Chapter 16: A Bad Morning in Gotham

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Today was the second day since arriving in Gotham, and nothing happened.

This was Ma Zhaodi’s summary of his second day in Gotham. It was already ten o’clock at night; he lay on the living room sofa and peacefully closed his eyes.

On the way home, Drake had bought plenty of groceries, which delighted Camilla. She happily prepared a rather hearty dinner, and everyone ate with enjoyment. Drake chatted at length about future plans with Camilla around the dinner table.

Their room was unusually quiet tonight. Ma Zhaodi’s ears were calm; he guessed that last night, the couple had simply been rekindling their relationship after a long separation, and tonight they might be quietly cherishing their time together in bed.

Regardless, tonight was peaceful for Ma Zhaodi. Except for the sporadic gunshots outside the window and the gentle patter of rain, he hardly heard anything else from Gotham. He looked up at the dark night sky, and apart from the colorful city lights shimmering through the hazy rain, there were no chaotic flashes of light. Perhaps tonight he could get a good night’s sleep.

“I suppose Gotham has tamed me,” he thought. Just to be able to sleep soundly felt like a hint of happiness.

But from another perspective, maybe the city wasn’t as insane as imagined; Gotham didn’t have major incidents every day.

That’s what he thought, so he opened his eyes and glanced out the window. A vague black figure flashed across the highest clock tower in Gotham. On the gargoyle sculpture by the tower, a person dangled, struggling desperately and pleading for mercy.

He silently withdrew his thoughts and lay back down on the sofa to sleep.

“No such thing as nothing happening. Today, some poor soul got hung on a gargoyle by Batman’s grappling hook. Hopefully, he won’t suffer psychological scars after being let down.”

The next day, Ma Zhaodi woke up at seven as usual to wash up. It wasn’t that he liked waking early, but the rainy night yesterday was truly hypnotic. He had slept so well that after waking once at seven, he couldn’t get back to sleep.

That was fine.

He ran into the kitchen to make breakfast. Yesterday they had bought eggs, milk, cheap ham, and some bread. Nothing fancy—just frying and sandwiching it together. He was capable of this much cooking.

The sizzling sound soon woke Drake and Camilla, who had also apparently slept well last night. Ma Zhaodi’s slightest movement roused them.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning.”

Madam Camilla seemed even happier than yesterday. For a long time, she had suffered from the dual torment of mental stress and illness-induced insomnia. Last night was almost the best night’s sleep she had had in a year.

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After breakfast, Ma Zhaodi greeted them and left. Today he was supposed to go to work. Getting to the shop early wasn’t necessarily bad; it was a good chance to familiarize himself with the surroundings.

As for the old Jack bus, he definitely wasn’t taking that.

Nor would he ride a bike today. He tucked a Beretta pistol into his waistband and stepped outside. The streets were already busy with many people. Some wore grim expressions and hurried along. When they saw those with tattoos, unsteady steps, or pale faces, they quickly moved aside to avoid trouble.

These people were Gotham’s true backdrop, Ma Zhaodi thought silently—not black nor white, but a struggling gray, like walking corpses.

Even someone like Drake could carve out a little breathing room here with courage and some savings. But those at the very bottom, with almost no margin for error in life, were the foundation on which Gotham’s dark web of crime thrived.

Someone might agree to smuggle drugs once for a gang just to buy a birthday cake for their daughter; a single mother might become a streetwalker just to earn a bit of milk money for her child.

Damn this world, Ma Zhaodi thought, Gotham’s booming criminal industry was built on their suffering.

But if all the criminals were wiped out, would they be able to live differently?

The comforting routine of daily life vanished without a trace at this moment. Ma Zhaodi’s day began with a bad mood.

Morning bad, damn Gotham.

He hailed a taxi. He only carried less than two hundred in cash when he left, just in case he got robbed. He figured he could use his tips at night to go home. If luck was good and he earned enough today, he might even buy a wheelchair outright.

Then he could find a quiet place and customize it. Basic wheelchair driving mastery costs about a hundred dollars in asset points; with customization, it would total two hundred.

This deal—this deal was the ultimate cost-performance ratio.

Once in the cab, Ma Zhaodi adjusted the pistol’s position so the driver could see it in the rearview mirror, then started browsing the system shop.

No choice—taxis starting from the East District were battle-hardened. If he didn’t flash a gun a little, he’d worry about trouble.

Of course, this was also because he was gangless. Otherwise, a gang tattoo or emblem could provide the same protection. Safety levels then depended on the gang’s influence.

Basic automobile driving mastery: five hundred dollars—quite affordable; intermediate: two thousand dollars—that’s a bit harsh... advanced: ten thousand?! Damn, are you trying to drive a rally car?

There was also bicycle driving mastery, but that skill was useless. Hmm... what’s this? System log board, system custom Q&A? One dollar each? I always said AI has broad prospects. Look, even this cheat feature comes with AI Q&A functions.

“Feels less smooth than Mobius...”

“Sir, we’ve arrived.”

The driver’s voice interrupted Ma Zhaodi’s muttering. He glanced over; it was only seven forty.

Sigh, old Jack really isn’t reliable.

“Fifty-seven dollars, please.”

Sigh, no need to say more about old Jack’s premium.

In this hellish place called Gotham, even taking a taxi was expensive.

Muttering inwardly, Ma Zhaodi paid and got off. Without a gun on him, the driver’s fare would probably have been close to a hundred.

He walked along the streets around the Red Dragon district, familiarizing himself with the layout. Only then did he enter the restaurant through the back door.

At eight in the morning, there were hardly any customers left—only the black-clad security guards, servers finishing their shifts, and the receptionist about to start theirs. Ma Zhaodi greeted his colleagues and randomly found the supervisor to return a book.

It was the store’s training manual. Normally, new hires would undergo a training period, but Ma Zhaodi’s situation—penniless and urgently needing work—was special. So Donald had allowed him to work and learn simultaneously. The supervisor had given him the book yesterday, and unexpectedly, he returned it today.

“You memorized the book?”

“One day was enough. I used to do this before exams.”

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