The neon lights on the street corner flickered spasmodically, growing dim one after another. The night's bloodstains evaporated into faint red mist in the morning dew, slowly dissipating in the cold air.
Jay Li clutched a thermos cup in his hands, sitting in the driver's seat watching a slender figure inside the yellow and black police tape crouch down and deftly manipulate the corpse. He couldn't suppress a big yawn.
Technically, it wasn't even work hours yet, but fringe officers like him always had to be ready for assignments at a moment's notice.
The body, discovered in the early morning, was preliminarily identified as a natural death.
The homicide squad lost interest, handled the handover, and left.
He should have just been waiting quietly for the coroner's van to arrive, load the unlucky guy into a black bag, and take him away.
But the medical examiner from headquarters seemed a bit too enthusiastic.
What's so interesting about dead people?
He sighed and shifted his gaze aimlessly towards the sky.
The clouds hung like giant leaden curtains, heavily blanketing the city.
An old newspaper tumbled through the air for a long time before finally spiraling down and landing, perfectly wedged under the windshield wiper of the police car, flapping incessantly in the wind.
The dashboard showed the outside temperature was only 2°C.
He hesitated for a moment, then rolled down the window.
A wave of cold air, carrying the sea scent of Miller Harbor mixed with diesel exhaust and the musty smell of sewers, hit him square in the face like a punch.
It was not only refreshing but also brain-jolting.
He leaned out, snatched the newspaper into the car. The front-page headline was prominently typeset in heavy, bold letters:
"WAYNE ENTERPRISES LEADERLESS, STOCK PRICE CONTINUES TO FALL, CAN THEY TURN THE TIDE!?"
This is utterly insane. How did he end up in this place?
Just yesterday, one moment he was sitting in a fast-food joint, rubbing together a freshly split pair of chopsticks, and in the blink of an eye, he found himself in this city of sin called Gotham.
The face in the mirror was unmistakably his own from before the transmigration – the same thick eyebrows and big eyes, utterly ordinary, neither handsome nor ugly, even the childhood scar on his forehead was identical.
But when he hurriedly ran out of that old apartment into the hallway, every neighbor who saw him wore an expression of utter familiarity, as if he had been born and raised there.
One person even kindly asked him why he looked like he'd just eaten shit.
He remembered everything about Gotham – his life from childhood, his identity and residence, his education and work, his bank card PIN and balance.
He even remembered his mom, who divorced ten years ago and flew off to the West Coast seeking financial freedom.
His dad, who died as a bystander caught in police crossfire during a street gang fight.
And himself, recruited into the police force half a year ago as part of some compensation scheme.
Had his real self crossed over into Gotham, or had his Gotham self taken a trip to reality…
For a moment, memories from before and after the transmigration mixed together like a tangled, confusing dream. He couldn't even tell which world he originally belonged to.
To make matters worse, as a transmigrator, he didn't even get a 'ding' sound or a newbie gift pack.
All he had were four dim, lackluster cards he could "see" in his mind. Their backgrounds were a revolver, a fist, a meteor, and a stick figure, respectively.
They looked like rubbings from shoddy stone tablets, lifeless and emanating an ominous gloom.
This is… kind of bad. After all, in this place teeming with 'talented' individuals and 'simple, honest' folk, without a decent cheat ability, survival is no easy task.
Would moving to Central City or Metropolis be better?
He instinctively touched his pocket. The cold water of reality immediately doused that fleeting impulse.
His bank card had just over four thousand bucks. That wasn't enough to move to a decent apartment, let alone cross cities or even state lines.
With money, both you and I can be dark horses; without money, wherever we go, we're just beasts of burden.
Get money!
This thought lit up like a lightbulb in the darkness, exciting him for a moment, but the light faded as quickly as it came, sinking back into silence.
Sure, there were plenty of cops on the take in Gotham, but who would bother bribing a powerless beat cop who just followed orders everywhere?
Ah, wait, actually, there was a bit.
The East District division received dirty money every month; his team got a cut of two hundred dollars – of course, a hundred of that had to be shared with his partner.
A halfway decent apartment cost around over three hundred thousand to buy, and nearly two thousand dollars a month to rent.
Making a hundred bucks a month in dirty money, plus a yearly salary of thirty thousand… if he didn't eat or drink, it would only take about ten years or so…
At that thought, the corners of Jay's mouth immediately turned down into a Batman-esque scowl.
Sigh, forget it, better not think about such long timeframes.
Even AIDS isn't really considered a disease here, because in Gotham, you might not even live long enough for symptoms to appear…
Amidst the chaotic thoughts, he suddenly remembered his phone from before the transmigration.
Damn it! I didn't delete my browser history!
Tap… tap tap…
He snapped out of his reverie. The medical examiner from earlier was standing outside the car, gently tapping on the window.
