I'm a proper student; I only take nine kinds of potions every day.

As Evan's mind wandered, his eyes swept across the ground.

Unfortunately, there were no needles to throw away.

The United States of this era was far from being as "open" and "free" as it would be a century later.

The moral values ​​of Puritan immigrants remained dominant, and church bell towers could be seen everywhere in the streets and alleys.

Unable to find the needle, Evan turned his gaze to the street corner.

Heavy-makeup prostitutes are everywhere, wearing cheap tops that are cut open to their collarbones, chewing gum, leaning against gas lampposts and flirting with passing men.

But male prostitutes are almost never seen.

This is not their area of ​​activity.

More importantly, this era also has the crime of sodomy.

If you get caught, a fine of a few hundred dollars is considered lenient.

Those with severe cases are either castrated outright, or sent to mental hospitals labeled as "morally corrupt" and locked up until they die.

"Damn, am I out of my mind? What am I thinking?"

Evan muttered something, shook his head, and turned into Guding Street.

A dozen minutes later, the sun completely sank behind the buildings.

One by one, the dim streetlights lit up, their warm yellow glow spreading through the night fog, and the streets remained bustling.

An off-key accordion melody drifted from the tavern entrance as a drunkard staggered out, bumping into a fire hydrant on the street corner and bursting into laughter.

Ibn originally planned to go home first to put his things away, and then go out to find something to eat.

As he stepped onto the second-floor staircase, the heightened senses brought about by his breakthrough to the second level of physical fitness, combined with the enhanced hearing aspirin had reversed, allowed him to detect something amiss.

There was someone in the shadows above the stairwell.

The breathing was very soft, but the deliberately suppressed rhythm was easier to detect.

A faint smell of tobacco and cheap whiskey wafted down from above.

More than one person.

Ivan didn't stop walking, but his mind was racing.

"It's not the Gus gang. They're just bad, not stupid. Nock gave them face, he won't go back on his word."

"Red King's Lab? No, they just kicked me out, there's no reason for them to arrest me now."

"The church? That's even less likely. I have no conflict with them."

He pretended to suddenly remember something, turned around and shouted downstairs.

"Old Tom! Please hold my shoe repair job for me tomorrow!"

Taking advantage of the cover of his side profile, he quickly pulled the small glass bottle out of his jacket pocket, broke the wax seal, and tilted his head back to pour the dark red, viscous liquid into his mouth.

You have ingested the Night Demon Potion. Effects last: 12 hours.

[Effect: When the drug is in effect and it is nighttime, perception is increased by 30%, and night vision is increased by 200%.]

In an instant, the dark outlines of the unlit stairwell became as clear as day.

Every crack in the wall, every speck of dust on the floor, and the silhouettes of the three people's shoes at the corner of the stairs were all exposed to his view without reservation.

The group above seemed to realize that Ivan was deliberately not coming up, so they decided to take the initiative.

Three people rushed down from above, and a tall man emerged from the shadows at the corner of the second floor to circle around to the back. The four of them formed a three-in-front, one-in-back encirclement, trapping Evan in the middle of the stairwell.

The leader was a middle-aged man wearing a baseball cap, a faded brown wool jacket, and a cherry wood pipe dangling from his mouth, its red glow flickering in the night.

With his neatly trimmed mustache, he exuded a refined and composed air.

Seeing this outfit, Evan felt a sense of relief.

He's not a dangerous person. He's a private investigator.

"Mr. Arkham?"

The middle-aged man took the pipe out of his mouth, speaking as politely as if he were bumping into an old friend on the street.

Ivan stopped, his tone indifferent.

"Who are you?"

The middle-aged man smiled slightly, took a small card out of his jacket pocket with his right hand, but did not hand it over.

"You don't need to know. Someone wants to see you."

He paused for a moment, lowering his voice by half an octave.

"If you don't want to suffer, I suggest you come with us."

Ivan took a step forward.

"Oh? Is that so?"

Just then, he heard the whooshing sound of wind behind him.

That was the sound of a fist slicing through the air.

The next instant.

"Ouch!"

"what!"

"It hurts so much..."

A series of agonizing screams echoed from the stairwell.

In less than ten seconds, the three burly men tumbled down the stairs, howling in pain.

Some clutched their ribs, some hugged their thighs, and the last one who had been stepped on by a leather shoe held his foot and wailed at the corner of the stairs.

Looking down from the shoe repair shop, Old Tom slowly poked his head out the door, pushed up his reading glasses, and spoke unhurriedly to the burly man rolling on the ground clutching his foot.

"Need shoe repair, sir? Ten cents a time."

……

The middle-aged detective stood there, stunned.

