad in grey work pants.
He didn't give up and painstakingly tilted his head a little more.
Finally, he saw the other party's face.
A resolute jawline, tightly pursed lips.
And those eyes, still as sharp as a hawk's even in the dim light.
Although he wasn't wearing a mask.
But William Rodriguez would recognize this face even if it turned to ash!
It really was him!
William Rodriguez's brain crashed.
He lay motionless on the massage bed.
Allowing his client.
A night vigilante.
To perform professional "after-sales service" on his back, which was almost ruined from his escapade with another superhero, with those hands that could crush human bones.
Could this World get any more surreal?