540 Bronx

Summer in New York was always restless, noisy, and bustling. The setting sun rolled and the lively city lights projected onto the slowly descending night, painting large swaths of crimson and purple, magnificent and mysterious. It resembled the dome of Atlantis, concealing an unknown realm, weaving stories that were both enticing and frightening.

However, no one bothered to look up and admire this sky. Nobody paused to appreciate the scenery. The fast-paced rhythm urged hurried footsteps, faster, even faster. The heavy burden pressed relentlessly upon fragile shoulders, making it nearly impossible to lift one's head. The expressions on the faces were numb and vacant, with occasional glimpses of eyes, hollow and indifferent.

This was the Bronx. Not Manhattan, not Brooklyn, not even Queens. Although it belonged to New York, this place seemed more like a forsaken corner of the world, a permanent blemish on the Big Apple that everyone in the world desired to take a bite of. Like a parasite, it clung stubbornly to New York and the American mainland.

This was one of the areas in America with the highest crime rates, one of the densest populations of African Americans, Latin Americans, and undocumented immigrants, one of the regions with the most frequent drug trafficking and prostitution, and one of the areas with the worst law enforcement. This was a region forgotten by the people of New York, abandoned by God.

Broken streets, old buildings, dirty roads, decaying vegetation, flickering streetlights, abandoned storefronts—this entire area was desolate. Despite being under the same sky as Manhattan, it was a completely different world. It seemed that merely crossing a bridge transported you from heaven to hell.

At this moment, a thirteen or fourteen-year-old black girl stood on the street. She had a pink backpack on her back, was wearing a cheap white graffiti-print T-shirt, which she had pulled up high and paired with pink sequined shorts. The shorts had a fringe of bright pink fur at the bottom. On her feet were thick-soled sneakers, accompanied by pink foot wraps. She had long, braided black hair tied into two large twists.

She was berating a middle-aged black man in the middle of the street. The reason was that she had caught him seemingly sneaking glances at her, and she strongly suspected that he was tracking her, that he had ulterior motives. So, she had exposed his tricks in front of everyone.

She stood tall with her hands on her hips, cursing loudly, and her profanity was incessant and creative, never repeating the same words during the five-minute tirade. The middle-aged man attempted to leave, but she stubbornly held onto his briefcase. She seemed determined that this matter would not be easily resolved.

It was not yet nine o'clock, and some had just finished dinner, while others were preparing to have dinner. Some had just finished work and were returning home. The street was bustling with people coming and going, not quite tumultuous, but definitely lively. However, the crowds were unimpressed and didn't even have the desire to watch the spectacle, let alone stop to intervene. They simply bypassed the two people who were entangled in a dispute and went on their way. The street formed a unique scene.

The black girl had the upper hand, and the middle-aged man was retreating step by step. It seemed that the situation would continue like this, with the man eventually suffering financial loss to end the conflict. However, an unexpected turn of events occurred. The girl suddenly stopped a passerby and began shouting that the person had glanced at her and then quickly moved away. Wasn't this racial discrimination?

The passerby was a white man in his forties.

The innocent white man who had been stopped looked helplessly at the young girl in front of him. He tried to explain himself but unexpectedly, his actions only further enraged her. She continued to shout angrily, threatening to call the police and take him to court, accusing him of racial discrimination. The retreating white man found himself in an increasingly uncomfortable situation.

On the opposite side of the street, pedestrians stopped in their tracks to watch the scene unfold. They began to heckle and shout, "Teach that motherf*cker a lesson, hah!" Profanities and street slang filled the air, and even locals who had lived in New York for years might not have understood it all.

Encouraged by the crowd, the girl's confidence soared, but the situation changed when the white man revealed his police badge and handgun, proving his identity. The scene finally took a turn.

The girl continued to mutter curses, accusing the police officer of bullying ordinary citizens, especially minors. She vowed not to back down. However, despite her words, she eventually stepped back, let go of the white man who had not left, and turned to the man she had accused. After extorting money from him, the commotion came to an end.

The white police officer didn't linger; he turned and walked away, leaving the mess behind.

Twenty dollars. The middle-aged man had given the girl twenty dollars, and with that, the incident was settled. No one questioned whether the middle-aged man had committed a crime or been wrongfully accused. No one cared whether the girl was genuinely in danger or attempting extortion. To be precise, no one cared about the spectacle.

