Chapter 822

Thus, I survived a crazy night and successfully made one of my cover identities known to everyone, but I still have no intention of leaving, for there is still too much I have yet to learn.

After meeting the Don, I became even more curious about this system of rules and order—I don't know whether it is a product of the times or the result of some special circumstance…

But yesterday's experience taught me one thing: sometimes, to understand how the rules truly operate, you don't need to become part of them; smashing the glass makes it easier to see the structure within…

I've observed the lowest stratum of the underworld, seen how the children survive, seen their masks—and now I intend to uncover the secrets of the underworld's upper echelons. To that end, I've thought of a good plan…

"Wait!" A voice suddenly interrupted Bruce. Harvey Dent sat across from him, raising his glass and saying, "I think between those two sections you're missing some commentary. Why not add some elaboration on your ideas?"

"Because I'm not sure…" Bruce paused, then said, "I want to include some discussion on Marxism, but I'm uncertain whether my professor would accept it—after all, the issue of class conflict has always been considered radical, and I feel my professor is rather conservative."

"Why do you think that?" Harvey leaned back in his chair, sipping his chilled drink. Bruce recalled, "He pays almost no attention to politics. His entire understanding of current affairs comes from newspapers and the radio. I've never heard him mention an election—he seems to have never voted."

"I think if I rashly publish radical views, it might lower my grade."

Harvey nodded. "True. People like that are mostly right-leaning. And under the current climate, you'd better avoid mentioning sensitive opinions—watch out, the Central Intelligence Bureau might pay you a visit at midnight."

Bruce gave a strange expression, but continued, "Anyway, do you remember I told you before about Jason successfully obtaining the apartment number of that suspicious individual?"

Harvey nodded. "Of course. You just told me ten minutes ago—that poor kid got hurt because of it…"

"The next day, Don Falcone's son, Yin Wensi, or rather, his other persona, Alberto Falcone, found us."

"We went to the Falcone estate. Alberto told us that at a banquet three days from now, he would officially take over the Falcone family and become the new Don."

He raised an eyebrow. "So the old Don has finally decided to step down?"

Bruce studied Harvey's expression. "You don't seem happy."

"Because I can't be sure whether the new Don will do better than his father. Under the old Don's rule, Gotham may not be safe, but it was stable. If this system collapses suddenly, the chaos that follows could be far worse…"

"I know that too." Bruce rubbed his chin. "So I spoke with Alberto."

"Of course, I didn't include the details of our conversation in this article—I'm afraid my overly imaginative professor might develop dangerously bold ideas about Gotham's future changes…"

Bruce skipped over this part entirely, then said, "The point is, Jason gave the apartment number to Alberto, and Alberto kept his promise—he gave Jason visibility within the underworld. The local crime boss felt honored, so when Jason recommended me to join his small gang, he didn't refuse."

"So what cover identity did you use to join the gang?"

"I named it Matchstick Ma Long."

"Matchstick Ma Long? That's the weirdest name ever." A gang member stared at Bruce, then shook his head. "But if it's the boss's order, tonight you'll stand guard at the nightclub over there… Oh, wait—you're new. Let me think. Nah, better go watch the casino floor."

"Kid, listen up: in a casino, you don't need to know who's rich or poor, who's powerful or weak. You only need to remember: bets are final, no refunds. Anyone who tries to back out? Shoot them. Got it?"

This gang member clearly had trained many newcomers—his language was blunt and crystal clear. Bruce nodded, indicating he fully understood.

That same evening, he went to the casino under this gang's protection. It wasn't the glittering, luxurious casino Bruce had visited before—it was a smoky, dingy little joint, where most gamblers were other gang members.

Bruce worked there for two days without encountering any trouble. Most people followed the rules; those who lost merely groaned and slunk away. Few dared to cause trouble.

Gang life was actually dull: when customers came, you watched them; when they didn't, you squatted in the corner, lit a cigarette, and smoked from morning till night, then night till morning.

Bruce wanted to switch jobs—not because he learned nothing here, but because the cost of maintaining this cover was too high: he had to smoke, and inhale secondhand, thirdhand, even fourthhand smoke…

But transferring out wasn't simple. He couldn't just go to the gang boss and say, "I'm bored doing this—give me something else." He'd probably fail outright.

