Chapter 22: Is Something Wrong with Trying to Be Helpful in Gotham?

It was not only the man who was surprised.

Residents of the East End slums rarely get a good night's sleep in the truest sense. Generally speaking, they hear gunfire every night. If a gang war breaks out, the popping and cracking might continue for half the night.

People often grip their own guns when the shooting starts, cautiously keeping an eye on their doorways and windows, and they certainly wouldn't dare go out in the middle of the night. But everyone knows that as long as you mind your own business, staying inside is always safer.

Thus, they have long since made peace with the nightly gunfire of the East End. Some of the older residents have even grown accustomed to falling asleep to the sound. Though everyone knows the victim could be a gangster, a drug dealer, a prostitute, or even their own neighbor or a random passerby.

Regardless of who the victim is, no one wants to intervene, because those surviving in the East End have enough to worry about regarding their own lives, which have never had any margin for error.

Besides, there is Batman or Catwoman; there might be some guy in spandex who will come to save them. There is no need for an ordinary person to put themselves in the line of fire, is there?

Until tonight, when a strange, middle-aged woman’s roar echoed through the Gotham night.

"You son of a bitch! Where are you!"

"BOOM!"

Everyone looked toward the source of the sound in shock. Even in Gotham's East End, people could not comprehend such behavior. Because for years, reality had proven one thing to everyone: ordinary people who play the hero in Gotham never meet a good end.

Only those wearing spandex, walking outside the law, are the exceptions. Like those dangerous super-criminals, they treat this city as their own territory.

They are incredibly powerful, they never show their faces, they do whatever they please, and they never have to struggle for a living like normal people. A significant part of the Gothamites' resentment toward them stems from the unknown, fear, and jealousy.

But in truth, these heroes usually have no family, and if they do, it rarely lasts long—a fact most Gothamites are unaware of.

Regardless, the image of these people certainly does not include a foul-mouthed, neurotic, short-tempered, middle-aged black woman.

And one holding a shotgun, at that.

The man, his blood boiling, scrambled to pull up his pants, filled with extreme rage. He grabbed his pistol, intending to teach the fat hag who ruined his fun a lesson.

"BOOM!"

The thunderous blast of a shotgun rang out like a clap of lightning, scaring the heat right out of his blood. Only then did he realize he was holding nothing but a small handgun.

Should he teach that crazy woman a lesson? For the sake of pride, risk his life against a shotgun with a pistol?

Bullets splattered stone fragments against the walls of the dark alley, one of which struck his face, sobering him up further.

"F*** you! Don't let me catch you again!"

After shouting a few threats, the man fired wildly into the darkness, then fled the scene amidst a stream of incessant cursing.

Ma Zhaodi hid around the corner, watching the bullets strike the wall, feeling lucky he was cowardly enough to stay put.

He didn't show his face, choosing instead to turn around and head upstairs. As for the woman, he couldn't help her any further anyway; it was best to let her get home early.

Saving someone only cost ten dollars in asset points for a one-time voice changer. It wasn't exactly a loss, but calling it a win was purely Ma Zhaodi's own wishful thinking.

Sigh, he was still worried about leaving a trail or an impression; otherwise, he might have been able to show his face and ask for a reward.

He calculated carefully: the pistol slugs in the wall wouldn't be recovered. Since no one died, it wouldn't attract the GCPD, so there was no need to worry about ballistics analysis linking the gun to him.

Wait, no—the gun was taken from Clinton; if it were to be traced, it would be traced back to him anyway.

The only uncertainty in this rescue plan was whether his single shot would hit the wall. Ma Zhaodi had aimed for the wall, and if it happened to hit someone, well, he couldn't help that.

...

On the other side, the man had already run out of the block.

"Damn it, where the hell did that crazy b**** come from!" he cursed as he ran. "I have to find out who that f***ing b**** is. She has to die!"

At that moment, a slender, black silhouette leaped nimbly between the buildings like a cat, following behind him.

Among the many impressions of Gothamites, one thing is true: superheroes do indeed stake out territories just like criminals. They strike down criminals they see in their area, but they do not kill. In other words, they use every form of violence short of killing to achieve their goals.

And the East End was exactly the territory where Catwoman usually operated.

...

"Where have you been?"

Ma Zhaodi crept back into the room. Drake had indeed been startled awake and was observing the situation by the window with a gun in hand. Seeing him push the door open and return, his expression was one of astonishment.

Ma Zhaodi locked the door behind him and sat back down on the sofa. "Just watching the excitement. There was a shootout downstairs."

"Didn't you see enough of that back with Old Jack?"

"Wasn't that your fault?"

Mrs. Camilla interrupted their bickering. "Gentlemen, it is three-fifteen in the morning. If not for two lunatics having a shootout nearby, we would have been fast asleep. Now that the lunatics are gone, please go back to bed."

Ma Zhaodi shrugged and collapsed onto the sofa. Drake, seeing the murderous look in his wife's eyes, suppressed his urge to argue and obediently went into the room.

"Di, always remember, in the Gotham night, try to stay out of trouble."

Mrs. Camilla gave Ma Zhaodi a stern reminder. Only after confirming he had understood did she turn and head back to the bedroom.

Ma Zhaodi agreed with her. Until he purchased the pistol proficiency skill, even daily life wasn't safe, let alone having the ability to save others.

The most important thing right now was to acquire enough survival skills for Gotham. So, after finishing his show, he dove back into vehicle driving training.

The moon rose and set; the stars shifted.

The next day, 8:00 AM.

Ma Zhaodi woke up from his driving simulation. Seeing the bright daylight, he stretched and walked into the kitchen, humming a little tune as he started making breakfast. Outside the window lay the alley where, just last night, there had been a woman's wailing, a man's cursing, and gunfire.

The morning smoke from the cooking drifted out the window, weaving together with that of other homes. The scent of human life made the morning sun seem somewhat hazy and beautiful. It was as if the moment the sunlight appeared, it washed away all sin and filth, turning last night's events into a dream.

But in reality, someone's mood was indeed shining bright this morning.

"Bad morning, Gotham."