Except for Renly.

Quietly, Renly sat cross-legged on the abandoned warehouse doorstep across the street. His work jacket concealed the camera in his right hand as he recorded the entire incident. He wasn't seeking justice; he was only there to document the most authentic Bronx—rough and primitive, volatile and stifling, oppressive and cold.

Under those lively faces, there were no outlines of souls. They seemed like walking corpses, as if life had ended long ago, yet they continued to walk, their eyes devoid of luster and spirit. The white police officer was like that, the middle-aged black man was like that, and the underage girl was like that.

Renly carefully observed the underage girl. After receiving the twenty dollars, she seemed to take it for granted. She didn't display excitement or emotional fluctuations. Instead, she pocketed the green bills and leaned against a traffic light pole, vigorously chewing the gum in her mouth. She nonchalantly swung her backpack strap.

Her youthful face bore a stubborn and unruly spirit. In the rays of the setting sun, one could see the cheap eyeshadow unevenly smeared on her eyelids, forming large patches of purple. Her lips were painted with bright red lipstick, which contradicted her youthful appearance and carried a worldly weariness. Her eyes hidden in the shadows remained unclear, but one could sense an air of indifference between her eyebrows—a sense of decadence.

The girl's bold and unrestrained eyes scanned the pedestrians around her, as if searching for the next scapegoat. Her petite and frail figure, standing beneath the dilapidated gray building behind her, resembled a lamb standing in front of a behemoth's mouth, yet she seemed oblivious to the impending danger, or perhaps she simply didn't care.

This was the Bronx, and before Renly stood the younger generation living in the Bronx. They should have been the generation carrying the hope for the future, but they had already lost their vitality, determination, and life force. Their numb expressions and faces were like weeds growing resolutely, yet it was just growth, wild and disorderly, clinging to the walls.

Renly sighed softly but no longer felt surprised by what he saw. It had been his tenth day living in the Bronx, and this wasn't the first time he had encountered such young people, nor would it be the last.

The first time he had witnessed this, he felt a slight tightness in his chest. He thought of Hazel, he thought of himself, and he thought of the children at Mount Sinai Hospital. They fought so tenaciously against the clutches of illness, hoping to persevere a bit longer on the path of life, to get a bit closer to their dreams. But the young people before him had chosen to give up so easily, as if everything had lost its meaning. He felt anger, hatred, sorrow, urgency, and frustration.

However, gradually, that heartache turned into helplessness and sighs.

Behind this seemingly indifferent girl was a quagmire from which she could not escape. Perhaps her father was an addict, burdened with countless debts, squandering everything in the house, and perhaps, he even subjected her to unspeakable horrors. She had tried to resist but had been brutally beaten. She had tried to report it, but it had come to nothing. She had tried to escape but had nowhere to run.

Perhaps her story was even worse. Or perhaps, there were stories worse than hers everywhere.

Two days ago, there had been an accidental traffic accident on the street. A motorcycle had collided with a large truck due to an emergency brake, and the motorcycle's owner had been flung out, leaving behind a gruesome scene of blood and brain matter. Renly had happened to pass by at the moment the ambulance arrived. A few teenagers, around fifteen or sixteen years old, stood by, pointing at the lifeless body, discussing trivial matters like how to clear the road and deal with the body.

Renly didn't want to dwell on what they had been through to make them so indifferent to death. Perhaps death had become a part of their lives, or perhaps their hands were stained with blood.

In just under ten days of living in the Bronx, Renly had witnessed the desolation and despair of this area, like falling into a bottomless abyss, a continuous, slow, and quiet descent, not knowing when or if it would ever reach the bottom. Perhaps it never would.

The traffic light turned from green to red, and the vehicles started moving again. The girl, as if she had seen her signal, took a step forward, resembling a model on a runway. She walked across the pedestrian crossing, and the drivers impatiently honked their horns. The girl, however, seemed to relish the moment, feeling more and more confident. She walked past the zebra crossing, then past Renly.

She glanced down at him and then walked on with an air of haughtiness. Muttering, she said, "What are you looking at? Haven't you seen such a babe before? Wipe the drool from your mouth!" She rolled her eyes and continued to sway her figure, gradually moving further away.

Welcome to the Bronx.