Chapter 2

“What's with all the banging? Are you trying to kill me?”

The rusty security door was yanked open from inside, its hinges shrieking in protest.

It wasn't Summerville who opened the door, but a bald man, bare-chested with a thick gold chain around his neck, reeking of cheap tobacco.

I stood outside, my gaze sweeping past his shoulder into the room.

The living room was a mess; beer bottles littered the floor, the sofa cover was ripped to shreds, and “PAY UP” was spray-painted in red on the wall.

“What are you looking at? Who are you looking for?” The bald man impatiently flicked his cigarette ash.

“Summerville,” I said.

“Who are you?” The bald man looked me up and down, his eyes lighting up as they stopped on the Patek Philippe on my wrist.

“A relative of the debtor? Perfect. She owes our boss one point two million. Are you here to pay it for her?”

I ignored him, turning to glance at Casey behind me.

Casey had been my assistant for five years — tough and quiet.

He stepped forward, pushed the bald man aside, and strode into the house.

“Hey, you damn—” The bald man started to curse, but Casey twisted his wrist and pressed it down.

The bald man instantly dropped to one knee on the broken glass, gasping in pain.

I stepped over the trash on the floor and walked to the bedroom door. It was empty.

The closet doors hung open, not even a hanger left inside, and the bed frame was covered in a thin layer of dust.

She had moved out at least a week ago.

“Where is she?” I turned, looking at the bald man.

“How would I know!” The bald man gritted his teeth. “The court already seized this apartment.”

“Our boss forcibly pried it open last week to use as a temporary dormitory. She ran faster than a rabbit!”

I didn't speak. My chest felt heavy, like it was stuffed with wet cotton, a suffocating ache.

Four million two hundred thousand. To the current me, it was just half a month's profit from two of my company's production lines.

But for an ordinary person, it was an insurmountable weight that could utterly crush their spirit.

A memory suddenly flashed in my mind.

That winter, my sophomore year of high school, Pittsburgh had its first snowfall.

I couldn't afford dorm fees and was kicked out by the dorm supervisor. At night, I could only sneak into the utility room under the school stadium's bleachers.

That night, I had a high fever. My body was ice cold, like I was submerged in freezing water, and I didn't even have the strength to stand up.

Then, the iron door of the utility room was pushed open.

Wind and snow poured in. Summerville stood at the doorway.

She wore an oversized school uniform, her nose red from the cold, holding a glass bottle wrapped in a towel.

She didn't ask why I was sleeping there, nor did she say anything to pity me.

She just walked over and pressed the scalding hot bottle into my arms.

Then she took out two packets of fever reducers and two steaming hot savory pastries from her pocket, placing them beside me.

“Eat it all,” she said, then turned and walked back into the snow.

I held that glass bottle all night. It burned my chest red, but it saved my miserable life.

I always remembered that warmth.

“Mr. Frank,” Casey said in a low voice, releasing the bald man. “Just had someone check the street cameras. Miss Summerville… she went to the South District.”

The South District, a notorious lawless district in Pittsburgh, a gathering place for slums, dodgy businesses, and homeless encampments.

I shoved my hands into my pockets, my fingertips brushing the worn, old bank card.

“Let's go.”

“Where?” Casey asked.

I gave the shivering bald man on the floor a cold glance.

“South District. Turn the place upside down. Find her for me.”