Ren couldn't really blame his coworkers for being spooked by their first guest of the day.
Gotham had its "Dark Knight"—a caped shadow whispered about like some urban legend. But it also had a "White Knight." And unlike the Bat, this one wasn't myth or hallucination. He was terrifyingly real.
Harvey Dent, District Attorney of Gotham City.
If Gotham had any remaining defenders of justice worth a damn, they could be counted on one hand: the Bat who ruled the night, the police commissioner who still clung to integrity, and the man standing in front of Ren now—Harvey Dent, Gotham's last White Knight.
Where Batman hunted, and the commissioner enforced, Dent prosecuted. Ruthlessly. Relentlessly. Uncompromisingly. He had no tolerance for bribes, no patience for threats, and zero mercy for scum.
Every gang in Gotham knew the name. They also knew he had enough leverage to put away half their capos. He already had. The rest walked on eggshells just hoping he wouldn't start digging deeper.
In Gotham, lots of people wanted to be good. Very few managed to stay that way when reality hit back. Harvey Dent was one of the rare exceptions.
Which, of course, made him absolutely terrifying to Ren.
Everyone else was scared of Harvey Dent. But Ren? Ren was scared of Two-Face.
A man who shines the brightest when he's good will always fall the furthest when he breaks. And when Dent broke… he didn't just fall. He shattered.
Sure, everyone was nervous about pissing off the DA. But was no one else worried about what he'd become?
Was Ren the only one in this place who'd seen the future?
"Mr. Dent, good morning," Ren said, stepping forward with a smile that felt painfully stiff. "Right this way, please."
Dent gave him a nod, sharp eyes locking onto his face for just a few seconds too long.
"I couldn't help but notice," Dent said, narrowing his gaze, "your smile looks a little... forced. You alright? Feeling tense?"
Ren's voice didn't crack, but it was a near thing. "Oh, not at all, sir! I'm feeling great. I just really love my job, you know? Gets me kind of... pumped." He added a laugh, a bit too fast, a bit too high.
Dent gave him a slow, knowing smile. "That so? I thought maybe you folks didn't like having me around."
"What? No, no—absolutely not. The Red Dragon welcomes all its guests with equal sincerity. It's my honor to serve you, sir. Ha ha..."
You idiot, Ren cursed inwardly. Why didn't you assume a high-profile guest like him might show up?
Heroes didn't come here. They were either broke or too high and mighty to step into a mob-affiliated restaurant. But Dent? Dent was the type to book a table just to make a point.
If this wasn't some subtle flex aimed at the Falcones, Ren would eat his tie.
Dent's eyes sparkled like twin scalpels, cutting through the air between them. Ren's gut tightened.
When he turns into Two-Face later… what are the odds he remembers this face?
If that coin lands heads up, maybe he lets me go. If it lands tails?
Ren , meet your fate.
Wait—was he actually going to start a fight today? That couldn't be, right?
"Let's see the menu, then," Dent said casually, taking a seat. "Some real filth got sent to lockup yesterday. Put me in a good mood. I'm thinking about how many years to hit them with."
"Right... of course, sir."
Ren handed him the menu, trying not to glance around nervously. But in his peripheral vision, he noticed something disturbing—other diners turning red. Not metaphorically. Not emotionally. But red in the most literal, skin-flushed, vein-throbbing way.
Trouble was brewing.
Dent seemed to notice it too—and doubled down.
"Those guys," he said, flipping the menu like he had all the time in the world, "were like rats. You ever seen a pack of rats? I've seen plenty. The big ones, they're clever. They hide in the walls during the day, only brave enough to come out at night to bite."
Another group turned red.
Ren could feel it. Like someone had cracked a gas line and he was holding a lit match.
Enough, he silently begged. Please stop.
"But rats in the gutter?" Dent continued, smiling as he scanned the wine list. "They've got no loyalty, no sense of family. The small ones are especially dumb. Catch a few, and the whole nest comes crawling out."
At that, the entire room practically went crimson.
Ren's eyes darted around the restaurant, mentally checking for cover. He subtly adjusted his jacket, fingers brushing against the cold steel of the Beretta holstered beneath.
If this goes sideways, I'm diving under the nearest table.
Luckily, Dent didn't seem interested in pushing it further. After placing his order, he returned to small talk—mostly about wines and entrees. Ren, still riding the edge of a panic attack, clung to the safety of the employee manual.
Every wine in the Red Dragon had a story: a vineyard's legacy, the varietal of grape, the year's rainfall, the estate's family history, and a dozen flavor notes to memorize. Ren had studied all of them. He rattled off the requested details smoothly, his voice steadier than he felt.
The job wasn't about wine. It was about presentation. Precision. Memorization. The story sold the bottle, and the best waiters knew their lines as well as any stage actor.
Ren had hoped to bluff his way through this gig with confidence and a halfway decent smile. But today? With Harvey Dent at his table?
Dent did most of the talking anyway—loud enough for all the other mob-connected diners to hear. His real targets weren't the menu, or Ren. They were the faces turning red all around the room.
Ren did his best to serve quietly, though he didn't miss the fact that more than once, a fellow waiter's hand twitched toward the inside of their suit jacket… only to be subtly stopped by someone else.
He wasn't the only one on edge.
Then—
RING RING RING
A phone call broke the tension like a sledgehammer through glass.
Dent answered it, spoke a few clipped words, then stood.
"Duty calls," he said, tossing a card on the table. "Keep the change."
And just like that, he was gone.
Ren blinked. What the hell just happened?
He checked his system. The tip—and its accompanying asset points—had gone through. For a brief moment, he felt like cheering.
The other staff seemed equally relieved. If Dent had stayed even five more minutes, there was a real chance someone would've snapped. And the fact that he'd booked this table days in advance, only for the Maroni goons to land in jail last night?
That wasn't a coincidence. It was timing. Surgical, deliberate timing.
If it was a coincidence... Ren had just used up a lifetime of luck in one morning.
Fortunately, the rest of the day was smooth. Normal clients. Normal problems.
Ren's appearance and calm demeanor were more than enough to paper over his inexperience, and the manager had clearly been right—he fit in well.
The Red Dragon welcomed a rotating parade of Gotham's elite. Some were snobby. Some were aggressive. Others were downright obnoxious. Yet the other waitstaff—moonlighting gangsters every last one of them—handled each situation like seasoned professionals.
Ren couldn't help but admire them. Black market enforcers by night, five-star servers by day. These guys were good.
Not that he contributed nothing.
There was one guest—a woman clearly entering the flaming-thunderstorm stage of menopause—who'd come in raging. But the moment she saw Ren's face, the anger just... vanished.
Maybe this job wasn't such a bad fit for him after all.
(End of Chapter)