"Wow, sir, did you just come out of the airport?" a Black taxi driver asked, looking at the shabby Dean, a gossip-hungry expression on his face.
He hadn't expected someone to come out this late, long after the journalists had dispersed.
"Yes, I tried to get in on the action, but those bastard cops almost strip-searched me." Dean flicked a cigarette to the driver. "Buddy, I might need to go somewhere I can change my clothes."
The Black driver deftly accepted the cigarette, started the car, and drove Dean to an unfamiliar place.
Dean glanced at the driver's waist, then closed his eyes to rest.
It was now almost ten o'clock at night. At this time, normal clothing stores would have long been closed.
The driver navigated through the quiet, empty streets, leaving the airport behind. He drove straight on for about half an hour before stopping in front of an old building blinking with pink neon lights.
He tapped on the car window. "Sir, we've arrived."
Dean opened his eyes, first looked outside, then asked the Black driver with confusion, "Here?"
"Yes." The driver lit the cigarette that was tucked behind his ear. "You walk through the alley in front of you, and you'll see the night market. Right now, this is the only place where you can find fake designer clothes."
Dean's hand slid out of his sleeve and, like a magic trick, produced a fifty-dollar bill, placing it in front of the driver. "I'm glad you didn't do anything foolish."
The Black driver's pupils constricted slightly as he took the bill, smiling. "Thank you, generous sir. I wish you a lovely evening."
Dean got out of the car and vanished into the night.
Watching the direction he left, the driver took a drag from his cigarette, tilted his head, and said to the air, "The random target seems off. I propose we cancel the game."
A sweet female voice emerged in the driver's earpiece.
The driver took a deep drag. "I'm sure, Goldilocks. I suggest you find another plaything. His stare almost made me piss my pants; the guy's gaze, it's terrifying!"
"Alright, Postman, pick the next game target soon. The night is long, and I want to find some fun..."
The communication ended.
The driver, looking at the cigarette about to go out in his hand, cracked a grin. "Welcome to Sin City, freak. Enjoy yourself."
He liked polite people.
A tiny ember traced an arc in the night sky.
VROOOM! The car's engine roared, quickly exceeding its previous speed, and zoomed away, disappearing around the corner.
By the time the cigarette butt hit the ground, the surroundings had fallen back into dead silence.
Dean passed through the dark alley, removed an earpiece from his ear, and pocketed it, his expression odd. The game organization again?
He had only sensed that something was off about the Black driver.
New York was a notorious Sin City. Even in the early 21st century, a great number of robberies, murders, and rapes occurred every night in taxis, subways, and trains under the shroud of darkness.
Since a certain film hit the cinemas, it had acquired another moniker: Gotham City!
Dean was not one to look for trouble.
Since the Black driver had opted for discretion, Dean wouldn't turn into a caped crusader to intervene in matters of no real significance.
Past the alley, a world unlike the daytime emerged before Dean's eyes.
Under the multicolored neon lights, clusters of people huddled near street corner heating ducts, blowing smoke and getting high.
Women of various races and heights on the street corners solicited passersby. Anyone interested could enter an adjacent shabby 'fighting room' for a satisfying, inexpensive physical encounter that could easily get you sick.
Beyond that, there were 'stalls,' seemingly haphazard but actually arranged with a chaotic order along both sides of the street. Cheap plastic tarps formed individual areas, waiting for customers.
Dean noticed that most of the foot traffic, like him, converged from the small alleys on both sides of the street and also left the same way, as if an invisible cage subconsciously kept them from passing directly through either end of the main street.
A middle-aged man, loitering by the roadside and looking around, spotted Dean. He immediately walked over quickly, stopped a meter away, and spoke in a low voice, "Buddy, got some fresh 'toilets' in stock, ages 10-15, mostly brand new. Want to give it a try?"
Toilets? Dean first looked puzzled, then realized it meant... people.
He shook his head expressionlessly and pulled out a stack of twenty-dollar bills. "Tell me where I can find clothes and untraceable weapons, and these are yours."
Looking at the tempting green bills, the Southeast Asian-looking middle-aged man licked his lips. "Ah, a new customer. The stuff you're looking for is at stalls 76 and 81.
"And my name is Yellow Rat.
"If you ever want to try something thrilling, come find me.
"No matter which country's 'toilets,' no matter what kind of fun you're after, as long as the green stuff is there, I can arrange it for you!
"Home delivery is also an option."
Dean didn't speak. He flicked the bills precisely into the man's chest, then strode forward with the straightforwardness of a gentleman.
In this world, beneath the light, shadows always endure.
Regarding these filthy matters, Dean had no desire to comment excessively.
Thanks to the tip from the Southeast Asian man, Dean noticed that outside each stall, there was a faintly glowing, fluorescently marked number.