Narrows

Downton had no idea Bruce was watching him.

Or rather, even if he had known, he would not have cared.

After crossing the police blockade, Downton swaggered over to the spot where he had just died.

Compared to before, there were far fewer Russian gangsters. Clearly, the Italian mob was about to win.

Downton did not care who won or lost. As long as they had guns, he did not intend to let any of them go.

Bang!

After taking out the Russian closest to him, Downton picked up the thug's pistol and continued his slaughter with a gun in each hand.

Across from him, members of the Italian mob had already pushed into the Russians' position.

Seeing Downton take down a Russian, one of Falcone's men came over and flashed him a vicious grin.

"Not bad. You actually made it behind the Dimitrov Family's lines.

Once this battle's over, we'll put in a good word with the boss for you."

"Put in a good word for your mother."

As Falcone's man spoke, Downton merely swung his gun toward him.

Bang!

Falcone's man died with his eyes wide open.

While the people around him were still stunned, Downton emptied his magazine into the first wave of Falcone's men who had rushed into the Russians' position.

Compared to last time, Downton's results were much better. In a single burst, he took down five people.

Watching Downton kill indiscriminately, both the nearby Russians and Italians froze.

"Fuck, he's not one of us!"

"He's a lunatic!"

"Whose man is he?"

"Kill him!"

"Federico is dead!"

"Fuck it, he's dead for sure! Nobody can save him!!!"

In the blink of an eye, Downton was met with a torrent of bullets. Both sides, who had been locked in a fierce fight, turned their guns on him.

In less than five seconds, Downton fell again. His corpse turned into flames once more, adding a little warmth to Gotham's cold weather.

A moment later, accompanied by heavy breathing, Downton looked around with two guns in hand.

Ever since his first death that morning, Downton had gained a new talent. Whenever he died, he would reappear unharmed at a random location near where he had died.

Being able to return from death was already an incredible blessing. Though the random location was somewhat troublesome, Downton did not care.

He walked directly toward two exceedingly stiff homeless men nearby.

As Downton approached, the two homeless men, who had been sheltering from the rain and warming themselves beneath the elevated tracks, immediately began to run.

Seeing how fast they were fleeing, Downton raised his pistol toward the sky.

Bang!

"Stop right there!"

At the sound of the gunshot, the two homeless men stopped with lightning speed.

They turned around and raised their hands. While instinctively backing away in small steps, they hurriedly said to Downton,

"I didn't see anything!"

"Cut the crap. Where is this? There isn't even a taxi on the street."

Downton did not approach them, merely asking from a distance.

Hearing Downton's question, one of the homeless men answered.

"This is Narrows, the poorest place in Gotham.

Nobody takes taxis here. Anyone who can afford a cab around here counts as a lord. We're lucky if we have garbage to eat."

As soon as he finished speaking, the two homeless men exchanged a look, then ran off in different directions.

Watching their fleeing backs, Downton pressed his lips together.

"Narrows, huh? Arkham Asylum seems to be nearby.

But there aren't any taxis, let alone private cars. How am I supposed to get back to downtown Gotham?"

Downton tucked away his guns, walked a few steps down the ruined road, then followed the tram tracks into the rain.

Narrows truly deserved to be called Gotham's slum. There was not even anyone carrying an umbrella in the rain, and Downton's conspicuously ragged clothes were instead perfectly normal attire in Narrows.

Because everything here was ragged and broken.

After walking more than five hundred meters, a sedan finally came down the road.

Downton hurried into the middle of the street and forcibly stopped it.

With the screech of tires against the pavement, the car door was violently thrown open.

"Are you fucking blind?!"

The driver cursed at Downton while reaching into his jacket for a pistol, but before he could draw it, Downton's gun was already pressed to his head.

"Want me to give you another fucking eye?"

Downton cursed back, then pointed his other gun at the rear seat.

"Get out!" he shouted at the figure sitting in the back.

"No problem. Don't shoot. You look like you're in a hurry, and I don't mind giving you a ride."

