The midnight alley was a festering wound beneath the city's glossy skin. Mason walked with his head down like a kicked stray dog, wanting only to pass through this shadow-devoured stretch and return to his basement—shabby, but at least offering some shelter. The chill in the air mingled with the sour stench of rotting garbage and the acrid smell of urine. The only light came from a broken streetlamp flickering in the distance, casting mottled, wavering shadows.
He calculated how the little money left could last the coming week, his stomach aching faintly from hunger and anxiety. As he passed a particularly dark dead-end, he suddenly heard a dull thud from inside—like a body hitting a dumpster. Of course, he knew what was happening there.
"Get out of here now!! In a place like this, meddling always ends worse than looking away." He quickened his pace, breaking into a jog while muttering to himself, "It's his fate, his karma. Maybe years ago he arrogantly raised the rent for people like me for no reason. He deserves this… Maybe he'll get better after this." But accompanied by an old man's painful, stifled cough and whimper, his steps slowed almost against his will. Yes—it was something vague and inexplicable. Perhaps the accumulated humiliation and despair of recent days, or maybe just the helplessness in that cough—made him pause. He cautiously peered into the alley.
Deep in the alley, two figures in dark hoodies, faces obscured, surrounded a shape curled on the ground. The shape looked old, wearing a jacket so dirty its original color was lost, clutching a grimy canvas bag to his chest like a trembling old dog backed into a corner.
"Listen up, old-timer! Hand it over! Unless you wanna die here with the roaches and rats," one robber rasped, giving the old man a firm but not heavy kick to the side.
The old man groaned in pain, hugging the bag tighter. His clouded eyes were full of terror as he mumbled a tearful plea: "Please… have mercy… I have no money… really…"
Mason recognized him. It was the crazy old man often seen near the convenience store, muttering to himself—everyone called him Samuel. A cold chill crept up Mason's spine. Three years ago, when he first came to LA, he'd been robbed in a similar alley on a similar night. He'd run then, leaving a psychological wound that never fully healed.
"None of my business… keep moving…" But just then, Miller's sneering face, the landlord's icy texts, the loan shark's threats, and the pitiful balance in his account flashed through his mind like a spinning zoetrope. A long-suppressed mix of rage and despair churned in his chest like a volcano.
Suddenly, the situation in the alley shifted! The other robber seemed to have lost patience, yanking out a switchblade! The blade gleamed coldly in the dim light, pressing close to the old man's cheek.
"No money?" the robber crouched, tapping the blade lightly against the old man's wrinkled, filthy face, his voice cruelly playful, like a cat toying with a mouse. "Then what's this wrinkled mug of yours worth, huh?"
The cold touch of the blade and the unmasked malice in the robber's words struck Mason like lightning.
"Damn it…" Mason clenched his fists, nails digging deep into his palms, the sharp pain clearing his chaotic mind a little.
"This isn't your fight," the voice in his head still screamed. "You can't even survive yourself, why play hero?"
Just then, another pained groan came from the alley, followed by the faint hiss of a blade cutting air and the sound of fabric tearing.
"Shit! Shit! SHIT!" Mason let out a long-suppressed, almost bestial growl from deep in his throat! He bent down, grabbed a half-empty beer bottle from the roadside, and clutching it like his only weapon, charged recklessly into the dark alley!
"Let him go!" Mason's roar echoed in the narrow space, carrying a madness unfamiliar even to himself.
The two robbers were clearly startled, freezing momentarily. They probably hadn't expected this scrawny, fragile-looking guy to have the guts to charge in.
Mason raised the beer bottle, its jagged broken edge glinting dangerously in the faint light. He aimed it at the robbers like a rifle, his voice trembling with extreme tension but feigning fierceness: "I… I've called the cops! They're on their way!"
The robbers exchanged a glance. After a brief shock, one snorted derisively: "The cops? Ha!" He turned the blade toward Mason, advancing unhurriedly. "Then before they get here, what's your face worth?"
Mason retreated, his back hitting the cold, rough brick wall. There was nowhere left to run. The robber's blade swayed before his eyes, reflecting the streetlamp's eerie glow like a viper's tongue.
"Wait, let's talk…" Mason's voice cracked with a sob, the raw sound of fear. "I'm begging you… just go… Look, I've got nothing either…" He futilely turned out his empty pockets.
"Go?" The robber showed a cruel smile. "I'm in a bad mood tonight. Let me leave you a little souvenir."
The blade descended with a chill!
Mason heard his jacket sleeve tear, then a searing pain shot through his forearm! Warm liquid instantly welled up, streaming down his arm, quickly staining his faded convenience store uniform.
He looked down at the bleeding wound on his arm, at the bright red droplets falling to the ground with a soft *plop*, and froze as if petrified.
Time seemed to stop.
Mason stared fixedly at that glaring red. Twenty-six years of life flashed through his mind like a poorly made silent film on fast-forward—
Age seven: his parents divorced after endless fights; he was tossed like baggage to his grandmother in the countryside, eating often spoiled food, listening to neighborhood kids mock him.
