Days as a Spiritual Mentor in American Comics Chapter 6244: Chicago Stories (13)

Brian’s face was ashen, he smelled a faint stench of urine in the air, obviously someone in the room had wet themselves out of fear. This made him even more uncomfortable, as he clumsily scrambled up from the floor, just about to say something when he saw Bruce walk to the side of the table and pick up another bullet to load into the gun.

Brian shut up immediately.

He didn’t expect this madman to actually dare fire a gun, didn’t he know that the gunshot could wake all the teachers and students, and even draw the police?

“The soundproofing here should be pretty good, right?” Bruce seemed to have guessed what he was thinking. “You wouldn’t bring us here for no reason, I assume because whatever happens here wouldn’t be heard outside.”

Brian’s face stiffened, because Bruce was right. This basement was specially made as their crime den, every year they manufacture collateral against everyone here, this is the truth behind the annual deaths in the Brotherhood.

This year, they chose Bruce as the sacrifice, because he was attractive enough and had no background, seemed like a clueless hillbilly. When he’s dead, no one would pay the price. If his parents come looking, it’s easy to deal with those country folks, just give them some money.

But now it seems they’ve let a wolf into the fold. Brian said the only possible explanation he could think of: “Are you an agent? Here to investigate us?”

Bruce narrowed his eyes slightly, obviously this had occurred before. After all, this is one of the top universities in All America, such incidents keep happening, surely some people want to investigate. Maybe relatives of the victims, maybe the Federal Government, but without exception, none succeeded, because these perpetrators stood here unharmed, growing even more audacious.

The aggravating feeling in Bruce’s heart not only didn’t improve after the previous intimidation, it grew stronger. As he fiddled with the revolver, he said: “I know you all have a lot of complaints, like you’ve paid so much in taxes, the law enforcement agencies should be on your side. Like those country folks who roll in the mud all day contribute nothing, if they die, they die.”

“Are you trying to educate me?” Brian seemed to have caught his breath somewhat, he panted heavily while swallowing, “If you’re working for someone, you’d better think it through, will your master protect you if you harm me.”

Bruce started wiping fingerprints off the gun with a corner of his shirt, he merely lowered his eyes, saying, “Why give me those clothes?”

Brian’s expression turned suspicious and uncertain, he pursed his lips, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“That red plaid suit,” Bruce said, “Dali gave it to me, but he still died.”

Brian finally showed a trace of fear, Bruce raised his eyes to look at him, and from the details of Brian’s facial expression, Bruce read a signal. That is, Brian doesn’t fear him, but he fears the person implicated by that red suit.

“Is someone hunting you?” Bruce asked.

Brian’s fingers tightened, his fingertips turning white from the pressure, he said, “That’s not for you to worry about.”

Bruce felt it was odd, if Brian thought he was law enforcement personnel, he should be accusing him, blaming them for not protecting the upper class’s safety, but instead causing trouble in their territory.

But Brian didn’t. This absolutely wasn’t because he was considerate, such people’s logic is that the whole nation, government, and all violent institutions should serve them, must turn a blind eye to their crimes, then unconditionally protect their safety. If someone truly was hunting him, he would certainly find every way to urge law enforcement to catch that person, rather than telling a suspected agent this isn’t for you to worry about.

“How did you do it?” Brian was still somewhat suspicious, he stared at the revolver. He was very sure the gun was fine, because this revolver was his private collection, also it was his men who brought it, the bullets were loaded by him personally, and the cylinder was spun by himself.

This revolver’s structure is relatively advanced and hasn’t been used much, it’s hard to determine the bullet’s position from the cylinder’s sound. Moreover, when he spun the cylinder, he was far away, Bruce couldn’t possibly hear it.

“I told you, God bless me.”

Brian’s eyes gradually widened.

Bruce was also a bit surprised, Brian’s reaction wasn’t quite right. Never mind that wealthy people do often mention God, but in fact, the elite are the least likely to sincerely believe in God, especially in aspects unfavorable to themselves.

But Brian seemed to accept this explanation, he truly thought God was blessing Bruce. This simply wasn’t reasonable, because there’s no superpower users in this cosmos, nor has God ever shown any miracles. How could Brian accept such nonsense?

But Bruce wasn’t just finding an excuse or trying to scare him; there truly was a God protecting him, even an electronic God is still a God.

The reason he could play this game so boldly was because of Brainiac. There’s no other reason; bullets can’t hit him because this game doesn’t allow forced exits. There’s no button to forcibly exit, and suicide to end the game isn’t allowed either, as any suicidal actions would be prevented.

