Starting from scratch, Batman crushed my dream of getting rich

Chapter 260 Memories I Dare Not Touch

Constantine, with a long face, made his way to Houston Street. After finally squeezing through the crowd, he finally managed to find some space to light another cigarette. It was clear he was in a bad mood.

Ma Zhaodi, however, felt nothing special. The New York subway at midnight, no matter how crowded, was just like that. If you really wanted sardines in a can, you'd have to look at the morning rush hour on the subway back home. The early-rising office workers, without prior arrangement, all squeezed into the same cramped space at the same time, heading towards that B-class they'd been working in for years, and might have to work in for another ten, or even twenty or thirty years if they were lucky. Dozens of pairs of eyes, like dead fish eyes, shone with a numb and desperate light.

During the time Ma Zhaodi was working, he kept thinking that if there really were supernatural powers in this world, the subway station filled with resentment would probably be the first place to breed vengeful ghosts/evil spirits.

The two walked out of the subway station, strolled along the main street for a while, and finally arrived at Greenwich Village.

Once inside the streets, dead memories suddenly began to attack Constantine's brain. At each street corner, past memories would resurface along with familiar scenes—memories of his time with Emma.

The two walked deeper into the road, and Constantine's memories kept flashing through his mind. Memories that he usually tried to consciously avoid were now completely unstoppable.

It was like treating an old wound; every time you peeled back a bit, the pain intensified. Constantine struggled to suppress the urge to turn and leave, eventually arriving in front of a building.

He didn't want to go in, but he had to—if it weren't for Ma Zhaodi.

"It's nearby," Constantine thought. "That's where Lester sent the bottle, to Emma's place."

If they're lucky, the hungry spirit might not have had a chance to destroy the bottle.

“I don’t want to go in.” He said to Ma Zhaodi, “This is the house. Go in and ask the people on the fourteenth floor which apartment the painter Emma lives in.”

“Are you serious?” Ma Zhaodi said. “Your girlfriend lives here, and you’re not going up to her? And what am I supposed to tell her? Tell her that Constantine doesn’t want to see you?”

“I’ve already said, I don’t want to go up there.” Constantine took a deep drag on his cigarette. “Besides, she’s not up there either—she’s dead.”

Upon hearing this, Ma Zhaodi was stunned. He finally understood why Constantine insisted on his help.

“Alright,” he said. “No wonder. Is there anything else you need my help with?”

“That’s all.” Constantine took a drag of his cigarette and waved his hand impatiently at him. “Go upstairs and get things sorted out. I want to find a hotel and get some sleep as soon as possible.”

After Ma Zhaodi's footsteps disappeared into the corridor, Constantine couldn't help but look up at the familiar window, where warm light was still shining.

The studio lights were still on. At this time of day, she would usually be working late into the night—if that damned demon "Evanti" hadn't thrown her out of that cursed window.

Thinking of this, Constantine threw the cigarette butt on the ground and stomped on it a few times.

"Damn it, this is what happens when you fall in love with a second-rate exorcist like Constantine."

He thought that scolding himself a few times would make him feel a little better, but in reality, it didn't; he felt even worse.

At this moment, guilt, pain, and longing tormented his very being. He wanted to leave immediately, but he hadn't finished what he needed to do that night; he wanted to go upstairs, but he was afraid to see Emma's room.

Finally, he sighed and lit another cigarette. Ma Zhaodi went up to the fourteenth floor, but he didn't ask around, because it seemed there was only one painter living on this floor.

Amidst the complex odors of paint, thinner, and turpentine throughout the floor, the smell of the painter's room doorknob stood out—a scent that had seeped into the room over the years, suggesting that Constantine's girlfriend had likely lived there for quite some time.

"However, Constantine clearly said that Emma had already died."

Ma Zhaodi listened intently with some doubt. He could clearly hear footsteps coming from inside the door. They were heavy and loud, sounding like ordinary men's shoes on a wooden floor.

Who is this person? Emma's next tenant? Are New Yorkers really this indiscriminate?

So he went up and knocked on the door.

A moment later, the door creaked open, leaving a gap about the size of a fist. A man with long red hair and a goatee peered through the narrow opening at Ma Zhaodi outside.

"Who are you looking for?"

“Emma, ​​I’m here to find her at her boyfriend’s request—would you mind if I came in?”

The man looked Ma Zhaodi up and down, noting his Asian face and rather formal attire. He figured the man seemed quite wealthy and didn't look like a gangster, so he opened the door for him.

Ma Zhaodi entered the room and quickly scanned it in a few seconds. The room was filled with canvases, flower petals, oil paints, and watercolors. It was clear that the man in front of him was also an artist; he had just rented the studio left by Emma.

“Actually, she doesn’t live here anymore, buddy,” the painter told him. “You won’t find her here.”

“I know, she’s dead.” Ma Zhaodi took two more steps. Now he was absolutely certain that in this not-so-spacious little room, there was neither the smell of insects nor the smell of the magic glass bottle—the bottle had been touched by Lester and that fat guy who had stuffed himself to death, and it was tainted with their scent.

Finding nothing here, he was somewhat disappointed. He could only sigh and ask the portrait beside him, "Is this her? Who fell to her death?"

On the canvas, a bright red beam of light fell to the ground, and the face of a woman appeared on the paper. She looked beautiful and young.

"Yes, it's very strange. Although I wasn't familiar with her, her death did give me some inspiration for my paintings."

"Artists don't have so many taboos, do they?" Ma Zhaodi glanced at him, not commenting much on his uninhibited behavior.

"Actually, you didn't draw it right." A familiar voice sounded behind the two of them: "Remember to close the door after you open it, buddy."

Ma Zhaodi smelled the familiar scent of cigarettes, but he wasn't surprised—his hearing was excellent, and he could perfectly remember the characteristics of certain people's footsteps, so he didn't miss Constantine's footsteps going upstairs.

"Or should I come up and take a look myself?"

Constantine did not answer Ma Zhaodi's question, but turned around, closed the door, and took a deep breath.

(End of this chapter)