Ivan turned around, met his face which had instantly lost all color, and smiled as he repeated what he had just said.

"If you don't want to suffer, I suggest you obediently come inside with me."

"What...what just happened? That was so fast!"

The middle-aged man's pipe slipped from his mouth and fell onto the cement floor with a crisp clatter.

He boasted that he was a veteran, a graduate of a police academy, and had decent fighting skills.

But just now...

He didn't see it at all.

A college student who looked to be no more than 130 pounds (for convenience, 1 pound equals 1 jin), and as thin as a bamboo pole.

They actually beat three 180-pound strong men like they were dealing with a few seven or eight-year-old children.

While his mind was still processing this counterintuitive information, Ivan had already walked past him and opened the apartment door.

"Sir... there must be some misunderstanding..."

The middle-aged man's voice was full of tension.

He has a gun, but he doesn't dare to take it.

He was afraid that the other party would take him away in an instant.

Ivan stood in the doorway, gesturing "please" with a smile.

Whether it's a misunderstanding or not, the standard for judgment is not up to you.

He paused for a moment and pointed his index finger at his chest.

"Understand?"

The middle-aged man nodded respectfully, then turned and called out in a trembling voice to his companions who were still rolling around downstairs.

"Wait for me! I'll pay your medical bills!"

He needed his companions for courage, even though those three good-for-nothings were now struggling to even get up.

In the living room of an old apartment.

The middle-aged man sat on the patched canvas sofa, his back ramrod straight, his hands neatly placed on his knees, like a student waiting for the principal to reprimand him.

Ivan stepped on the creaking floorboards, took a glass from the kitchen, filled it halfway with cold water, and handed it over.

In their impoverished home, there was no black tea, no sugar, and certainly no milk.

Then he plopped down on the coffee table, looking down at the other person.

"Who sent you to investigate me?"

The middle-aged man originally wanted to use his silver tongue, honed over a decade of experience, to steer the conversation in circles.

But when he met Evan's teasing gaze, like a cat looking at a mouse, all his words deflated instantly like a punctured balloon.

"It's Mr. LeBon."

He spoke up honestly.

"LeBon." Evan's brow furrowed slightly.

"Is Little LeBon his father?"

The middle-aged man paused for a moment, his eyes darting around, and asked with a tentative, puzzled look.

"Jimmy LeBon is dead. Didn't you know?"

Ivan blinked.

"Huh? Dead?"

His facial expression was so natural that it was flawless.

"He was perfectly fine when I saw him on Friday!"

As soon as he finished speaking, the scene from that night flashed through his mind.

Hill's long silver hair under the moonlight, the phrase "ten out, twenty back," and the curse of bad luck she lifted for herself.

"Curse backlash."

These four words clearly appeared in his mind.

The curse was forcibly bounced back, and the caster bore the full cost.

In retrospect, LeBon was the one who commissioned the financier to curse him. (As suggested by the user "幸福一生666", the tax official's name was changed to financier, which feels more fitting.)

The middle-aged man observed Ivan's expression.

His more than ten years of detective experience told him that the young man was not lying.

The astonishment and surprise were so natural, without a trace of acting.

"After investigation, Mr. LeBon believes that you killed his son through some kind of mysterious curse."

"So let us invite you back to inquire further."

Upon hearing this, Ivan's lips curled into a cold smile.

"His son bullied me, then died, and now he's accusing me of cursing his son?"

His tone carried genuine anger.

"Why doesn't he say that those fraternity members killed him to silence him after seeing his son wet his pants in fear and embarrass them?"

The middle-aged man's mind raced as he pieced together this new information with the incomplete file that Mr. Lebang had provided when he commissioned the project.

It turned out to be the case.

Mr. LeBon deliberately concealed crucial information.

"Damn it, I'll never take another job like this with incomplete information and such high fees!"

He cursed under his breath, then weighed the medical expenses of his three companions downstairs.

Given how badly they fell down the stairs, five dollars probably wouldn't be enough to settle things.

He cleared his throat, and a smile reappeared on his face, but this time it was a genuine, slightly ingratiating smile.

"It seems that it was indeed a misunderstanding."

He pulled a rather presentable brown business card from the inside pocket of his jacket and handed it over with both hands.

"My name is Tom McCrae. I am the director and chief detective of the McCrae Detective Agency."

"I can tell that Jimmy LeBon's death has nothing to do with you. I will go back and explain the situation to Mr. LeBon."

He paused, his gaze sweeping around the dilapidated living room before finally settling back on Evan's face.

"By the way, I see you're quite skilled. Would you be interested in doing a part-time job with me during your holidays?"