So one day, Bruce became the very thing he despised: he knocked out a gang member who guarded the nightclub entrance, making him go home to recover—and created a vacancy for himself.

Working as a bouncer at the nightclub was far more interesting. The patrons here came from wildly different social strata—you needed sharp eyes to know whom to threaten, whom to flatter, who could enter and who couldn't.

Bruce had lingered so long in the lower ranks because he needed to observe—to study the physical differences among Gotham's underworld tiers in preparation for his next move.

After several days of work, the constant flow of people allowed Bruce to identify numerous patterns, especially in appearance and dress.

The lowest-level thugs looked just like him: sunglasses, a jacket, boots, a cigarette dangling from their lips, a gun in hand, squatting on the street.

Their eyes darted left and right; when idle, they'd pull out the magazine to count bullets. The moment someone approached, they'd snap it back in with a loud *click*.

A step up were the core members of small gangs—similarly dressed, but no longer mere street thugs; they looked more like they had actual business to attend to.

The difference between the two lay in demeanor: the first type constantly rolled their eyes, smirked, and wore an expression that said, "Try me, I'll make you regret it."

The second type, though holding minor leadership roles, still did the dirty, exhausting work. They moved hurriedly, greeted people without waiting for a response, already walking away—faces etched with unmistakable exhaustion.

The leaders of small gangs had distinct traits: scars on their bodies, for reaching this level required bloodshed. They owned one or two suits, but rarely wore them; even when they did, the suits looked cheap.

Bruce couldn't tell the exact price of the suits, but having worn expensive ones for years, he could instantly tell if a man's suit was cheap—if so, he was likely a small gang leader.

Up to this point, it was simple—just by looking. But above this, distinguishing the higher-ranking gang bosses became difficult.

From small gang leaders up to the Twelve Families' members, the underworld's upper echelons dressed nearly identically: dark suits, shoes polished to mirror shine, occasionally dark or brown sunglasses, cigars in hand.

When arriving at the nightclub, they drove black vintage cars. The lead bodyguard sat in the front passenger seat, stepped out first, ordered the junior thugs to line up beside the carpet. The driver exited last—always opening an umbrella first, facing the rear of the car, then opening the door.

The shoes always touched the ground before the man. Once planted, he stomped his right foot once, adjusted his tie with his left hand, strode forward, ignored the bouncers at the door. The last bodyguard remained to check invitations and register identities.

From the bosses commanding five or six small gangs to the leaders of the thirteen streets in the East District, their attire, behavior, and demeanor were nearly identical—even their movements were synchronized.

Bruce almost suspected they'd been trained together—down to the exact rhythm of that single stomp upon exiting the car.

After standing guard for several days and bonding with another guard, Bruce learned that every single gang boss in Gotham, from top to bottom, imitated the Don.

Supposedly, this was the Don's personal habit from his youth—and he adopted it for no reason other than it looked cool.

But this puzzled Bruce: suppose some brilliant young mind cracked this behavioral pattern and infiltrated using the exact same routine—how would you tell them apart?

Bruce asked his colleague this question. The colleague, missing two front teeth, smirked. "You're such a greenhorn. Can't you figure this out?"

Bruce expressed his humility, offered a few compliments—and the man spilled everything: "In Gotham, where do you get a car and bodyguards if you're not a gang boss? Take you and me—if we could afford a car like that, bodyguards that strong, wouldn't we already be gang bosses?"

"Put another way—if you already have a car, a house, and men under you, why would you bother sneaking in? Why give up a good life to become a killer, pulling a gun and shooting people? Are you insane?"

Bruce thought about it. It made sense—if you had the means to impersonate a gang boss, weren't you already one?

Of course, some wealthy men might pretend to be gang bosses—but why? They already had so much money. Why risk their lives daily, cutting it close with blades?

Why not live in a mansion, drive a luxury car, smoke cigars, and drown in pleasure every day?

Bruce nodded in agreement—it made perfect sense. Then he went out and bought a long black limousine, common among Gotham gangs, and an expensive suit.

Bruce nodded in agreement, finding it entirely reasonable, then went off to get a long luxury car common among gangs and an expensive suit.