Chapter 10: Drake's Top-Tier Improvisation

A new, innocent unlucky soul had just arrived at Gotham's train station.

In a place like Gotham, strangers were rarely seen; if they did appear, they were usually gangsters, thugs, smugglers, or snakeheads with local business ties, or criminals who had offended someone they shouldn't have outside and fled here to escape. In short, those who arrived in Gotham by train were almost never model citizens or wealthy tycoons.

Over all these years, no brainless capitalist from outside had ever set their sights on Gotham; while there might be plenty of cooperation, overt communication remained scarce—it was simply a matter of mutual need: you required some black-market channels, and I needed some green bills.

Even so, in such a vast city as Gotham, exceptions occasionally occurred; from time to time, truly innocent and unlucky souls would mistakenly wander into this far-from-innocent city.

One such person was James Gordon, who walked into the Gotham Police Department alone to take up his post, possessing nothing but a heart full of passion and justice, leaping unprepared into the sewer that was the GCPD; yet to this day, he had managed to make something of himself within its ranks—do not misunderstand, the current Gotham Police Department was still far from a beacon of light and justice, but undoubtedly, Gordon's efforts had not been entirely in vain.

The other was Gotham's White Knight, Harvey Dent; as a district attorney who hated evil with a passion, he had accomplished much in Gotham to right wrongs, punish the wicked, and promote the good. Of course, he was luckier than Gordon, for after arriving in Gotham, he had the aid of two individuals: Gotham's most violent psychopath and the Commissioner of the Gotham Police Department, James Gordon.

And the next one was this Asian youth who seemed to carry a distinct Gotham flavor.

Of course, you could also say he carried a touch of madness; after all, when mixing in Gotham, who doesn't go crazy?

Only gods would remain sane.

As for the others? They were not nonexistent, but some had become part of Gotham's darkness, while others had become part of Gotham's piles of corpses. As for the rest who could not integrate, they would soon leave this city; even if they hadn't departed yet, they would eventually, for in short, they did not belong to this city.

Thus, the commonality among these three individuals lay not only in their innocence but also in the fact that they were still alive and wished to continue surviving in Gotham.

At least, that was what Selina believed.

She usually did not show herself during the day without cause, since a cat's nature was to be active at night; nonetheless, she would occasionally visit Gotham's train station to see if any suckers or tycoons dared to walk Gotham's streets carrying vast wealth. After all, this was her day job: taking shiny treasures from the fat-headed rich to decorate her little cat's nest, or, in her spare time, helping out the unlucky souls of the East End.

After all, certain petty thieves who occasionally stole from the wrong person might meet the fate of having their heads blown off by bullets; such a penalty was perhaps a bit too cruel, even for Gotham.

Just yesterday, she had spotted such an Asian passenger disembarking at the station; his eyes were clear yet ignorant, brimming with wariness yet riddled with flaws, radiating a strange aura of poverty and a sense of alienation from this city.

Perhaps he had heard of its famous reputation, or perhaps he had witnessed the conduct of Gotham's locals from the train, yet he had stubbornly come to this city anyway, penniless and bewildered.

Having grown up in the viciously evil East End since childhood, Selina could see through such people at a glance; he possessed neither the courage to act violently nor the ambition to right wrongs—he was merely a lost husky without a den.

What could he possibly do in Gotham? Work a job?

Although his appearance struck her as strange, Selina still casually gave him a small warning; she took the only item he possessed—his driver's license—from his jacket pocket, glanced at it, and then returned it to his trouser pocket.

To be honest, she felt a twinge of regret while stealing that night; at the time, she had been so shocked that there existed such a destitute loser in the world that she had forgotten to slip some money into his pocket.

That pocket was truly clean; at Gotham's celebrity galas, so many socialites and noble ladies meticulously cared for their faces, yet even they fell short compared to his clothing pocket.

Therefore, when she saw Ma Ma Zhaodi on the street today, Selina felt slightly surprised; after all, last night she had wandered through every alley of Gotham's East End and found only two corpses of gang members, having originally assumed that the outsider she saw at the station would have been disposed of until not even dregs remained.

Yet this guy seemed to have found a place to spend his very first night here—and had even made a friend.

The hat and scarf he wore were old, but neither dirty nor torn; his demeanor was good, and his clothes were not soiled, meaning he had slept in a safe shelter on a proper bed rather than on the filthy floor of some abandoned building.

Added to the gun in his hand and the man beside him who had pulled him onto the bus and into the shelter, it was obvious that this man had a very close relationship with him, providing considerable help to him despite his penniless state.

That man was not a native of Gotham either; Selina could clearly distinguish this.

Judging by his expression, this man trusted him greatly; perhaps the two were brothers who had not seen each other for many years?

If so, then this brother of his was not quite competent, for he himself carried a sense of alienation that clashed with Gotham, and thus should not have allowed his friend to enter this city.

Selina stood on the rooftop with considerable interest, watching the two hiding in the corner; the pauper from the station was not only exceptionally ordinary but also exceptionally unlucky, for try as she might, she could not figure out how a harmless pauper had managed to offend such an angry, irritable marksman.

Yes, what was going on? Ma Ma Zhaodi was pondering this very question.

"Tell me, if I push you out there, will he spare me?"

"That depends on his rage level; the guy up top definitely kills everyone. After all, as everyone knows, fighting is awesome."

"Then I think there's still hope; he looks like he still has a bit of sanity."

"Is that so?"

Drake turned his head and began shouting curses at the figure beyond the corner: "You worthless piece of trash! You can only hit my worn-out shoes with that gun! My brother says your aim is worse than when he was three years old shooting his pee-pee! At least when he missed, he could still splash someone! Don't even bother using that gun! Go home and practice how to shoot your handgun!"

After cursing, Drake shrank his head back behind the corner and gave Ma Ma Zhaodi a proud smile.

"Now he probably has no sanity left."

(End of Chapter)