Chapter 3: Someone’s Actually Robbing a Broke Guy?!

Ma Zhaodi wandered aimlessly through the streets of Gotham. Strangely enough, after twenty whole minutes of roaming, he hadn't run into a single mugger.

He was starting to wonder if he'd landed in some knock-off version of Gotham.

"Hey, buddy."

Just as that thought crossed his mind, a man in sunglasses, a hoodie, and a face mask stepped into his path.

Finally, he thought. Maybe this would be his chance to earn his first buck tonight.

Sure, begging wasn't exactly the most noble path to wealth, but at least it could get him something to eat. And if he could save even a little of the money in his system, it was worth it.

The next second, the man pulled a handgun from his waistband and pointed it right at Ma Zhaodi, his voice sharp and aggressive: "Cut the crap. Hand over everything you've got."

His voice was loud—loud enough that a few passing pedestrians turned to look, then quickly sped up and vanished into the night.

Staring down the black barrel of a gun, Ma Zhaodi suddenly found himself unable to utter a single word of his rehearsed plea for money. Damn, Gotham's crime level really was on another scale—muggings here started with a gun in your face.

If the guy had just pulled a knife, at least Ma might've had the guts to talk his way out.

He tore his eyes away from the gun and instinctively glanced toward the upper-right corner of his vision. His HUD showed his rapid health regen and a nearby Check werepoint—both ready to activate. Most importantly, he still had about ten minutes of invulnerability left. That gave him just enough composure to think straight.

But seeing him freeze up, the mugger raised his voice, practically screaming, "I said give me everything you've got!"

The gun jabbed forward, nearly pressing against Ma's forehead. He stumbled back a few steps, then froze, raising a trembling hand to reach into his coat pocket.

He pulled out his jacket's insides—two completely empty, turned-out pockets. Not even lint.

And when he said "cleaner than his face," he meant it. He'd been in Gotham long enough that he was starting to grow a bit of stubble.

"You screwin' with me?!"

Ma could tell the guy was about to lose it. Even terrified, his survival instincts kicked in, pushing him to speak.

"Hey, not my fault I'm broke! You think I like being this poor?"

"Who the hell are you calling poor?!"

Seriously? PTSD over that phrase? Ma thought. Even I didn't get that triggered.

His nerves eased slightly. He reached for his pants pocket. "Here, see? Nothing in these either."

The mugger's gaze followed Ma's hand. But it was nighttime, and those sunglasses weren't doing him any favors—he had to lift them up with one hand to see properly. "I'm watching you. Don't try anything."

Then he saw Ma calmly flip out another pair of empty, inside-out pockets.

The man's voice now cracked with frustration, borderline desperate. "Bullshit—you have to be hiding something. Take off your jacket. I'll search you myself!"

Without resistance, Ma Zhaodi shrugged off his jacket and held up his arms.

"If you find even a dime, I'll start calling you 'Moneybags' on the spot."

The man patted him down for ages and—unsurprisingly—came up with nothing. He finally slumped to the ground, defeated, not even glancing at Ma anymore. A moment later, he curled up and started to cry.

Ma slipped his jacket back on, then sat down beside him. "Hey, it's okay. Everyone hits rock bottom sometimes. If it really bothers you that much, you can have my jacket."

"I don't want your damn jacket!"

The man swung the gun and smacked Ma on the arm. It hurt. He raised the gun again, this time aiming directly at Ma. "What the hell do you know, huh?! You're a broke-ass loser—you won't even survive the night!"

"You're new at this, aren't you?" Ma said calmly. "This your first time trying to rob someone?"

"I've been wandering these streets all night. Every other mugger out there could tell I'm dead broke—look at me. My pockets are cleaner than my face. But you didn't pick up on that."

The man's hand trembled. The tears in his eyes flared with anger.

"You're out here robbing people in sunglasses and a mask at night. You've got no gloves. You didn't even take the safety off your gun—and I'm not convinced it's real, either. You didn't drag me into an alley the second you got the drop on me. You yelled too loud during the mugging, made yourself a huge target. And when I was reaching into my pants pocket, you completely took your eyes off the gun. That gave me so many chances to grab it from you."

"Shut the hell up!"

"You're too emotional. You didn't clean me out—even though I offered. You could've taken my jacket, even stripped me if you wanted. But you didn't. And when the robbery failed, instead of running, you sat here crying."

"I said shut up!"

He swung the butt of the gun again. This time, Ma dodged.

"I know you're desperate. But let's slow down a bit. Normal people don't just walk out one night and start mugging strangers. Something must've pushed you over the edge. And hey—what if I can help?"

The man didn't respond. He wiped his face, put the gun away, and finally took off his sunglasses. Ma got a good look at his bloodshot eyes, dark circles, and the sheer exhaustion etched into his face. He was on the verge of a breakdown.

"There's already enough crazies in Gotham," Ma said softly behind him. "No need to add one more."

"You're out here mugging people—that means you're strapped for cash. But your gun's fake, and you didn't really want to hurt anyone. That tells me you're probably decently educated, with a conscience. Those bags under your eyes? You've been stressed for a while. And the amount of money you need? Must be pretty big."

"You're not about to rob a bank—that's supervillain and mob territory. I wouldn't recommend crossing them. Wandering the streets hoping for a lucky mugging? Might as well roll dice. You found me—another roll of the dice. But maybe… just maybe… I can help."

The man paused mid-step. His voice rasped when he finally spoke again: "Why would you want to help me?"

"I don't do charity," Ma said. "I'm new to Gotham. I don't know my way around. I need a place to crash and a halfway decent job. Right now, I've got nowhere to sleep. If I can't help you, we go our separate ways—you head home, I sleep in the streets. But if I can help you, we work together. I solve your problem, and you help me get on my feet. Doesn't even have to be a great job—just one where no one dies."

The man hesitated for a long while, then finally turned back and slowly sat beside Ma again.

"You're not from Gotham," he muttered. "I'll trust you—just this once." He took off his glasses and stared blankly up at Gotham's dark, polluted sky. "Not like I've got any better options."