Gotham's train station had welcomed another poor bastard.
Now, in most cities, a new face at the station might mean a tourist, a business traveler, or maybe someone starting a new life.
But Gotham?
New arrivals here tended to fall into a few narrow categories: mob affiliates here on business, smugglers moving product through the city's endless underworld, fugitives looking to disappear after pissing off someone worse. In short: nobody arrives in Gotham by accident—and certainly not anyone respectable.
For decades now, no sane investor had dared lay a serious hand on Gotham. Sure, there was business, plenty of it, but it was the kind that took place behind closed doors, with burner phones and untraceable payments. The city operated on a brutal sort of mutualism: you need black-market channels, we need green bills. Simple.
And yet, once in a while, there were exceptions—poor souls who stepped into Gotham like lambs into a wolf den.
The first was James Gordon. Walked into the GCPD like he owned the place, with nothing but a badge, a spine, and a sense of justice. No backup, no plan. Just guts. And somehow, he'd clawed his way into a position of influence. Not that the GCPD was a bastion of morality now—but no one could say Gordon's fight had been meaningless.
Then came Harvey Dent. Gotham's White Knight. An idealist with a grudge against evil and the law degree to do something about it. Unlike Gordon, Dent had support—both from the most violent nutjob in Gotham and Gordon himself. That made all the difference.
And now… there was this kid.
This Asian-looking guy, with the posture of someone who hadn't yet learned what Gotham really was. From a distance, Selina could already smell the story.
Or maybe just the broke on him.
She'd grown up in the East End. She could spot a lost puppy from a rooftop away. The way he carried himself? Cautious, but clueless. Sharp-eyed, but leaking vulnerability out of every seam. Not the type with delusions of grandeur. Just a poor stray who had wandered into the wrong alley of the wrong city on the wrong continent.
Maybe he thought he could work here. Get a job.
Cute.
She'd seen him yesterday at the station. His eyes were too clean, his movements too open. Poor, confused, and clearly not from around here. Maybe he'd heard the rumors. Maybe he'd seen enough on the train ride in to rethink this whole "move to Gotham" idea—but not enough to stop him.
She'd followed him briefly. Out of habit more than anything. She'd even lifted his wallet. Or tried to. Turned out the only thing worth stealing was a driver's license.
Not even a crumpled bill to be found.
In fact, after rifling through his embarrassingly empty pockets, she'd actually felt a bit guilty. Almost considered planting a few bucks on him out of pity. His jacket was so empty it made Gotham's Botoxed socialites seem stuffed.
So when she saw him again today—on the street, alive—she was a little impressed.
Most first-timers didn't last the night in the East End.
Yet here he was, looking marginally less like a corpse than she expected. Someone had clearly helped him. The scarf and hat were secondhand, but clean. His clothes weren't torn or filthy, and he didn't have that haunted look of someone who'd slept in a dumpster. That meant: bed, shelter, food. A roof that hadn't leaked blood. Probably even a friendly face.
He was even carrying a gun now—an ugly, clunky thing—but it screamed borrowed.
Then there was the guy beside him. The one guiding him onto the bus and ducking with him behind cover.
Selina studied them from the rooftop, curiosity piqued.
That guy wasn't a native either—she could tell from his posture, the way he flinched when tires screeched. Probably another out-of-towner trying to blend in. He seemed to trust the new kid too much. Maybe they were long-lost friends? Brothers?
If so, he was a terrible brother. Because if you knew Gotham and still let someone like that move in?
You had blood on your hands.
She crouched on the edge of the rooftop, arms crossed, amusement playing at her lips like a lazy cat toying with a mouse. Because whatever this kid's story was, she had a feeling it wasn't going to end cleanly.
After all, he didn't just look like a nobody—he looked like the kind of nobody fate loved to screw over.
And she wasn't the only one asking why the hell someone had bothered shooting at him.
Because even Ren was wondering the same thing.
---
"Do you think," Ren whispered, "if I shoved you out there, they'd let me go?"
"That depends," Drake said calmly. "If he's that pissed, he might just kill us both for symmetry. Y'know… closure."
"I dunno. He seems… rational."
"Oh yeah?" Drake suddenly leaned around the corner and shouted out into the street, "Hey! You limp-dicked bastard! My brother says your aim's worse than a toddler's morning piss! At least he hits something when he sprays!"
Ren's eyes bulged. "WHAT THE HELL—"
Drake ducked back, smug grin plastered on his face. "There. Now he's irrational."
Ren blinked slowly. "...You're a sociopath."
Drake gave him a wink. "Top-tier Gotham improv, baby."