The night deepened, and the hustle and bustle of the streets gradually settled, leaving only the occasional passing vehicles and the distant, indistinct sound of sirens.
Vid still sat on the bench, with various intermittent sounds echoing in his ears, but none contained valuable information.
"Clang—clang—"
The sound of a tin can clashing against the ground resonated from afar, as a homeless man dragging all his belongings searched for a place to sleep for the night.
He saw the bench and the seemingly not very strong young man sitting on it, his eyes lit up immediately, licking his lips with a hint of menace and determination, he walked straight over.
However, the closer he got, the more bewildered the homeless man's expression became, and he hesitated, stopping in front of the bench.
The man's expression was bewildered, not even looking at the young man. It was as if he forgot why he came, scratching his greasy long hair, dragging his clattering cart, turning in another direction, and soon walking away.
The street was bustling with vagrants, streetwalkers, idling young Black men… people appearing on the street for various reasons, some of whom inevitably focused their gaze on the young man who seemed to have a good temperament.
However, without exception, they repeated the homeless man's experience—approaching and then unknowingly drifting away, until finally, the small park became a silent place where no one approached.
Vid removed the Communication Pea.
Everyone in the hotel was already asleep, even the door had been locked by the hotel owner, with only a faint creaking of the rocking chair audible.
Vid's arm rested on the bench backrest, he did not leave, still quietly waiting, the street lamp cast a dim, solitary glow over him.
At this time, a slightly dragging sound of footsteps approached, finally stopping in front of Vid.
He lifted his eyes.
Standing before him was a woman around fifty, quite plump, wearing bulky gray overalls and a dark yellow long-sleeve T-shirt, the collar somewhat worn.
The woman looked like a common cleaning worker, her nose red from the night wind, fine lines of life's hardship creasing at the corners of her eyes.
She looked at Vid and said hoarsely:
"Good evening, sir. I've seen you sitting here for a long time, are you waiting for someone?"
Vid's eyes twinkled with a smile, his lips curling in a faint arc, saying:
"Hmm, I'm waiting for a… perhaps lost friend?"
Upon hearing this, the weariness on the cleaner woman's face instantly vanished, her amber eyes bending with an exceptionally lively smile.
"Master," she said, "we've been waiting for you for a long time."
"Any results from recent investigations?" Vid asked.
"Yes."
The cleaner woman took a badge out of her pocket, placing it before Vid.
The badge was the size of a US Dollar coin, the front featuring not a portrait, but a pair of hands breaking a Magic Wand; flipping to the back, there was an engraving of "NSPS."
"Second Salem?"
Vid recognized what the acronym represented, feeling unsurprised.
"Yes."
The cleaner said softly:
"We traced to an abandoned textile factory in the Brooklyn District, found an abandoned stronghold underneath. It was deserted, books, documents, and computers were moved out, but quite a few daily items were left behind."
She pointed at the badge in Vid's hand, saying:
"Like flags, slogans, even coffee mugs and shirts printed with this pattern. Moreover, the relocation seemed rushed, looking like a battle had occurred."
Vid decisively stood up and said, "Take me to see it."
He moved towards the street, a black car emerged from the dark alley, silently gliding to a stop before Vid.
The window lowered, revealing Victor's rugged face. He looked at Vid, instead of speaking endlessly like on the plane, he simply nodded slightly.
Vid opened the door, deftly sat in, the car immediately started, smoothly accelerated, leaving only a trail of exhaust behind in an instant.
The cleaner stayed by the street, watching the car leave, then she somehow produced a broom, bent to sweep the street.
"Swish—swish—"
…
Vid leaned back in his seat, his gaze sweeping over the shimmering night scene outside the window, the darkness covering most of the crime and filth, making the city indeed appear dazzling and enigmatic from this angle.
Suddenly, Vid seemed to recall something, casually asking:
"Do you have a driver's license, Victor?"
Victor's hands were steadily on the steering wheel, hearing that, his expressionless face pulled into a faint arc:
"In this country, with enough money, almost any piece of paper can be bought. From this point of view, it is indeed much more… free than the United Kingdom."
"Do you like it?" Vid's gaze remained on the flowing lights outside, his voice very light: "This place?"
Victor drove, overtook a slowly moving truck in silence, then said after a pause:
"Its chaotic order provides us with sufficient cover and resources. But as for 'liking'… it's too noisy."
The time spent in the United States, most of the people they interacted with were from the lower strata, the pervasive arrogance and discrimination, shallow culture, and naked desires—truly hard to bear even for the Poppet.
All of them were personally endowed by Vid with thoughts, and although their exhibited personalities vary greatly, there is something essentially the same in their bones.
…
The Brooklyn District road sign flashed by the street.
The car silently stopped before a dilapidated "Riverside Textile Factory," the rust-stained gates secured by iron chains as thick as fingers, but the lock had been smashed by someone.
Victor led Vid, traversed the factory now turned to ruins, arrived at a concealed entrance leading underground.
The underground space was damp and chilly, the air filled with dust and mold, and there were two figures busily moving about on the scene.
One was a redneck driver wearing a baseball cap, with black oil stains on his pants;
The other was a youth in a hooded sweatshirt, looking ready to attend a basketball game at any time.
At this moment, both were engaged in work completely mismatched with their appearance—holding cameras, scales, fingerprint brushes, transparent tape, glass bottles and plastic bags for sample collection, cautiously gathering various minute residual traces from the crevices between floor tiles, under tables and roof edges.
Seeing Vid, both stood simultaneously, slightly bowing their heads, their movements in unison as though rehearsed countless times.
Vid waved his hand, saying, "I'm just here to take a look, continue with your work."
"Yes," both said in unison.
Victor pointed at the wall, speaking softly to Vid, "Master, look!"
On the light gray cement wall, there were several long, deep scratches!