He quickly jumped out of the car. The cold wind rushed in through his collar, making him shiver.
Fortunately, the lined police uniform was fairly thick.
He sniffed, tightened his collar, looked down at the examiner, and smiled. "Finished?"
Have I seen this guy somewhere before?
He seemed familiar during the earlier small talk, but he'd only been with the East District division for half a year and had never been to headquarters.
They shouldn't have met.
"Right, acute myocardial infarction, about four hours ago. Edema, severe malnutrition, no signs of violent injury. His belongings were stripped clean. This isn't the primary scene; he was moved here. Probably a homeless man robbed by his companions after death."
The examiner adjusted his glasses and nodded. "You know, their fate is already sealed." He sighed and said:
"I invite every guest,
Be they poor or rich, ignoring all pleas and excuses,
Their steps firm, never turning back.
Holding a lamp that never extinguishes, yet it only illuminates boundless darkness."
"Who am I?"
"Uh… is that a… riddle?" The sudden shift caught Jay off guard. He looked at the other man, confused.
Now he seemed even more familiar…
The examiner's eyes suddenly lit up, his tone tinged with anticipation and excitement.
"Exactly! Care to try?"
"Uh… uh…"
"Riddles aren't my strong suit…" Jay scratched his head, hemmed and hawed awkwardly for a moment, then ventured uncertainly, "Is the answer… an IRS enforcement officer conducting a raid?"
"Ah!?"
The answer seemed to momentarily stun the examiner.
But Jay frowned, staring intently at his face. He had felt this guy was familiar all along, and combined with the riddle just now, fragments surfaced from the fog of his memory, making him blurt out incredulously.
"Ed??"
The examiner was taken aback, then also looked up, studying his face intently, his eyes filled with the confusion of trying hard to recall.
Ultimately, it turned into apologetic bewilderment.
"Yes, I'm Edward Nigma. I'm sorry, I don't really remember… Could you give me a hint?"
"Jay Li! I lived near Chinatown ten years ago. You had a part-time job as a mailman there, delivering newspapers every morning… Next to Old Chen's restaurant, the one with the mailbox lid that always clattered!"
"Chinatown… Ah… Li?" Nigma's face showed an expression of disbelief. He gestured at chest height. "Ten years ago, you were only this tall, but now…"
He looked up at Jay, who was at least a dozen centimeters taller than him, and his smile suddenly became much warmer.
"Is it really you? Yes, it must be you. Only you would come up with that kind of answer. I still remember the answer you gave to the first riddle I ever told you."
"Yeah, I remember it too." Jay grinned, seeming a bit embarrassed. "What belongs to you but is used more by others?"
"Your answer was… 'the wife of Mr. Green'… Ha!" Nigma couldn't help but laugh again. "I lose it a little every time I think of that answer. Damn, how could a teenager come up with that? I never thought you'd become a cop too."
"Patrol officer, East District division. Just scraping by." Jay pointed to the badge on his chest. "You? A medical examiner at headquarters?"
"No," Nigma shook his head, his tone matter-of-fact. "I work as a forensic technician at GCPD headquarters, mainly handling physical evidence analysis."
???
"What?" Jay's smile instantly froze. Although he hadn't been on the job long, he knew the rules and regulations well. Forensic technicians couldn't perform the duties of a medical examiner. "Wait, then why are you the one doing the autopsy?"
"I'm quite interested in it, and Dr. Golan doesn't exactly live at the station late at night. So when I got the call, I didn't pass it on to him; I came to try it myself." Nigma shrugged, speaking as if it were the most natural thing. "Honestly, I should be… not worse than Golan. He often misses some… crucial details."
Holy crap…
No wonder no body transport guys came along.
The homicide squad definitely knew something was off, but as long as someone signed off on it, they didn't care who.
Jay took a deep breath of the icy air, feeling his brain freeze.
"Ed, it's not about who's better. Impersonating a medical examiner – if you're caught, you'll be packing your bags and kicked out. You actually…" He grabbed the handover record notebook Nigma had tossed onto the hood of the car. "You signed your own name on both the evidence log and the autopsy report!"
The piercing siren of the coroner's van grew louder, approaching from a distance.
Jay froze for a few seconds, then abruptly tore off the top signed sheet from the notebook, quickly crumpled it into a ball, and shoved it forcefully into the inner pocket of his police jacket.
Then he grabbed Nigma's thin arm tightly. "Get out of here, damn it! I have to redo the handover! Hurry up!"
"Okay, I'm going now." Nigma, pulled off balance by him, the excited flush fading from his face, seemed to realize the severity of the situation.
He hurried towards his old car. Before getting in, he turned back and shouted to Jay, "Death! Jay! The answer is Death."
"Fuck! If you don't leave now, you're the one who's gonna die!" Jay made a feinting kick towards him. "Hurry up! I'll call headquarters to find you when I have time."