The Secret Code of Monsters.

Chapter 488 Ch.487 Wells's Death Decision
Mr. Wells decided to die.

He has thought it over carefully.

Decided to die.

Apart from lying on the yellowed sheets with a heavy heart on weekdays, accompanied by chicken bones, empty bottles and cigarette butts that made it difficult for him to turn over, the needle-like pain in his spinal cord made his two eyebrows indistinguishable from each other: he had not been magnanimous for a long time.

Maybe this is karma.

he thinks.

But if he had to do it again, he would do the same thing.

Windbreakers and capes covered with mud and wrinkles were sloppily thrown on the badly damaged floor. All the windows in the house were tightly closed, and the air was turbid as if half the people on the street had just come here to defecate.

His underwear, which was like the broken heart of a lovelorn person, was hung where the gloves should be hung, the gloves were hung in the box for socks, and the socks were worn on his feet and pierced by his toes.

He turned over.

Howl out loud.

He had been ill for many years and his condition had become increasingly serious.

A doctor had come to see him, but the same doctor gave different answers at different times: a few days ago, or a month or two, he couldn't remember clearly - at that time he was still quite wealthy, and women would do all kinds of things to please him, flirting with him just for the soft, old laughter in his pocket.

Until someone whispered a 'big investment' to him.

Big project.

A special, secretive organization (it is said), a project that is not for making money but only for investigation (it is said), and a friend who actually received a considerable reward (seeing is believing).

then.

He became what he is now.

Wan Guan Jia Cai was like a girl who had just started working at night and had not yet learned how to please a man. She did not make any sound during the whole process.

——They just disappeared.

Wells went from being a gentleman to being muddy toes, and he hadn't heard anyone call him a gentleman for a long time these days.

So do doctors.

He no longer had the numbing medicines that made his body feel numb, and he couldn't afford medicine. He also couldn't afford the doctors' concern and the good advice they gave him, which was useless but sounded particularly comfortable. Even his wife began to dislike him and left quietly on a quiet night.

He has no children.

Now he has lost his wife, money and house.

"But I still have an incurable disease."

muttered the man who was wondering how to die.

——Who would want to die if they really couldn’t live anymore?
That would be hell.

But Wells could no longer bear the torture, both mentally and physically.

He didn't even dare to leave the house that was about to collapse.

He wandered around the East District stealthily, fearing that he would run into his old friend who would come to "ask about his well-being", listen to his tragic stories, and then walk away contentedly - in fact, it was impossible to run into his old friend in the East District.

Wells pondered how to die.

Rope?
When someone found him, he would probably be hanging in the room like a piece of dried meat?

Wells groaned again, endured the severe pain all over his body, sat up from the bed, and trudged a few times on the slippery floor with his big feet.

I just got out of bed barefoot.

He took out his long-untied tie and shook his head. He then picked up a rough hemp rope from the toilet, looked up at the beams, and gestured a few times.

Tried several times.

He scratched his scalp a few times.

His aging body no longer supported him to make such large movements, just like he could not make a woman give birth to a child and his arms were not accurate enough.

He walked around for a while, and finally decided to put on some clothes and try his luck on the street:
Maybe some ignorant driver could free him.

The end of winter marks the end of a cycle, and all things are about to revive again.

But Wells' life came to an end.

He looked at those young, tall guys wearing felt hats, teasing the girls passing by in a frivolous manner. They squatted in the corner or beside a shoemaker's stall, wrapped up thickly, breathing white air, holding cigarettes, full of vitality.

Old Wells just shakily passed by, and their eyes did not stay on him for even a second—

He just wanted to be hit by a carriage and die.

Jumping into the river was a good idea, but Wells couldn't reach the river. He thought about the long journey the carriage would have to take, the bumps, and the need to find a way to get back if he failed. Thinking of these, he had long ruled out jumping into the river as an option.

'Give me a result.' He was shivering with cold and pain, holding onto the wall, and leaning against it for a while when he got tired.

There are not many carriages in the East End.

He has to wait here for a while.

Old Wells adjusted the felt hat (which used to be a top hat) on his head and recalled his life a few months ago: at that time, he didn't even need to walk by himself.

Whether walking, spitting, or defecating.

They are all served by beautiful boys or girls.

In the blink of an eye.

The world changes.

He muttered a mouthful of spit and spat viciously into the corner. After cursing under his breath the gang that had cheated him of all his wealth, he began to curse the government and the high-handed woman.

'Not doing the right thing.'

he muttered.

Not even a splash.

Old Wells exhaled hot air and rubbed his palms together, a faint golden halo filled his eyes: the sun was rising, but it could not dispel the cold wind that was blowing into his arms and melting the tiny steel needles in the cracks between his bones.

'Father of all...'

He recited the prayer subconsciously, but let out a bitter laugh in his daze.

'This is karma.'

he thinks.

About twenty minutes.

When he almost thought he was going to freeze to death, a carriage drove up from the end of the road, from the corner of the bakery that he had never even looked at before and now had no chance of eating at.

'Maybe I should just freeze to death, at least it wouldn't be so painful?'

Old Wells rubbed his dry, stiff face, feeling hesitant.

Da da da…

The carriage entered.

It was a silent carriage.

He recognized it; he had once owned one (mortgaged it to the bank along with his house for the damned ocean trade).

Those who can ride in such a carriage must have an extraordinary background - this silent, customized special vehicle is very different from those creaking public carriages. To maintain a carriage, you need to have several horses, two or three coachmen who take turns running errands, and often spend money on maintenance that the poor cannot even imagine in their lifetime.

not to mention.

Who would be a truly respectable wealthy person and only buy a carriage?
If you have to ride in the same carriage every time you attend a salon, you might as well not go at all.

Da da da…

The car came in.

The fear in old Wells' heart got the better of him. He had seen people run over and had their heads crushed by horses' hooves.

He thought about it and decided to let the cold wind of late winter end his painful and hopeless life...

Da da.

The car stopped.

Stop not far from Wells.

He saw a girl with gray hair, blue eyes and a childlike appearance getting off the carriage.

The driver lowered his head, handed over the bag, and followed her towards him.

She wore a navy blue dress, mouse-colored fur, and a Bonnet hat with light gray lace trim.

The graceful girl took small steps and came towards him.

"Mr. Wells."

Her blue eyes were like a pot of boiling water, bringing a touch of warmth to Wells in the winter.

"I finally found you."

she says.

(End of this chapter)