Chapter 22: Did I Get Something Wrong About Doing Good Deeds in Gotham?

The surprised person was not just that man.

Residents of the East Side slums rarely get a good night's sleep in the strict sense; generally, they hear gunshots every night, and if a turf war erupts on a given day, the crackling might last half the night.

People often grip their guns tightly when shots ring out, cautiously watching their doorways and windows, and dare not go out at midnight because of it. But everyone also knows that as long as they mind their own business, staying home is always safer.

So they have actually made peace with the gunshots of the East Side at night; some old residents have even grown accustomed to falling asleep to such sounds. Although everyone knows the victims could be gangsters, drug dealers, or prostitutes, or they could be their own neighbors or ordinary passersby.

But no matter who the victim is, no one wants to interfere, because for those surviving in the East Side, what they have to worry about is their own lives, and their lives have never had much room for error.

Moreover, there is Batman or Catwoman; perhaps some guy in a tight suit will come to save them, so there's no need for an ordinary person like himself to step up, right?

Until today, a strange old woman's shouting voice appeared in Gotham at night.

"You little bastard! Where are you!"

"Boom!"

Everyone looked in the direction the sound came from, stunned; even in Gotham's East Side, people found such behavior incomprehensible. Because in the past few years, facts had proven one thing to everyone: ordinary people who play heroes in Gotham never end well.

Only those guys in tight suits walking outside the law are exceptions; they are just like those dangerous super-villains, treating this city as their own territory.

They are incredibly powerful, they never show their faces, they do whatever they want, and never have to hustle for a living like normal people. A significant part of Gothamites' resentment toward them stems from the unknown, fear, and jealousy.

But actually, these heroes usually have no families, and if they do, they don't last long; this is something most people in Gotham do not know.

But in any case, the image of this group certainly does not include a neurotic, irritable middle-aged black woman who speaks nothing but curses.

And she is holding a shotgun.

The man, whose head was already boiling with blood, now clumsily pulled up his pants again, furious in his heart, and picked up his pistol, wanting to teach that fat woman who ruined his good time a lesson.

"Boom!"

The deafening roar of the shotgun rang out like a thunderclap, suddenly scaring the blood back down from his head; only then did he realize he was only holding a small pistol in his hand.

Should he teach that crazy woman a lesson? For the sake of pride, go and fight to the death with a pistol against a shotgun?

"Boom!"

Bullets struck the wall of the dark alley, sending shards of stone flying; one of those shards bounced onto his face, making him even more sober.

"Damn it, don't let me run into you again!"

After throwing out a few threats, the man frantically fired randomly into the darkness, then fled in a hurry amidst his incessant cursing.

Ma Ma Zhaodi hid around the corner, watching bullets strike the wall beside him, and couldn't help but feel fortunate that he was cowardly enough.

He did not show himself either; he simply turned around and went upstairs. As for that woman, he couldn't help her anyway, so it was better to let her go home early on her own.

Saving someone once only cost ten asset points to buy a one-time voice changer; saying it was a loss isn't quite right, but saying it was a profit is pure nonsense.

Sigh, he was still afraid of leaving traces or impressions; otherwise, he could have shown his face and asked the woman for some reward.

He calculated carefully; the pistol bullets inside the wall wouldn't be retrieved. Since no one died this time, the Gotham City Police Department wouldn't be called, so there was no need to worry about ballistics analysis recording his gun.

Wait, this gun was taken from Clinton; if anyone gets recorded, it will be on his head.

The only uncertainty in this rescue plan was whether his single bullet could hit the wall. Anyway, Ma Ma Zhaodi was aiming at the wall; if it happened to hit someone, there was nothing he could do about it.

On the other side, the man had already run beyond the block.

"Damn it, where did that crazy *** come from!" he cursed loudly as he ran: "I must find out who that *** is. Damn it, that ** must die!"

At this moment, a slender black shadow leaped gracefully between the buildings like a cat, following behind him.

Among the many impressions of Gothamites, one point is correct: superheroes do indeed carve out territories just like criminals. They will attack criminals they see in their own areas, but they will not kill; in other words, they will use all violent means except killing to achieve the goal of striking down criminals.

And the East Side is precisely the territory where Catwoman usually operates.

"Where did you go?"

Ma Ma Zhaodi tiptoed back into the room. Drake was indeed already awake, holding a gun and observing the situation by the window. Seeing him push the door back in, Drake's expression appeared somewhat stunned.

He locked the door behind him, then sat back on the sofa and replied: "Watching the show; there was a gunfight downstairs."

"Didn't you get enough of Old Jack last time?"

"Wasn't that time your fault?"

Lady Camilla interrupted the two men's argument: "Gentlemen, it is three fifteen in the morning. If it weren't for two madmen shooting at each other nearby, we would have been fast asleep long ago—now that the madmen are gone, please return to your beds."

Ma Ma Zhaodi shrugged and flopped directly onto the sofa. Drake looked at his wife's eyes, which seemed ready to kill, and gave up the desire to argue, obediently entering his room.

"Di, remember, in Gotham at night, try to avoid making a scene."

Lady Camilla carefully instructed Ma Ma Zhaodi one more time, and only after confirming he heard clearly did she turn her head and return to the bedroom.

Ma Ma Zhaodi agreed with her; before he bought the pistol shooting specialization skill, even daily life wasn't safe enough, let alone having the ability to save people.

The only most important thing now is to possess sufficient Gotham survival skills. So he finished watching the series and re-entered the vehicle driving training.

The moon rose and the sun set; the constellations shifted.

The next day, eight o'clock in the morning.

Ma Ma Zhaodi woke up from the simulated driving training, saw the bright daylight, stretched, walked into the kitchen, and started humming a little tune while making breakfast, while outside the window was the alley where a woman had been wailing and crying, and men had been cursing and shooting just last night.

Morning cooking smoke drifted out the window, intertwining with that from other houses; the scent of human life made the morning sun appear somewhat hazy and beautiful. As if the moment sunlight appeared, it washed away all sin and filth, turning last night's events into a dream.

But in reality, someone's mood was indeed sparkling this morning.

"Morning sucks, Gotham."

(End of this chapter)