The person in the back opened the door and gave Downton a gentle smile.

Then, he waved at the driver, whose throat was held at gunpoint.

"Anthony, put your gun away. We won't be hurt.

This gentleman is in a hurry. We should be understanding. Why don't we give him a ride first?"

With that, he turned to Downton and gave him a slight nod.

"Life is difficult in Narrows. Since I work here, I understand your troubles very well.

Believe me, there's no need for all this fighting and killing. People should help one another.

You can call me Jonathan. I work at the asylum over there. Perhaps you've heard my name.

Well, it seems you haven't. Where are you going? I'll have Anthony take you there."

With that, Jonathan, still wearing a warm smile, gestured for Downton to sit beside him.

At Jonathan's invitation, Downton unceremoniously got into the back seat. Rainwater from his clothes soaked Jonathan's trousers.

Not only did Jonathan not mind the water stains on his trousers, he even took out a towel and placed it in Downton's hands.

"Dry yourself off. You might feel more comfortable. I also have spare clothes here. I think you could use them.

Anthony, stop standing out in the rain and get back in here. Hurry up and drive."

"Got it!"

Driver Anthony nodded unhappily, then returned to the driver's seat.

As he shut the door, Anthony turned back and glared fiercely at Downton.

"In this shithole called Gotham, I never should have had that damned sympathy. I should've just run you over!"

After grumbling, Anthony spat out the window.

"Where are you going, asshole? It'd better not be too far!"

"Downtown, near the bus station."

"Downtown?"

Hearing Downton's words, Anthony turned around in surprise.

"There seems to be a war going on over there. Are you sure you want to go?"

"Drive!"

In response to Anthony's question, Downton pressed the pistol aimed at him against the back of his head.

Feeling the outline of the muzzle, Anthony nodded irritably.

"Whatever you say. You're the boss today."

Anthony started the car, and it slowly began to move. At the same time, Jonathan beside Downton could not help asking softly,

"Are you one of Falcone's men, or are you with the Russian mob? But how did you end up in Narrows?

I heard about the downtown shootout on the radio nearly an hour ago. If you head there now, I'm afraid you'll be too late. It should be about over by now."

As he spoke, Jonathan took out some whiskey from a small refrigerator and poured himself a glass.

"Want some? Gotham's rain is especially cold. A glass of strong liquor will warm you up."

"No. Shut up."

Downton knocked the drink Jonathan offered aside with his pistol, then pressed the muzzle against Jonathan's chest.

Seeing this, Jonathan helplessly adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses and gave a bitter smile.

"Liquor is harder to wash out than rainwater. What a waste of my trousers."

"Shut up!"

Bang!

The bullet grazed Jonathan's chest and tore through his suit, forcing him to suck in a breath.

"Okay, I'll shut up. Don't get excited, sir."

After that, Jonathan said nothing more. The car remained silent for a full half hour before finally stopping near the previous battlefield.

Downton got out of the car and waved at Jonathan and Anthony without looking back.

Watching Downton's back, Anthony leaned over from the driver's seat toward Jonathan and asked quietly,

"Boss, are we really just letting him go?"

"Heh. He's just an accident filled with Gotham style. Someone like him won't survive long in Gotham."

Jonathan replied, then took off his torn suit and changed into his spare one.

Once he was dressed, he gently rolled down the window and narrowed his eyes at Downton's retreating figure.

"I'll have a word with Falcone. I don't know his name, but he'll come before me and compensate me for a suit."

Competition during a new book's release period was fierce. Even slightly poor results could send it spiraling down, and it could easily flop.

If you have even the slightest interest in this book, then even if you plan to stockpile chapters, please quickly flip to the last page and help this book gain another follow-up read.

Half-Dead has previously completed acclaimed works of two million and three million words. As long as this book performs reasonably well, I'll write millions of words of it to entertain everyone.

I hope everyone can lend a hand. Half-Dead is deeply grateful.