The car stopped on a chaotic street. Most of the buildings here were only three or four stories tall, preserving traces of the Great Depression. Beneath the broken asphalt was not paving stone, but muddy dirt roads. It proved that this place had probably become a modern city through rapid development in less than twenty years. What followed was disorderly management—gangs, crime, and an outlet for violence in an oppressed city.
In any other city, this place would have had obvious ethnic characteristics: different races had different chaotic districts. But in Gotham, it was a melting pot. People were divided only into criminals and lunatics; skin color was the least relevant subject.
"Making a fourteen-year-old child take even one more breath of air here is abuse." Gordon could not help saying after getting out of the car. He pulled out a pack of masks from the vehicle and forcibly put one on Nimossini despite her resistance. He gathered Nimossini's braids behind her head, put a large baseball cap on her, then wrapped her in his overcoat. By the time he was done, he had dressed her up as the most stylish "Penguin" on the East Coast.
Schiller merely examined the building in front of them. Officers were escorting out customers who had not even had time to get dressed and looked thoroughly disheveled. Some were high out of their minds and swearing loudly, some were vomiting, and some were trying to keep going through the process under their own power. It was as chaotic as Hell.
Neon light shone over tattoo-covered bodies—some obese and bloated, some skin and bones, all scarred and heavily haired. The heavy stench of cheap perfume mixed with the smell of vomit brought on by marijuana. As Schiller and the others climbed the narrow staircase, everything