Chapter 9: Cat

BANG!

"You little bastard! Now you know how to talk in Gotham!"

BANG! BANG!

"You old fossil! You're not the only one with a gun in this city!"

As the two bus drivers drew their weapons and started firing across the lanes at each other, their passengers reacted with a kind of reflexive choreography. Some dove out the shattered windows with practiced grace. Others found cover with casual efficiency. The unlucky few who were hit scrambled into safer spots, drew their own weapons, and joined the firefight. Those untouched simply waited calmly for the shootout to end.

It was chaos—but it was organized chaos. You couldn't exactly call it "well-trained," but you could say they were seasoned pros. Everyone knew the drill.

Caught in the middle of this picture-perfect display of East End daily life, Ma Zhaodi found himself overwhelmed by emotion. Teary-eyed, he whispered to Derek:

"You bastard… if you wanted me dead, you could've just said so. No need to get creative."

Derek shook his head, unfazed. "This is the fastest and safest bus route you can take in the East End."

"Safest?" Ma Zhaodi shrieked.

"Trust me. On other routes, you're more likely to get robbed in traffic, pickpocketed in your seat, or worse—be one of the weekly stats of someone getting raped or vanishing right after stepping off."

As Derek rambled, a stray bullet smacked into the concrete inches from Ma Zhaodi's head, nearly stopping his heart.

"AND YOU'RE SAYING I'M NOT GONNA GET MY BRAINS BLOWN OUT IN HERE?!"

"Relax," Derek said with a smug grin. "This bus is different. Most of the passengers are here for revenge. Grudge matches. Gotham-style."

He leaned in.

"Someone stole your customer. Sold you fake product. Bumped into you on the street. It doesn't matter. We all know those aren't really the reasons we pull the trigger—but we've had enough. So, they come here. No rules. No cleanup. Just a rolling deathmatch."

"You bring your beef. You settle it here. You die, someone tosses your body into the harbor. You live, you exhale and go back to scraping through your miserable little life."

"Unless some psycho just feels like picking a random fight, innocent passengers are usually left alone. And this spot? I picked it on purpose—good cover, good angle, easy to watch the show without getting noticed. I've been riding this route for six months. Worst injury I got was twisting my ankle during a sprint."

Listening to his speech, Ma Zhaodi couldn't help but feel impressed. Derek really was becoming a true Gothamite. The instincts, the logic, the deadpan cool—it was all there.

BANG!

A bullet slammed into the ground near his foot, snapping him out of his admiration.

"HEY! I've had my eye on you for months, punk!" someone shouted from across the bus. "You think this is a spectator sport?! Watching us shoot it out for half a year—step up or die, you g*** d*** coward!"

"…Huh?"

Ma Zhaodi turned to Derek.

Then back at the man shouting.

Then back to Derek again.

"…This is your idea of safe?"

"How was I supposed to know one of these lunatics actually remembers faces?!" Derek hissed. "I've been low-key! I've been subtle!"

BANG! BANG!

Two more shots came dangerously close. Ma Zhaodi could feel his heart trying to escape through his throat.

"Less talking, more thinking! Come up with something before I die!"

Derek's eyes darted around. This spot had great cover—but no exit. To escape, they'd need to make a run for it, fully exposed, for at least three to four seconds. Long enough to become Swiss cheese.

And yet, Derek didn't panic.

His breathing slowed. His mind kicked into overdrive. Escape routes. Probabilities. Body positioning. The works. He wasn't just in Gotham—he was becoming one with it. Calm and calculating, like John Wick with a job to do. Like Agent 47 on a clean hit. All nerves gone, all logic engaged.

"Don't panic. I'll get us out," he said coolly.

He spoke like they were discussing coffee plans on a sunny street in Metropolis.

In his mind's eye, he traced the route:

Tumble behind the bus. Use the engine block for cover. Dash during a shooting lull. Dive behind a trash bin. Duck through a narrow alley. Smash through a bookstore. Up to the second floor. Out the window. Roll and vanish into the crowd.

Even if the enemy sprayed bullets wildly, they'd miss. Barely.

"Follow my lead," he whispered.

A confident smile tugged at his lips. He took off a shoe, then flicked it out from cover just enough to bait a shot.

BANG! BANG!

Two neat bullet holes punched into the leather.

Unbothered, Derek calmly slipped the shoe back on.

One second passed.

"COME ON, YOU SCARED LITTLE RATS! SHOW YOURSELVES!"

BANG!

Two seconds.

"HAHA! CAN'T EVEN PEEK OUT? YOU GONNA HIDE BEHIND MOMMY'S SKIRT NEXT?!"

BANG! BANG!

Three seconds—

"…Well?" Ma Zhaodi glanced at Derek. "Aren't you gonna move?"

Derek offered a stiff smile. "Y'know… on second thought, maybe this spot is pretty safe. His aim's… uh… better than I expected. If we followed the plan, we'd probably be leaking from five new holes."

"…Unbelievable."

I'm such an idiot, Ma Zhaodi thought, dead-eyed. I really believed in this clown. I thought just because he'd survived a year in Gotham, found me a job, and led me to safety, he had some kind of street wisdom.

Turns out he's just a magnet for violence.

"Did it never occur to you," he growled, "that anyone who survives six months on this death bus is probably really damn good at shooting?!"

"Quit whining and help me think!" Derek snapped. "You're the local now! You've got a Gotham ID!"

"I've never even seen my parents!"

As the two bickered in their corner, Ma Zhaodi suddenly caught movement from the rooftops.

Someone was up there.

A sleek, black silhouette—a woman—crouched against the moonlit skyline, watching them with a smile that curled like a cat's.