William trotted along, cradling the second-hand tablet, his steps as light as if he were on fire wheels; if one ignored his old, almost-greasy suit, he felt like the Wolf of Wall Street.
"First pot of gold! Twenty compensation points!"
The little man in his heart was already doing a 360-degree Thomas flair with a split.
He couldn't even help but strike a "payment successful" pose at an overturned trash can on the roadside.
This caused a plump rat foraging inside to look up at him, then disdainfully return to its diligent work.
Hmm, the revolution has not yet succeeded, comrades still need to work hard.
At least, work hard enough to make even rats look at him with new respect.
The night wind blew, and William pulled his jacket tighter; the earlier excitement cooled slightly, replaced by a grounded sense of satisfaction.
These twenty compensation points were real earnings. As for future customer claims… hmm, speaking of which, do customer claims deduct my points, or does the system provide additional subsidies?
The system, that silent old ghost, remained as tight-lipped as ever, pretending to be a master.
Forget it, I'll cross that bridge when I come to it. For now, this business is definitely viable!
His business model had been validated!
His next goal was to turn all those street heroes into his paying customers, accumulating small amounts to build a tower!
The more he thought about it, the better he felt, even starting to rehearse in his mind how to pitch his "Homemade Battle Suit Leakage Protection Insurance (Supreme Luxury Edition)" to that kid who was rumored to be able to discharge electricity.
Just as William was envisioning himself with Spider-Man on his left and Iron Man on his right, followed by a throng of Avengers clients, embarking on the pinnacle of his life, marrying… uh, that could wait, career first… he turned into his own dilapidated apartment building.
The hallway was filled with a damp, musty smell, mixed with a faint hint of cheap disinfectant.
Then, he stopped dead in his tracks.
The faulty, flickering light bulb in the apartment hallway was faithfully fulfilling its duty of creating a terrifying atmosphere.
It fragmented the figure leaning crookedly against his door.
William's heart skipped a beat.
"Oh no, it can't be…"
He muttered, a premonition as ominous as the smog of Hell's Kitchen enveloping him.
That familiar black leather jacket.
Those unruly dark jeans.
And that powerful aura of "strangers keep away, even acquaintances don't get too close" that emanated even in her unconscious state… Jessica Jones.
She was slumped there as if boneless, her head askew.
Several strands of dark hair clung to her cheek, and beside her lay a solitary empty liquor bottle, its label worn, clearly the cheapest kind from a convenience store.
William felt his temples throbbing.
"Big sister, is this… your latest performance art? Or did you just get blackout drunk and mistake my place for a free shelter?"
He stood a few steps away, not daring to get too close.
Her morning temper was notorious. If he woke her up and she gave him a "friendly face-breaking punch," his newly earned twenty compensation points probably wouldn't even cover his medical expenses, and he'd still be out of pocket.
He tentatively whispered, "Ms. Jones? Are you… alright? Do you need emergency medical assistance insurance service?"
Jessica didn't respond, only letting out an unintelligible grunt from her throat, then shifted to a more comfortable (?) position, continuing her deep conversation with the Duke of Zhou (i.e., sleeping soundly).
William rubbed his temples, a headache forming.
What to do?
Option one: Pretend not to see her, step over her, open the door, and go to sleep.
Consequence: He didn't know if his conscience would hurt, but when Jessica woke up tomorrow morning to find herself sleeping on the cold concrete floor, and he, the "caring" insurance salesman, was in his warm little home just a door away, he'd probably be well on his way to "being kindly physically persuaded out of the insurance industry."
Moreover, if she caught a cold and it affected her "business capabilities"—like investigating or punching people—who would he claim that free trial policy from?
The health of potential clients is also part of performance!
Option two: Call the Police.
William's mind instantly conjured the scene of Police officers facing a drunk superhuman woman, torn between maintaining order and fearing being punched flying all the way to Harlem.
Forget it, don't bother the New York Police Department; they're busy enough. They might even have to pay out of their own pockets for damage to Police facilities.
Option three: Wake her up.
This option was immediately crossed out with a red X by William as soon as it popped up. He wasn't tired of living yet; he didn't want to die young.
That left only one last option—get her inside.
William glanced at his own weathered wooden door, then at Jessica.
He strongly suspected that if Jessica continued to lean like that, his door might just "honorably retire" by tomorrow morning.
Then repair costs would be another expense.
"Alright, alright, consider me unlucky. Who told me to be a professional?"
William sighed resignedly and stepped forward.
He carefully picked up Jessica's dropped key ring, which had a crude metal tag that read "Alias Investigations."
"For potential long-term clients, for future policy performance, for more compensation points… for World peace!"
He mentally braced himself, then bent down to try and pull Jessica up from the ground.
Round one: William lunged, sinking his waist, channeling his qi, and exerted force! Jessica didn't budge, as if rooted to the ground.
"Hiss…" William felt his old back let out a faint protest.
Was this big sister forged from Mithril mixed with Vibranium?
Or do superheroes' weights also double along with their superpowers when they're drunk, with an added gravity-anchoring effect?
He adjusted his posture, took a deep breath, threaded his hands under Jessica's armpits, and with all his might, he heaved upwards!
"Up!"
Jessica, like a 150-pound bag of soaked cat litter, was finally pried from the ground, most of her body pressing against William.
The strong smell of alcohol, mixed with Jessica's unique feminine scent—a hint of leather and cheap whiskey—rushed into William's nostrils.
William felt like he was suffocating, not from the smell, but from the weight.
This was definitely Superman-level weight!
He staggered, dragging Jessica, using his shoulder to push open the creaking door, practically tumbling and crawling to get her into his tiny, pitiful apartment.
The only decent piece of furniture in the living room was a creaky old sofa.
William didn't care about much else; he mustered all his strength, performed a standard "hammer thrower's winding-up stance" followed by a "gentle parabolic arc," and finally "placed" Jessica onto the sofa.
Thud!
The sofa let out a groan of protest, as if it would collapse any second.
William leaned on his knees, gasping for air, feeling as though he had just completed an Olympic-level, no-holds-barred weighted squat and deadlift competition.
He looked at Jessica Jones, unconscious on the sofa, then at his apartment, which seemed even more cramped with her arrival, a mix of emotions swirling within him.
"Well, there goes tonight's supper money. I hope my door and sofa are still intact tomorrow morning."
He walked to the small refrigerator that contained only a few bottles of mineral water and a packet of almost-expired cereal, pulled it open, then closed it.
Better go to bed early; tomorrow would be busy.