Even if they put one bullet or six into the chamber, the gun would jam or misfire for some reason. The last shot, whether he aimed at the balloon or his own head, some irresistible force would stop him before he pulled the trigger.

In other words, Bruce would always win playing Russian roulette against anyone now. Brian was the only one with some sense, who didn’t plan to play one-on-one with him, otherwise, his head would’ve been blown off by now.

“So you too…” Brian gritted his teeth a bit, but he seemed to swallow back what he was about to say, just took a deep breath, and went to his companion lying by the table to grab the key.

“This time you win,” Brian said, “but one day I’ll make you pay, damn blue-skinned dog!”

Having said that, he turned to walk towards the door, but the next second Bruce shot directly. With a bang, the only light bulb on the ceiling exploded, plunging the entire room into darkness. Bruce then opened his eyes, having closed them earlier, he had already adjusted to the darkness. He quickly navigated around the table, kicked over Brian still in a dazed state, and snatched the key from him.

He felt his way to open the door, and after stepping out, slammed it shut behind him. Not only did he close it, but he also blocked the door from the outside. No sooner had his back touched the door panel than a heart-wrenching, shrill wail echoed from the room.

Bruce lowered his eyes, slowly stepping up the stairs. He should have been pondering why Brian reacted that way to God, but he didn’t think much, just let the accumulated bitterness in his heart slowly dissipate. One has to admit that killing doesn’t solve the fundamental issue, but it does alleviate emotions, even if he wasn’t the one doing the killing.

On reaching upstairs, everyone lay there dead drunk. Bruce first went to the door of the reception room, slightly ajar, he gently pushed it open to find Eric lying in the corner of the wall, but his chest was rising slowly, suggesting he was still alive. Bruce didn’t quite know how to describe his feelings now.

Eric was a pathetic man, completely blinded by fame and vanity, not particularly clever, but Bruce still didn’t want him to die because he knew it wasn’t just Eric’s fault. It was a societal issue—this city, this school, this organization were all magnifying his sins.

Bruce approached, first testing Eric’s breathing, checking his neck and finding no strangling marks. The way he fell didn’t seem to be from a blow, suggesting he might have been drugged unconscious.

Bruce walked back to the door of the basement, ear to the door, the sounds inside had gradually quieted down. He gently opened the door to see a blood-red rabbit’s eye appear in the gap, seemingly having stood there for a while.

Bruce suddenly clutched the doorknob tightly, breath catching. The strong scent of blood activated his primal crisis instinct, and he mustered all his strength to control himself. That pink rabbit costume was soaked in blood, just standing silently in the dark. The headpiece’s eyes, originally plastic, now seemed alive, fixedly staring at Bruce as if observing him.

Bruce realized the other seemed not to be staring at him but at the clothes he wore. He was dressed in the expensive suit stripped from a dead man days ago. Then he observed the rabbit’s body language more closely; the rabbit slighted tilted its head behind the door, appearing puzzled.

Bruce thought of a key point—when he previously encountered Morbid, the other’s eyes were unfocused. Could this mean Morbid possibly had vision problems, or was face-blind, unable to tell one face from another?

Logically, he could use Psychoanalysis Method to discern who is who, but Morbid’s psychoanalysis might be atypical. From what Bruce knew, a fully active Psychoanalysis Method vision looked like a chaotic mass of colorful threads. It might be manageable if there’s just one person, but with many people, especially similar-looking ones, it could be hard to distinguish.

This suggested Morbid might rely on clothing to recognize people. No wonder Brian had given the suit to Dali, who then passed it to Bruce. It wasn’t just a suit; it was a death sentence. Luckily, he didn’t wear it.

However, wearing it or not wasn’t that crucial now, since he wore the suit stripped from a corpse just days ago. Morbid might think his victim had risen from the dead.

Bruce took a deep breath. The rabbit hadn’t attacked him, indicating the other possibly realized he wasn’t the same person as the corpse, merely curious about where Bruce got the suit.

Yet Bruce also wondered why he was confused; with the corpse openly tossed in the park, it seemed entirely normal for anyone to pick up its clothes. And Bruce disregarded what kind of extraordinary person, upon encountering a corpse, their first thought would be to strip its clothes.

Bruce tossed the key inside and gently closed the door. The blood-red eyes vanished into the darkness, leaving silence to envelop everything.

Bruce returned upstairs, first taking off his jacket and pretending to discard it in a clean spot. Then he grabbed a new bottle of champagne, popped the cork, and sprayed it all over himself until his shirt and hair were soaked. He picked up a girl’s lipstick from the floor, smeared a bit of red on his collar and shoulder, loosened his collar buttons a little, and finally finished off the remaining champagne, collapsing onto a comfortable sofa, shutting his eyes to sleep.