It was an old clinic that sat at the corner of the arena, the ghetto known for its dirtiness and chaos.
When Zhao Baodong walked into the ghetto, he clearly sensed the atmosphere was drastically different compared to other parts of the arena.
People were dressed poorly and had old, broken shirts and trousers hanging on drying lines above the alley, which made the sunlight-less alley appear even darker.
Along the way, he put his hand in his right pocket and held onto the pistol.
He could sense the unfriendly and even malicious looks from the refugees nearby. It felt like they were thieves assessing their prey.
Clearly, this was the land of outlaws.
Compared to Sixth Street, this place was sh*t.
Zhao Baodong cursed in his mind while stepping into the clinic.
A robot was taking reservations at the door. While he was interested in the robot's design, after hesitating for a moment, he resisted the urge to touch it.
