On the day Su Ming raided the laboratory, New York, Brooklyn.
There is an old building about five stories high here, and every window and red brick speaks of its history.
It is like an old man who has witnessed everything in New York.
And at this moment, there is an old man looking out of a window on the fourth floor, trying his best to prop himself up from the bed to see the location of the Brooklyn Antiques Shop.
But this small building is not the Empire State Building; the height of four floors is not enough to see several blocks away.
This is a nursing home, the hallways filled with the scent of urine and decay, where many elderly people with no one to care for them are placed.
Receiving somewhat professional treatment and care, or quietly awaiting the arrival of death.
"When I get old... just let them bring me back here." The old man leaned against the head of the bed and spoke to the doctor beside him. His hair and teeth were gone, and his sagging skin was covered with age spots, but his eyes remained bright: "Not in Texas, nor in Boston, cough cough cough..."
The doctor and nurse gathered around to support his body, and the doctor with a small mustache patted him on the back in comfort: "Relax a bit, Mr. Hawke, it's alright."
However, in reality, the old man's condition was not optimistic at all; he was suffering from cancer and had been unconscious for several days.
This morning he suddenly woke up and became clear-headed. If he weren't unable to move, he would have planned to go see the streets a few blocks away.
Dr. Holloway had also lived in Brooklyn as a child and was familiar with the surrounding streets. He knew of the Brooklyn Antiques Shop the old man mentioned and also knew that the shop owner was an extraordinary old lady.
But oh, Mister, in your current condition, as a doctor I've seen this often; you should take the chance to say what needs to be said, eat what you want, and don't concern yourself with chasing women.
Mr. Hawke steadied his breathing and wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth: "It's alright, no matter what, everything began in New York. I hope to witness it all with my own eyes."
"Witness what?" Dr. Holloway sat at his bedside. This was the first time he had spoken to this patient since taking over his care.
"Witness... the beginning of the future."
So the entire afternoon, Dr. Holloway sat quietly by the bed, listening to the old man tell him about the future.
In the old man's description, he talked about gods and monsters, masked heroes, and also—that man with a shield.
The doctor jotted these down in his little notebook because listening to the last words of a patient is a form of end-of-life care.
This was supposed to be the priest's duty, but now even the priests have gone to war, just like the German priests, shouting God's name while shooting at each other or throwing grenades.
Yet in times like these, God tends to favor trained killers rather than pious believers.
Dr. Holloway recorded these stories, initially thinking of them as unrealistic ramblings, but the old man's eyes were clear, his logic coherent, and he recounted everything about the future.
Networks capable of connecting everyone, ships that can take people away from Earth, stones that can destroy the world instantly.
Holloway could only admit that it was all true; the old man was not muddled at all. This was his very serious last testament.
The doctor loved the stories of these heroes punishing evil and promoting good. If not for living in this terrible era, he certainly would have gone out to fight for justice like Zorro.
But now, he was the last doctor in the nursing home; he couldn't leave.
.........
That evening, a young nurse entered the doctor's office to inform him that Mr. Matthew Hawke had passed away.
He returned to the old man's room, where under the dim yellow light, the old man lay peacefully, his face pale.
"Can you sign the death certificate, doctor?" the nurse asked him.
"Uh, okay, it's such a pity... he was a good man." Holloway nodded. This is the most important duty of a nursing home doctor, to sign death certificates.
The nurse nodded in agreement: "He passed away in his sleep, a kind old man... Oh, doctor, he asked me to give this to you before he slept."
The black-haired nurse said, turning to lift a fairly large wooden box from the medicine cart, with beautiful engravings that made it look quite weighty.
"Before sleeping?"
"Yes, it's as if he knew... he would never wake again..."
In the early morning, Holloway returned to his Upper East Side home, which had a warm study, luxurious carpets, and he could enjoy the finest 'Skywalker' wine at any time.
Before taking over the nursing home, he was the best surgeon in New York. If it weren't for many high officials and dignitaries needing his services and forcibly keeping him, he should have gone to the front lines.
But his medical skills could not cure cancer.
The Ebers Papyrus from ancient Egypt, dated to 3000 BC, recorded eight cases of cancer, yet even today humanity remains helpless.
Under the study lamp on his desk, he opened the wooden box left by the old man.
Inside was a pair of revolvers, a Zorro-style mask, and a small note.
"Gifted to Dr. Thomas Holloway."
Without needing to read the note, the doctor already knew what it was. He was beating himself up, blaming his own carelessness.
Matthew Hawke, the lawyer from Texas and Boston, was merely an alias for the old man. His real name was Matt Hawke; he was the Dual Gun Hero.
He came from the West, a masked hero who roamed the old West decades ago.
He had a fast black horse, a black mask, and a pair of 'Peace Maker' revolvers.
His marksmanship was exquisitely accurate and fearless; he could single-handedly confront a gang of a hundred, protecting those gold rush towns for nearly ten years.
Until all his enemies were eliminated, then he rode off into the desert sands and fierce winds, disappearing. It was only afterward that people learned his name, but his whereabouts remained unknown until today.
If what he said was true, then he went to the future.
Holloway grew up reading his stories, the title of Dual Gun Hero existing in nearly all Western novels; many Americans were also aware of his exploits. The old man was once the symbol of a hero.
The doctor kept berating himself; he should have told the deceased hero what his stories meant to him, that the Dual Gun Hero had inspired him, and inspired almost everyone with a sense of chivalry.
When he opened the small note from the box, it clearly read: "For the next hero."
He knew the old man had already sensed his unfulfilled desires; perhaps through his eyes, his way of speaking, or the way he walked, he revealed himself.
The doctor wished to be a hero, like the ones in Western stories, those gallant figures of justice, but various real-world factors always held him back from taking that step, unable to make the final decision.
But today, an aging hero had passed his weapon into his hands.
Holloway suddenly felt the room a bit stuffy, his heart beating quickly. He finished his drink and walked to the window.
Even on an early spring evening, he needed to open the window to get some air, to carefully think about the future.
Looking at the city outside, the glow of neon lights outlined towering shadows, he felt that the world the old man had described to him, that world filled with heroes, didn't seem so far away.