Narrows

Downton had no idea that Bruce was observing him.

Or rather, even if he had known, he wouldn't have cared.

Crossing the police cordon, Downton swaggered over to the spot where he had just died.

Compared to before, the Russian mobsters were much thinner on the ground; clearly, the Italian mafia was on the verge of victory.

Downton didn't care who won or lost; as long as they were holding a gun, he didn't intend to let any of them go.

Bang!

After taking down the Russian closest to him, Downton picked up the thug's pistol and continued his slaughter, dual-wielding.

Opposite him, members of the Italian mafia had already breached the Russian lines.

Seeing Downton take out a Russian, one of Falcone's men approached him and flashed a vicious grin.

"Nice work, you actually made it behind the Dimitrov family's lines. Once this fight is over, we'll put in a good word for you with the boss."

"Go screw yourself."

In response to the Falcone thug's words, Downton simply pivoted his muzzle.

Bang!

Falcone's man died with his eyes wide open in disbelief.

Taking advantage of the momentary shock of those nearby, Downton emptied his magazines directly into the first wave of Falcone's men who had charged into the Russian position.

Compared to last time, Downton's performance was much better; he had taken out five people in a single burst.

Watching Downton kill indiscriminately, both the nearby Russian and Italian gangs were stunned.

"Damn it, he's not one of us!"

"He's a lunatic!"

"Whose man is he, anyway?"

"Take him down!"

"Federico is dead!"

"Screw this, he's a dead man, no one can save him!!!"

In the blink of an eye, Downton was met with a hail of bullets as both sides, previously locked in a stalemate, turned their guns toward him.

Less than five seconds later, Downton fell to the ground again, his corpse dissolving into flames once more, adding a touch of warmth to Gotham's cold, gloomy weather.

A moment later, accompanied by heavy, ragged breathing, Downton stood up, dual-wielding pistols, and looked left and right.

Ever since his first death that morning, Downton had gained a talent: every time he died, he would reappear unscathed at a random location near the site of his death.

Being able to return from the dead was already a stroke of immense luck; although the random locations were a bit of a hassle, Downton didn't mind.

He walked directly toward two stiff-looking homeless men nearby.

Seeing Downton approaching, the two homeless men, who had been hiding from the rain and warming themselves under the elevated tracks, immediately began to flee.

Watching them run at full speed, Downton raised his pistol to the sky.

Bang!

"Stop right there!"

As the gunshot rang out, the two homeless men stopped with lightning speed.

They turned around, raised their hands, and while instinctively backing away in small steps, they spoke to Downton in a frantic rush.

"I didn't see anything!"

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

Downton didn't approach them, merely asking the question from a distance.

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

"This is the Narrows, the poorest part of Gotham. Nobody takes taxis here; anyone with money for a taxi would be considered a lord around here. We're lucky if we have trash to eat."

As his voice trailed off, the two homeless men exchanged a glance, then turned and ran in opposite directions.

Watching the backs of the fleeing men, Downton pursed his lips.

"The Narrows, huh? Arkham Asylum is supposed to be around here somewhere. But without a single taxi, let alone a private car, how am I supposed to get back to Gotham's city center?"

Downton holstered his guns, walked a few steps along the dilapidated road, and then followed the tram tracks into the rain.

The Narrows lived up to its reputation as Gotham's slum; there wasn't a single person with an umbrella in the rain, and Downton's ragged clothes, which should have been conspicuous, were actually standard attire in the Narrows.

Because everything here was in tatters.

After walking for over five hundred meters, a sedan finally drove down the road.

Downton rushed to the middle of the road, forcing the car to a screeching halt.

With the sound of tires grinding against the pavement, the car door was flung open violently.

"Are you fucking blind!"

The driver cursed at Downton while reaching for a pistol inside his coat, but before he could even draw it, Downton's gun was already pressed against his head.

"Do you want me to give you an extra eye, you fucker?"

Downton retorted, then pointed his other gun toward the back seat of the sedan.

"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 lift."

The man in the back opened the door and offered Downton a gentle smile.

Then, the man waved his hand at the driver, who still had a gun pressed to his throat.

"Anthony, put the gun away. We aren't going to get hurt.

This gentleman is in a rush, and we should be understanding. Why don't we take him where he needs to go first?"

With that, the man turned to Downton and gave a slight nod.

"Life in the Narrows isn't easy; working here, I truly understand your plight.

Believe me, we don't need to resort to violence. Life is meant for helping 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 headed? I'll have Anthony drive you there."

Having said this, Jonathan, his face full of gentle smiles, beckoned Downton to sit beside him.

Accepting the invitation, Downton sat in the back seat without ceremony, the rainwater on his clothes soaking into Jonathan's trousers.

Far from minding the wet stains, Jonathan handed a towel to Downton.

"You might feel more comfortable if you dry off. I have spare clothes here; I think you could use them.

Anthony, stop standing in the rain. Get back in and drive."

"Got it!"

Anthony the driver nodded unhappily and returned to the driver's seat.

As he closed the door, Anthony looked back and glared at Downton.

"In a rotten place like Gotham, I shouldn't have that damn sympathy. I should have just run you over!"

After grumbling, Anthony spat out the window.

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

"Downtown, near the bus station."

"Downtown?"

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

"There's a war going on over there, are you sure you want to go?"

"Just drive!"

Faced with Anthony's question, Downton pressed the pistol against the back of Anthony's head.

Feeling the outline of the muzzle, Anthony nodded sullenly.

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

Anthony started the car, and it began to move slowly. Meanwhile, Jonathan, sitting beside Downton, couldn't help but ask softly.

"Are you one of Falcone's men, or with the Russian mob? But what are you doing in the Narrows?

I heard about the firefight downtown on the radio nearly an hour ago. I'm afraid you're a bit late; it should be just about over by now."

With that, Jonathan took a glass of whiskey from a small refrigerator and poured a drink.

"Would you like some? The rain in Gotham is exceptionally cold; a glass of strong liquor will help warm you up."

"No. Shut up."

Downton used his pistol to knock over the drink Jonathan was offering, then shoved the muzzle against Jonathan's chest.

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

"Strong liquor is harder to wash out than rainwater. A pity about my trousers."

"Shut up!"

Bang!

The bullet grazed Jonathan's chest, piercing his suit and forcing him to gasp.

"Okay, I'll be quiet. Don't be so agitated, sir."

With that, Jonathan stopped speaking. The car remained silent for a full half-hour until it finally pulled up near the site of the recent battle.

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

Watching Downton's retreating figure, Anthony leaned over from the driver's seat toward Jonathan and whispered.

"Boss, are we just going to let him walk away like that?"

"Heh, it's nothing more than an accident full of Gotham flair; a man like him won't last long in Gotham."

Jonathan replied, then took off his torn suit jacket and put on a spare one.

Once he was dressed, he gently rolled down the window and squinted at Downton's back.

"I'll have a word with Falcone. Even though I don't know his name, he'll come before me to compensate for my suit."

Competition is fierce during the new book period; if the performance is even slightly lacking, it will plummet, making it very easy to flop.

If you have even the slightest interest in this book, even if you intend to stockpile chapters, I beg you to quickly flip to the last page to help boost the follow-read count.

I have previously written two completed, high-quality novels of two million and three million words respectively. As long as this book's performance is decent, I will write millions of words to entertain you all.

I hope you can lend a hand; I am infinitely grateful.