Chapter 10: Derek's Supreme Improvisation

Gotham's train station had just welcomed another unsuspecting, doomed soul.

In a place like Gotham, it was rare to see unfamiliar faces. And when strangers did arrive, they were usually anything but innocent—mob associates, smugglers, traffickers, hired guns, or fugitives fleeing heat they couldn't handle elsewhere. To put it simply, if someone came into Gotham by train, they were probably not a law-abiding citizen or Wall Street tycoon.

Over the years, not a single sane billionaire had tried to make a play for Gotham. Sure, plenty of underground collaborations existed—everyone wanted something. You needed a dirty channel; someone else needed clean bills. But any open, legitimate communication? Scarce.

And yet, now and then, this twisted city still caught a few genuine innocents in its web—people who had no idea what they were walking into.

One of them was James Gordon, who once walked into the GCPD alone, fueled by nothing but righteous conviction. He dove headfirst into Gotham's cesspool of corruption, woefully unprepared. Years later, though Gotham PD remained far from just, no one could deny that Gordon had made some impact.

Another was Gotham's so-called White Knight, Harvey Dent—a fiery district attorney who cracked down on crime with the force of a crusader. He was a bit luckier than Gordon, though, because the moment he arrived, he had two powerful allies: one, the city's most dangerous psychopath; the other, the commissioner himself.

And now… there was a new one. An Asian kid with a face that reeked of Gotham before he'd even settled in.

You could also say he had that slightly unhinged look in his eyes.

Because really, who survives in Gotham without a little crazy?

The sane ones? They're either dead or gone.

As for the rest? Some get swallowed by Gotham's darkness. Some become it. The ones who can't blend in don't stay long—if they're lucky enough to leave at all.

So yes, what these three had in common wasn't just their innocence. It was the fact that they were still alive—and still trying to stay that way.

At least, that's how Selina saw it.

She didn't normally prowl around in daylight—after all, cats are nocturnal by nature. But she'd occasionally stop by Gotham's train station. Just in case some naive out-of-towner with too much money decided to take a scenic stroll through hell. And when that happened, she'd lighten their load—just a bit. Maybe snatch a shiny bauble or two for her cozy little nest. Sometimes, she'd even lend a hand to some poor East End sap who didn't know better.

Because here in Gotham, even petty theft could earn you a bullet to the head. And sure, this city had its rules… but they were brutal.

Yesterday, Selina had seen him.

The new guy. Asian. Just off the train. Eyes too clear, expression too alert—but full of holes. He gave off a strange blend of poverty and isolation. He had that look—someone who had heard of Gotham's infamy, maybe even seen a glimpse of its madness from the train window… but still came anyway. No cash, no clue.

Selina had grown up in the heart of Gotham's darkest corner. She could read people like cracked glass.

This guy? Didn't have the guts to be dangerous. Didn't have the fire to change anything either. Just a lost pup—ragged, clueless, with nowhere left to go.

So what was he gonna do in Gotham? Get a job?

Still, she'd left him a warning. Took the only thing of value he had—his driver's license—out of his coat, looked it over, then stuffed it back into his pants pocket.

To be honest, she kind of regretted not slipping a few bucks into his pocket instead. At the time, she'd been so shocked that someone could be that poor and still breathing that she forgot. His pockets were cleaner than the faces of Gotham's most pampered socialites.

So when Selina saw Ma Zhaodi on the street today, she was a little surprised. She'd prowled all over the East End last night and counted two dead gangsters. She'd figured the out-of-town kid had probably been reduced to pavement paste by now.

But no—he was alive.

Not only that, he'd apparently found shelter for the night. Maybe even made a friend.

His scarf and hat were worn, but not filthy or torn. His clothes were clean, and he looked well-rested. That meant he'd slept somewhere safe. Somewhere with a bed, not a rat-infested floor. He was holding a gun, and next to him was a man guiding him through the city and helping him find cover.

That man wasn't local. Selina could tell immediately.

From the way he acted—his body language, the trust in his eyes—it was clear. He trusted the kid. Maybe they were long-lost brothers?

If so, the man wasn't a great one. He had that same outsider aura. And if he'd really cared, he never would've let his "brother" step foot in Gotham to begin with.

Selina perched on the rooftop, eyes sharp, smile curled like a cat's tail, watching the two of them hide in a corner like frightened alley rats.

That kid from the train station? He wasn't just ordinary—he was spectacularly unlucky.

She couldn't, for the life of her, figure out how someone so completely harmless had managed to piss off a shooter with that much rage in his eyes.

Yeah. What the hell did happen?

Ma Zhaodi was wondering the same thing.

"You think if I push you out there, he might let me go?"

"That depends on his rage meter," Derek said calmly. "If it's maxed out, we're both toast. Everyone knows—once the shooting starts, it's all about the fun."

"Still, there's a chance, right? He seemed slightly rational."

"Did he?"

Derek turned and, without hesitation, screamed over the wall:

"YOU TRIGGER-HAPPY JACKASS! YOU CAN'T EVEN HIT A SHOE! MY BUDDY SAYS YOUR AIM'S WORSE THAN WHEN HE WAS THREE YEARS OLD PEEING ON TREES! AT LEAST HE GOT SPLASH DAMAGE! YOU MIGHT AS WELL STAY HOME AND PRACTICE WITH YOUR OWN HAND!"

After unloading that barrage of insults, Derek ducked back behind cover and gave Ma Zhaodi a smug smile.

"Okay. Now he's probably lost all rationality."