Pain.
It was the first thing I felt—not fear, not confusion. Just a searing, bone-deep pain that gripped every nerve ending like I owed it money.
I groaned, half-conscious, blinking sluggishly through a haze of blood and grit. My vision was fractured, colors muted and blurry on one side.
I was nearly blind in one eye, I realized grimly.
The other eye stung with the thick mix of dust, sweat, and blood trickling down my forehead. Shrapnel had embedded itself in my legs, arms, neck—even a piece was stuck in my cheek. But my chest was spared. My vest had done its job.
I didn't know whether to curse Clayface—who was now nothing but a vibrating clump of clay—or thank God for my Innate Technique.
I tried to move. Immediately regretted it. My legs buckled. Muscles spasmed. Something popped inside me. I bit down on a scream and started crawling—because that was all I could do. My fingers dug into concrete, slime, and refuse as I dragged my broken body inch by inch away from what would likely become a crime scene any minute.
I didn't know how long I crawled, but I followed a familiar route—one I'd memorized in preparation for this exact moment.
The sewers stretched and twisted as I healed, and eventually, the trail of blood I'd left behind dried up. Hours passed. By the time I reached the right manhole, I was on my feet again, barely.
But I didn't climb up.
Not yet.
After everything that had happened tonight, I was extra cautious. I pushed past the manhole and continued walking deeper into the sewer's bowels. I didn't stop until I was halfway to the pumping station.
Then I doubled back.
I came up to the surface to the familiar stench of the Narrows. I was right at the edge.
My shelter was an old, half-demolished apartment building. Too unstable and exposed for most squatters, but not for me.
The top floor was safe enough. The stairs and elevator had been destroyed, which made it perfect. You had to climb to reach it. It had windows on all sides, giving me multiple exits if I needed to run.
I collapsed onto an inflatable air mattress and spilled out the contents of my Inventory. Clothes, weapons, spare mags, burner phones—all of it. Then I just sat there, soaking in the stillness. The silence. The receding pain.
Finally, I opened my notifications.
Vitality +4
Endurance +2
Cursed Energy +4
Stealth Lv. 3
Gun Mastery Lv. 2
You've reached Lv. 8
+1 to all stats and 2 free points
I leveled up? That made sense, considering how many people I'd killed and fought off tonight.
Jesus.
The damage must've been worse than I thought. My survival had been more luck than skill.
That needed to change.
It would, with time. Practice. Stats. Experience. But all of that came at a price—and the next time, I might not be lucky enough to crawl away.
When Penguin's message came, I was almost surprised.
Apparently, the heist was all over the news. Reporters called it "gang violence gone wrong."
Cute.
"Come to the club. We need to talk."
I stared at the message for a long time before typing out my reply.
"Not risking travel. Meet me at the overlook by Gotham River, Dockside 7. Midnight. Come alone."
Of course, I knew he wouldn't come alone.
This was about control. And people like Penguin only respected one thing—power.
At midnight, I was already in place, hidden beneath Curtain, having spent the last few hours watching and waiting. Practicing my stealth. I'd brought everything with me—my gear, my weapons, and then some.
My recent level-up had boosted Inventory again. I had a new slot, and a 200-pound limit now.
At 12:15, a car pulled onto the abandoned stretch of river. Three bulky men spilled out, eyes scanning the water and the overpass.
One of them I recognized—Henry. The musclehead who hated me for no particular reason. The other two were unfamiliar, but all of them were armed and dangerous.
Then the car door opened again, and Penguin waddled out.
His eyes swept the area in irritation.
Henry was the first to speak. "That trumped-up little shit. Who does he think he is? On top of that, he's late. Next time I see him—"
"You will do nothing," Penguin snapped, stamping his cane. "He's already here. Probably watching us right now."
"I don't see him," Henry muttered, eyes narrowed.
"I'm right here," I said, stepping out of the shadows. My hands were tucked into my hoodie. I'd swapped out my bloodstained clothes for something clean, though I still smelled like death. Could really use a bath.
I hit record on the tape recorder in my pocket.
Guns immediately trained on me. Henry looked the most eager, fingers twitching on his Glock.
"You brought friends," I said casually.
Penguin lit a cigar and took a drag. "Of course I did. Couldn't very well walk into a potential trap unprotected."
I tilted my head. "If you think three men are enough to stop me, then you clearly haven't been paying attention to the news."
"Is that a threat?" Penguin asked.
"Just very obvious facts."
Henry's face tightened.
"I fulfilled the terms of our deal well before the deadline," I continued. "So if we're done dick-measuring, can we finally talk business?"
"I don't buy it!" Henry snapped. "We're supposed to believe you took out Black Mask's hunters and raided a stash house by yourself?" He sneered. "I could snap you in half without even trying."
"Or you could just shoot me," I offered, tapping the center of my forehead. "Right here. I'm trying not to ruin another shirt."
Henry's mouth opened, then closed. The other guards exchanged confused looks. Penguin watched silently, gaze sharpening.
"If this is some trick—"
"I hope you shoot half as well as you talk," I interrupted, "and you brought a silencer. Don't want to attract attention."
Henry hesitated, then looked at Penguin—who gave him nothing.
With a frustrated grunt, he reached into his coat, screwed on a silencer, and took aim. He stepped closer to make sure he didn't miss.
"Last chance," he warned.
"Just do it," I said. "Haven't got all--"
The shot rang out. A muffled pop.
Then... ping—the bullet dropped to the floor, completely intact.
The sheer look of terror on Henry's face nearly made me laugh.
The guards' guns trembled. Penguin's eyes widened.
"N-No. He cheated somehow—" Henry stammered.
"The kid's the real thing," Penguin murmured, smiling as he stepped forward. "Tim said you ate bullets like it was nothing, but I didn't believe him until I saw it for myself."
He shot me a sidelong glance. "So, how does it work?"
"Weren't you the one who gave me that speech about leverage?"
Penguin laughed. "So I did. And it seems you've learned well. Ten thousand dollars, a million-dollar property, and fifty percent of all cash acquired—that was the deal, yes?"
It was a damn good deal.
But then again, I already had everything I needed to walk away forever. The cash from tonight's job was easily north of a million. I hadn't counted yet.
"That it was," I said. "And I'm ready to get to work—assuming you are too."
Penguin smirked and pulled a card from his pocket. "Call this number in three days. A car will come to fetch you so you can meet the team."
Of course, he started without me. I expected nothing less.
"How close are you to bringing him down?"
"Closer than you'd expect," he said, "yet further than I intended. Talk to the team. They'll brief you on the details."
He handed me an envelope thick with cash. I scanned the shadows once more before pocketing it.
He seemed amused by my paranoia.
"I expect great things from you, kid. Don't disappoint me."
There was something in his voice—an edge that made my skin crawl. I feared not for myself.
But for everyone else in my life.
It had been a while since I talked to Candice. Or Sasha.
Maybe it was time I called them.
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Next chapter will follow shortly. In three hours or less.