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COUNTING.
    '* METROPOLIS.
    Suicide Slum, in the bad part of Metropolis, reminded Jimmy of Gotham City after dark. Hookers and drug dealers loitered on the street comers. Winos camped out on the sidewalks. Broken bottles, fast-food wrappers, tabloid newspapers, and other refuse littered the pavement. Faded chalk outlines testified to the neighborhood’s notoriously high murder rate. Graffiti defaced the ugly metal shutters and bars that protected the district’s few legal enterprises after sundown. The occasional streetlights created meager oases of light amidst the nocturnal shadows. Dry, brown weeds sprouted up from cracks in the sidewalks, and greasy puddles filled the potholes. Empty storefronts sheltered squatters, crackheads, and who knew what else. Law-abiding folks knew better than to drop by at midnight.
    Maybe this was a bad idea, Jimmy thought.
    Surly-looking slum dwellers eyed the young reporter, who tried unsuccessfully to act like he belonged here. A platinum blonde hooker offered him an obscene suggestion. Avoiding eye contact, Jimmy nervously hid his expensive digital camera beneath his Windbreaker while he searched for the address scribbled on the anonymous note he had received at the Planet earlier today. The letter said that if Jimmy had questions about what had happened to Lightray, he would find them at 666 Hob’s Lane, deep in the diseased heart of this urban jungle. The address alone set off warning bells in Jimmy’s head.
    Good thing I’m not the superstitious type.
    666 Hob’s Lane turned out be an abandoned brown-stone that had obviously seen better days. The windows were either boarded up or broken, and yellow crime scene tape cordoned off the front entrance. The sooty brick walls looked like they hadn’t been washed since the Great Depression, and no lights shone inside the decrepit building. A notice posted on the front door declared the brownstone condemned.
    No kidding, Jimmy thought.
    A homeless man wearing a ratty scarf and an ill-fitting parka leaned against the stoop of the building. His greasy white beard looked like it hadn’t been shaved or combed since the Luthor administration. A crumpled paper bag held a bottle of fortified wine, which he sipped from religiously. “Hey, red,” the vagrant called out to Jimmy, noticing his interest in the dilapidated brownstone. Slurred words suggested that he had probably been drinking all day. “You probably don’t want to go in there.”
    “Yeah, you’re right.” Jimmy appreciated his warning. He hesitated on the sidewalk in front of the building. “I don’t.”
    He took a deep breath to steady his nerves, then walked up the steps past the concerned Good Samaritan. Ducking beneath the police tape, he gave the front door a tentative shove. A broken lock admitted him to the foyer of the building, which looked just as unappetizing as its grimy fagade and neighborhood. Dingy beige paint was peeling off the walls, and a couple pieces of rotting wooden furniture had been shoved into a comer. Scuff marks and cigarette bums marred the tile floor, which had been turned into a dumping ground for cigarette butts, empty syringes, rat droppings, and even less attractive waste. The entryway smelled like a wino’s lavatory. Rats scurried away at his approach, cobwebs shrouded die ancient crown molding, and a water stain on the ceiling resembled the outline of Bialya.
    Jimmy’s nose wrinkled in disgust. First Arkham, now this, he thought crankily. How come I never get assigned to Paradise Island or Atlantis instead? Sheer revulsion briefly replaced trepidation ... until a phlegmy voice called his name.
    “Olsen...”
    “H-h-hello?” Jimmy stammered. The eerie voice seemed to be coming from upstairs. It sounded vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it. “Who’s there?”
    The speaker declined to identify himself. “Second floor. 'Three doors down.”
    Jimmy peered dubiously at the murky staircase. Slivers of light from the street