Chapter 22 – Are We Sure Helping People in Gotham Isn’t a Bad Idea?

It wasn't just the man who was stunned.

In Gotham's East End slums, people rarely experienced what you'd call a good night's sleep. Gunshots were a nightly occurrence. On particularly "eventful" evenings, the crackling of firearms might stretch on for hours.

When gunfire rang out, residents would instinctively grip their own weapons, keeping a wary eye on their doorways and windows—afraid to even step outside. Everyone understood that staying uninvolved was the safest option.

So most had already made their peace with the nighttime chaos. Some long-term residents had even gotten used to falling asleep to it. Everyone knew that whoever got shot might be a gang member, a drug dealer, a prostitute, a neighbor… or just some unlucky passerby.

But no matter who it was, no one wanted to interfere. In the East End, survival was priority one—and there was no margin for error in that kind of life.

Besides, there were always Batman or Catwoman, or one of those other tight-suited vigilantes lurking around. If anyone was going to step in, it should be them. No need for an ordinary person to put themselves on the line… right?

That is, until tonight—when an angry auntie started hollering in the middle of the Gotham night.

"You bastard! Where the hell are you hiding?!"

BOOM!

People all over the East End turned toward the voice in shock. Even for Gotham, this kind of behavior was... baffling. Because for years, one thing had been proven over and over again: ordinary people who tried to play hero in Gotham didn't end up well.

Only the ones in masks and spandex, operating outside the law, got a free pass. Just like the supervillains, they treated the city like their playground.

They were powerful, elusive, unrestrained. They never had to worry about bills or rent or punching a timecard. A lot of Gothamites resented them—part fear, part envy, part loathing of the unknown.

What most didn't know was that these so-called heroes rarely had families. And if they did, those ties never lasted long.

But no matter what mental image people had of Gotham's vigilantes, it definitely didn't include a foul-mouthed, gun-toting, temperamental middle-aged Black woman.

And especially not one wielding a shotgun.

The man, already blinded by rage, scrambled to pull up his pants and reached for his handgun. His blood was boiling—this crazy lady had just ruined everything. He was going to teach her a lesson.

BOOM!

The thunderclap of the shotgun blast sobered him immediately. He looked down at his little pistol and finally realized just how outmatched he was.

What was he thinking? Take on a shotgun-wielding lunatic? All for his pride?

BOOM!

The shot slammed into the wall beside him, shattering brick and sending stone fragments flying. One shard smacked him in the face, clearing his head even further.

"You fing b***! You better pray I never find you again!**"

He yelled a few curses, fired blindly into the shadows, then bolted into the dark as her voice continued to rain insults behind him.

Zhaodi, crouched behind a corner, watched the stray bullets strike the nearby wall and couldn't help but feel grateful for how gutless he was.

He hadn't shown himself. Just turned around and headed quietly back upstairs. As for the woman in the alley—he couldn't do anything for her anyway. Better she get home quickly on her own.

All it had cost him was $10 asset for a one-time voice modulator. Not exactly a waste, but calling it a win would be a stretch.

Sigh... He still worried about leaving any trace or memory behind. Otherwise, he might've popped out to ask the lady for a little reward.

He thought about it carefully. No need to retrieve the spent bullets from the wall—no one had died, so GCPD probably wouldn't show. No worry about his gun being tracked through ballistics either.

Wait—this gun came from Clinton anyway. If anyone gets flagged, it's him.

The only wildcard in tonight's little rescue was whether his shot actually hit the wall. He aimed for it, but if it hit the guy instead... well, that was out of his hands.

Meanwhile, the man had already run past the neighborhood limits.

"F***! Who the hell was that psycho b****?!" he spat between pants as he fled. "I swear, I'm gonna find out who that loudmouthed b**** is. That fing b* has to die!"

Above him, a sleek shadow darted from rooftop to rooftop, moving with a cat's grace. It was following him.

For all the stereotypes Gothamites had about superheroes, one thing was spot-on: they did stake out territories like criminals. They'd crack down on crime in their zone, but they didn't kill. Instead, they used every form of non-lethal violence at their disposal.

And the East End? That was Catwoman's turf.

---

"Where the hell were you?"

Zhaodi crept quietly back into the apartment. As expected, Derek had been woken up, standing by the window with his gun drawn. When he saw Zhaodi push the door open, his eyes widened.

Zhaodi locked the door behind him, flopped onto the couch, and answered, "Just watching the drama. Someone was having a shootout downstairs."

"You didn't get enough with Old Jack's incident?"

"That was your fault, wasn't it?"

Camila cut in, silencing the brewing argument: "Gentlemen. It is now 3:15 a.m. If not for the two lunatics having a gunfight nearby, we'd all be fast asleep. The lunatics are gone. Kindly return to your beds."

Zhaodi raised his hands in surrender and sank back into the couch. Derek, seeing the death glare from his wife, decided to call it a night too and quietly slipped into the bedroom.

"Di," Camila added, turning to Zhaodi seriously, "always remember—when night falls in Gotham, don't go sticking your nose where it doesn't belong."

Zhaodi nodded. He agreed completely. Until he could afford to buy proper Gun Profiency, even surviving day-to-day in this city was hard enough. He had no business trying to be a hero.

The top priority now was simple: acquire the skills needed to survive Gotham.

So, after finishing his show, he re-entered the driving simulator and resumed his training.

---

Daybreak.

8:00 a.m.

Zhaodi exited his simulated driving session and stretched lazily as sunlight poured through the window. Humming a cheerful tune, he strolled into the kitchen and started making breakfast.

Outside that same window was the alley where just last night a woman had cried and begged for help—where a man had fired bullets and shouted threats.

Now, smoke from his kitchen mingled with the breakfast aromas wafting from neighboring apartments. The smell of ordinary life softened the golden sunlight, making everything feel hazy and warm—like the sun itself had washed away the filth and horror of the night.

Like it had all just been a bad dream.

And yet, one man's mood this morning really was glowing.

"Morning sucks, Gotham."