After tying the woman's hands and feet with electrical wire, Downton tore a bedsheet into strips, gagged her, and then bound the young man as well.
At that point, the young man finally couldn't hold back any longer.
"Who sent you? How much did they pay you? I'll give you double—no, triple!
Triple might not even be enough. I can give you more! My dad owns a renovation company—my family has plenty of money!
Please don't kill me, don't kill me! I'm only twenty-two, I don't want to die!
I—I'm not a virgin, but this is my first time with a prostitute! I haven't even had enough fun yet…!"
Downton stuffed a gag into the young man's mouth, and the room finally fell silent. He removed his coat, hung it neatly on a hanger, and sat down on the sofa. Holding a pistol, he addressed the two captives calmly.
"Relax. No one hired me to do anything. I just wanted to borrow your bed for the night.
But—sigh.
I should've known something was off when I saw you weren't dressed. This bed really isn't clean.
What a waste of time. I'll have to find another room later. Still, I can't let you go through all this trouble for nothing, so I'll let you enjoy a nice bath in your own bathroom."
With that, Downton took off his shirt and headed into the bathroom, filling the tub and soaking comfortably for a while.
After a quick wash, he dried his hair and casually patted the two on the shoulders.
"You two should try to relax. I'll toss you back onto the bed in a bit so you can sleep like this.
Oh, by the way—how many days have you been staying here? Not more than three, right? If it's more than three days, just nod."
The young man hurriedly shook his head. Satisfied, Downton confidently lifted them both and threw them onto the bed.
Just as he was about to leave, he suddenly remembered something. He turned back, pulled up the blanket, and adjusted their positions, burying the young man's face against the woman's chest.
"Ugh!"
"Mmph!"
Amid their muffled struggles, Downton chuckled.
"You're welcome."
He covered the tightly bound pair with the blanket, washed his hands, and left the room.
He knocked on the door of the next "lucky" guest—and this time, he truly was fortunate. There was only one woman inside.
Hearing "room service," the woman opened the door without suspicion.
"Room service? Could you change my towels? I've used almost all of them—hey, wait—help—mmph!"
Downton dragged her to the desk, tied her up with various cables, and finally let out a satisfied sigh before lying down on the bed.
He covered her with the blanket, leaving only her head exposed, then picked up the room phone and dialed the service desk.
"Hello. I'd like a massage service—the all-night kind.
What? You're asking what 'all-night' means?
Listen carefully. I'm here to pay. You're here to solve my problem.
Two massage girls, the whole night. Hurry."
Click.
Downton hung up and, ignoring the woman's horrified stare, tore the bath towels into strips one by one.
Not long after, there was a knock at the door.
"Room service."
"Coming."
Downton opened the door with a smile and led the two slightly surprised massage girls into the bedroom.
When they saw another woman lying on the bed, they exchanged glances and stepped closer. The shorter one reached out and pulled back the blanket, speaking casually.
"If the boss likes playing with his wife, why not add a man too?
Or are you just that confident in your stamina—hm?"
The moment the blanket was lifted, they froze, staring at the woman bound tightly beneath it.
When they turned around—
Downton's gun was already pointed straight at them.
Holding a pistol in one hand and a wad of cash—two thousand dollars—in the other, Downton jabbed the muzzle toward the two masseuses.
"You don't need to know what we're up to," he growled, "and don't spoil our fun. We've been running all day. Give us a proper massage, then let us rest in this room tonight—and this money's yours."
He tossed the bills onto the dresser and flopped onto the bed, keeping the gun loosely in his grip as he waited for their reply.
The women exchanged a glance—then burst into laughter.
"Oh! Role-playing," one said, eyes sparkling. "Got it, boss! When do we start? After you and your… companion… get your massage?"
Downton smirked. "That's right. You're sharp."
He rolled over, ignoring the muffled whimpers of the bound woman beside him—his "lover" in this charade—and settled facedown on the sheets.
One of the masseuses leaned in, eyes wide with theatrical enthusiasm. "Madam, your acting is incredible! So much more convincing than those girls from Saint Gu!"
"Waaaaah!!!" the captive woman wailed, her voice raw.
"Even better up close!" the masseuse gushed. "You're stunning—are you a model? An actress?"
The tenant had screamed herself hoarse. All she wanted now was to strangle these oblivious fools. But bound and gagged, she could do nothing as their hands worked relentlessly over her for the next fifty minutes.
When it was finally over, Downton rose, stretched, and walked into the bathroom. He returned with a torn, damp towel slung over his shoulder.
The masseuses beamed.
"No need for that, sir!" one chirped, patting her satchel. "We brought our own gear."
"Yeah!" the other added, pulling out a pair of prop handcuffs with a flourish. "We've got everything—ropes, blindfolds, even sensory oils!"
She tossed the cuffs toward him. They clattered onto the floor at his feet.
Within moments, the two women were playfully "bound" and arranged neatly on the carpet, giggling as they settled in for the night's "scene."
Downton lifted the real captive—limp with exhaustion—and placed her beside them. Then he claimed the bed for himself.
He switched off the light. In the dark, three sets of soft, rhythmic breathing filled the room.
Downton closed his eyes… and drifted off.
—Then snapped awake.
Not in the room.
But in a dream.
He sat alone on a plush sofa, suspended in a mist-choked void. The air hummed with static—the residue of death.
He knew this place.
"The deaths of the day become my dreams at night," he murmured. "If I survive them here… I grow stronger."
He clenched his fists. "What doesn't kill me makes me stronger. And I already know what to do."
His vision blurred—
—and snapped back into focus.
He was on the bus.
The same bus from his first death.
Back at the start of his transmigration, penniless and desperate in Gotham, he'd sung on a street corner for twenty minutes to scrape together six dollars for this very ride.
And in three minutes and thirty seconds… a rocket-propelled grenade would obliterate this block.
Gangsters from the Dimitrov and Sabatino families would strike without warning—and he'd die before he even knew what hit him.
But now?
Now he remembered.
If he survived the death loop in the dream, his body would adapt. Every replay would sharpen his reflexes, his instincts, his strength—until he could face a hundred enemies alone.
Until he could erase those families from the map.
Downton shot up from his seat.
"Driver! Stop the bus!" he shouted, voice cracking with urgency. "I forgot something at the station—my wallet! Open the door! Let me off—now!"
Half a minute later, amid the driver's curses and honking horns, Downton stood on the sidewalk outside the dream-station—arms wide, breath ragged.
He felt it.
The surge.
The shift.
He had become stronger.