Age thirteen: his grandmother, who'd given him some warmth, died; he was sent to his uncle's, where the man called him a "freeloading, ungrateful little bastard."
Age nineteen: he struggled into college, thinking light had finally broken through.
Age twenty-two: he graduated with a worthless diploma, sent out hundreds of resumes that sank without a trace.
Age twenty-three: he came to LA with his last shred of hope, thinking it was where the American Dream began.
Age twenty-six: living in a moldy basement, his bank balance so thin a breeze could blow it away, facing eviction, treated like a dog by his boss, and now—robbed, cut…
"I started with nothing, and I still have nothing. God just picks on the poor."
Tears welled unexpectedly in Mason's eyes—not from pain, but from a deep, bone-chilling, utter hopelessness.
Then, despair ignited like gasoline, exploding into towering fury!
"AH!—AH—!—AH!"
Mason suddenly roared like a cornered animal, a sound that tore from his lungs, filled with primitive violence and desperate madness!
Instead of fleeing, he charged at the two robbers, who were stunned by his sudden transformation!
"I've got nothing left! I'm not afraid to die! Come on! Kill me! COME ON!"
Mason's eyes were bloodshot, his face flushed with extreme agitation. He waved his bleeding arm wildly like a madman, spit and blood flying from his lips, utterly deranged!
"Come on! I'm not afraid of you! I'm not afraid to die! I'm not afraid of a damn thing anymore!"
His frenzy was too violent, too desperate. That utter disregard for his own safety—for a moment, the wretched cries of cats in the dark, the sinister squeaks of rats, and the heartbeats of the cockroaches watching from the dumpsters as if at a climax—all seemed to resonate with Mason's咆哮.
The robbers were visibly shaken. They exchanged a look, seeing doubt and a hint of fear in each other's eyes. They'd mugged beggars, faced resistance, but never encountered someone who seemed to lose all reason instantly, who didn't even care about living.
"What the hell… is this thing…" one robber instinctively took half a step back.
"He's psycho… Let's go, this bum's lost it…" the other tugged his partner's sleeve.
Without further hesitation, they turned and ran out of the alley like startled rabbits, vanishing into the night.
Mason stood there, chest heaving, gasping for breath like a broken bellows. Blood dripped from his arm, hitting the ground with a monotone, clear *plop*. As adrenaline faded, a wave of exhaustion hit.
He breathed deeply the foul air, as if just pulled back from drowning.
Then, slowly, stiffly, he turned to look at the old man on the ground.
Old Samuel had stopped trembling. He still clutched the grimy canvas bag, but now he looked at Mason with a strange expression—not the fear of survival, nor clear gratitude, but something indescribable… expectant?
"You…" the old man's voice was raspy like rusty hinges, "…you alright?"
Mason looked down at his still-bleeding arm, then suddenly grinned, emitting a sound uglier than crying.
Mason didn't reply, just staggered over unsteadily and reached out to help the old man up.
But the old man suddenly seized Mason's bleeding wrist with a dry, surprisingly strong grip—tight as iron pincers!
Mason froze, trying to pull away, but found it useless.
"Your eyes… are special," the old man looked up at Mason, his gaze deep as an ancient well in the dim light. "You can see… what others cannot."
"What?" Mason was bewildered; the pain in his wrist and the old man's eerie words made him uneasy.
The old man didn't explain. With his other free hand—calloused and grimy—he gently pressed it against Mason's forehead.
At the moment of contact, Mason felt a gentle warmth flow from the old man's palm into his body, a mild electric tingle spreading through his limbs, dispelling some of the cold and fatigue.
"The world breaks everyone," the old man murmured, his voice carrying a peculiar rhythm, "but afterward, many are strong at the broken places."
Mason shuddered! That was his favorite Hemingway quote! How did this homeless old man know?!
"Remember, luck… is what happens when preparation meets opportunity," the old man's voice grew faint, as if from far away. "Luck… is what happens when preparation meets opportunity… Luck… is what happens when preparation meets opportunity…"
Mason blinked, feeling slightly dizzy. When he focused again, the alley was empty except for him. Only the grimy canvas bag remained, containing what seemed to be just a tattered, cover-faded Hemingway novel.
"What a… strange old man," Mason muttered, stuffing the book into his jacket pocket. Enduring the pain in his arm, he hurried toward the subway station. The inner shock and confusion temporarily overshadowed his physical wound and dire reality.
He didn't notice that on the inside of his left wrist, an extremely faint, lightning-like golden symbol briefly surfaced, then quickly faded beneath his skin.
Back in his cold basement, Mason bandaged his wound, staring at the old Hemingway book. The old man's strange words and that sudden warmth lingered in his mind. "Luck… is what happens when preparation meets opportunity?" he repeated softly. Where the vanished symbol had been, a barely perceptible warmth tingled.