American comic: From Beijing with Love, starting with a mutant.

"Put your hands up and don't move."

Zhou Xingxing glanced at the double-barreled shotgun and slowly raised his hands.

"Auntie, let's agree on this first." He shrank his neck, his eyes filled with sincerity.

"I raised my hand purely out of respect for local customs, but that doesn't mean I admit to illegal trespassing. I didn't even step over the threshold."

Half of a wrinkled face was visible through the crack in the door, with gray hair tied back and an old pair of glasses perched on the bridge of the nose.

"Step back! Get away from the door!"

"If I back down any further, I'll fall!"

"Get back now and stop talking nonsense!"

Zhou Xingxing, feeling remorseful, took two steps back off the steps, while the old woman lowered the muzzle of her gun.

"Tell me your name."

"Stephen Zhou works in the Overseas Special Talent Introduction Office, mainly responsible for helping unemployed people find new jobs, and occasionally mediates transnational labor disputes. He has full social insurance and housing fund contributions, is a formal employee, and is honest and trustworthy."

"Show me your identification."

"Our company has a rather special nature, so we generally don't carry identification documents when we go out."

"Wallet! Lost it too?!"

"It was stolen by some crazy red-skinned lunatic. That bastard is so dishonest."

The old woman stared at him, scrutinizing him closely.

"A foreign man with no identification and no wallet, alone in the snowy mountains of Alaska?"

"Auntie, your summary is spot on. Even I think this person should be dragged out and shot on the spot."

"Why did you come here? Tell the truth!"

"Okay, here's what happened. I introduced a job at a steel mill to an elderly unemployed man wearing a welding helmet. He thought the base salary of 9,500 was too low, refused to accept the job, and even colluded with a deliveryman to forcibly pack me up and illegally transport me to Alaska."

The old woman's hand holding the gun didn't move. "Keep making things up, I'm listening."

"To put it more simply, I was kidnapped by a gang. They were going to stuff me into an iron ball and sink me into the sea. On the way, there was a traffic accident, and I took advantage of the chaos to cut the iron ball open and escape into the mountains. In this desolate wilderness, I couldn't even hail a ride-hailing car."

"What did you use to cut it open?"

"A family heirloom kitchen knife, capable of slicing iron like mud."

Why did the gang kidnap you?

"I introduced a job to their boss, but I was just trying to be helpful and got no reward."

"What kind of job?"

"Steelmaking, the kind that includes room and board."

"Do you think I'm old and not as sharp as I used to be, so I'm easy to fool?"

"Oh, ma'am, your gun is so well-maintained, there's not a speck of rust on the trigger guard. I wouldn't dare lie to a retired old man like you who can still single-handedly take down a brown bear!"

The gun barrel was raised slightly.

"The old uniform by the wall is showing, with the Forestry Service Bureau written on the badge. There are calluses on the web of your right hand from years of using a hunting rifle, and the seizure number of an illegal animal trap is hanging under the eaves."

Stephen Chow glanced at the stove behind the door.

"Of course, who doesn't have a hidden identity these days? Maybe you're actually the godmother of Alaska's underground arms trade, retired and switched to selling wild honey, and are just waiting for your underlings to come in and call you Mrs. Margaret?"

Do you know me?

"It's written on the mailbox by the door; my eyesight is excellent."

Stephen Chow rubbed his fingers together, which were raised above his head.

"Auntie, are you done questioning? It's terribly cold outside."

"If it's inconvenient for you to take me in, I can borrow your phone to call the police. If that's not possible, you can lend me a shovel so I can bury myself shallower and save on search and rescue costs when the ice thaws next spring."

As the gun barrel left his chest, Margaret put the shotgun away.

"Come in."

As Stephen Chow stepped onto the porch, his shoes brought in a layer of snow water.

"I knew you had a keen eye for talent; you're a truly virtuous person!"

"Take your shoes off outside, don't get the floor dirty."

"These shoes have been through snow and mud, but they are essentially a pair of kind shoes. They have accompanied me all over the country and made great contributions to our country's talent introduction efforts."

Margaret raised her shotgun. "Take it off!"

"It's easy to take off shoes, but hard to put them back on. If only life could be like the first time we met, could you please be lenient with me, ma'am?"

"Click!"

The shotgun is loaded.

Stephen Chow bent down and took off his leather shoes: "I was afraid of getting your floor dirty. I was just testing whether you have OCD."

An old, gray-furred hunting dog crawled out from under the table, sniffed at Stephen Chow's trouser leg, and then slowly retreated back to the stove.

Margaret hung the gun back on the wall and took an old blanket from the cupboard, throwing it over.

"Thank you so much, but this suit of mine has a built-in temperature control system. Forget Alaska, even if I were in Antarctica fighting penguins for territory, it would switch modes with a single click, keeping me warm in winter and cool in summer..."

As he boasted, he squeezed his way to the stove.

He rubbed his knees vigorously with both hands a few times, and finally pulled the blanket over to wrap his legs tightly.

Margaret lifted the lid of the iron pot by the stove, ladled out a bowl of soup with a wooden spoon, and casually placed it in front of him.

There were only a few pieces of potato and a few slices of softened onion in the bowl.

Stephen Chow stared at the soup for a moment, then used a spoon to reach to the bottom and scoop it up thoroughly.

"Auntie, where's the meat? Why is everything vegetarian?"

"No, please make do with this."

"Eggs, even just beaten eggs, will do, to supplement some protein."

No, don't be picky.

"I'll take ham sausage or starch sausage, my mouth is so bland."

"No, just put it down if you're not going to eat it. Nobody's forcing you."

Margaret sat down on the other side of the table and picked up some coarse thread to mend the old gloves.

Stephen Chow picked up the bowl and took a big gulp. His tongue was burned and he stuck it out, still mumbling incoherently.

"The taste is so-so, the cooking is okay, but the potatoes aren't cut evenly enough. I need to practice my knife skills."

A piece of hard bread was tossed to him. "The last one, don't complain about how hard it is."

"Wow, this bread is harder than Magneto's helmet! You could use it to crack walnuts."

Stephen Chow picked up a loaf of bread and tapped it on the corner of the table. He took a small bite and chewed slowly. Then he looked at the old hunting dog huddled up by the stove.

"Where are you planning to go next?" Margaret asked, biting off the end of the thread.

"Los Angeles."

Stephen Chow put the last piece of potato at the bottom of the bowl into his mouth, and then wiped the bowl with bread.

"We need to find four unemployed people, three of whom are from families facing extreme hardship, and one who is skilled in artificial rainmaking. He is a meteorological talent that our Ministry of Agriculture urgently needs. This is a major project, concerning the century-long plan of greening the Northwest."

"The highway is closed, you can't get through."

Stephen Chow slowed down his wiping of the dishes.

Is there a train station nearby? Even a slow train is fine, I'm not picky.

"No, there are no railway tracks here."

"I'd even dare to fly at an airport, in a private jet, or even on an unlicensed flight."

"The nearest airport is outside the mountains; you can't get there."

"Snowmobiles are available, right? I'll pay for them."

"Oh no, you won't be able to leave for at least ten days."