Was Helping People in Gotham the Wrong Thing to Do?

It wasn't just the man who was surprised.

The residents of the East End slums rarely got what could strictly be called a good night's sleep. Generally speaking, they could hear gunshots every night, and if some sort of gang shootout broke out, the cracking might continue for half the night.

Whenever gunshots rang out, people would often tighten their grip on whatever guns they had in hand and cautiously watch their doors and windows. After that, they would never dare go out in the middle of the night again. But everyone also knew that as long as they minded their own business, staying home was always safer.

So they had actually come to terms with the gunshots that rang through the East End at night. Some longtime residents had even grown used to falling asleep to those sounds. Everyone knew that the injured might be gangsters, drug dealers, or prostitutes. They might also be their neighbors or ordinary passersby.

But whoever the victim was, no one wanted to interfere. People surviving in the East End had enough to worry about with their own lives, and their lives had never allowed much room for error.

Besides, there was always Batman or Catwoman. Maybe some guy in a skintight suit would come and save them. There was no need for an ordinary person to step up, right?

Until tonight, when a strange middle-aged woman's roar appeared in Gotham's night.

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

Bang!

Everyone stared in astonishment toward the source of the sound. Even in Gotham's East End, people found this behavior difficult to understand. After all, the events of the past several years had proven one thing to everyone: ordinary people who played hero in Gotham never met a good end.

Only those people in skintight suits who operated outside the law were exceptions. Like those dangerous supervillains, they treated the city as their own territory.

They were overwhelmingly powerful. They never showed their faces. They did whatever they pleased and never had to struggle for a living like normal people. Gotham's dislike of them stemmed in large part from the unknown, fear, and envy.

In reality, though, these heroes generally had no families—and if they did, those families usually didn't last long. Most people in Gotham didn't know that.

Regardless, no one had ever imagined a neurotic, foul-mouthed, hot-tempered middle-aged Black woman among their ranks.

And she was carrying a shotgun, too.

With his blood already boiling, the man awkwardly pulled up his pants again. Furious, he grabbed his pistol, intending to teach the fat bitch who had ruined his good time a lesson.

Bang!

The deafening boom of the shotgun rang out like thunder, making the blood rush from his head in fright. Only then did he remember that he was holding a tiny pistol.

Should he teach that crazy woman a lesson? Take a pistol and fight a shotgun to the death just to vent his anger?

Bang!

The bullet struck the alley wall, sending chips of stone flying. One piece smashed into his face, clearing his head a little more.

"Fucking hell, don't let me run into you again!"

After shouting a few threats, the man fired wildly into the darkness, then fled for his life amid a stream of incessant curses.

Ma Zhaodi hid around the corner, watching bullets strike the wall beside him. He couldn't help feeling grateful that he was timid enough.

He didn't show himself, either. He simply turned around and went upstairs. As for the woman, there was nothing he could do to help her anyway. It was better to let her go home early on her own.

Saving someone had only cost him ten Asset Points to buy a one-time voice changer. It wasn't exactly a loss, but calling it a profit would be pure fantasy.

Ugh, if I weren't afraid of leaving traces or making an impression, I could at least have shown my face and asked the woman for some compensation.

He carefully calculated the situation. He wouldn't retrieve the pistol bullet lodged in the wall. No one had died this time, so it wouldn't bring the Gotham Police Department around. There was no need to worry about ballistic analysis recording his gun.

No, wait. He had taken this gun from Clinton. If anyone traced it, it would be pinned on him.

The only uncertain factor in this rescue plan was whether his bullet would hit the wall. Ma Zhaodi had aimed at the wall, anyway. If he happened to hit a person instead, there was nothing he could do about it.

Meanwhile, the man had already run beyond the block.

"Fuck, where did that lunatic come from?" he cursed furiously as he ran. "I'm going to find out exactly which crazy bitch she is! That fucking—she has to die!"

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

Among the many impressions people had of Gotham, one was correct: superheroes really did stake out territories like criminals. They would attack any criminals they saw in their own areas, but they wouldn't kill. In other words, they would use every form of violence short of killing to deal with criminals.

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

"What were you doing?"

Ma Zhaodi tiptoed back into the room. Drake had indeed been awakened by then and was observing the situation by the window with a gun in hand. When he saw Ma Zhaodi push open the door and return, his expression showed some surprise.

He locked the door behind him, then sat back down on the sofa and answered, "Watching the excitement. There was a gunfight downstairs."

"Haven't you had enough after what happened with Old Jack?"

"Wasn't that your fault?"

Mrs. Camilla interrupted their argument. "Gentlemen, it's three fifteen in the morning. If two lunatics hadn't been having a gunfight nearby, we would have been sound asleep by now. The lunatics are gone now, so please go back to bed."

Ma Zhaodi spread his hands and dropped straight onto the sofa. Drake glanced at his wife's murderous expression and lost his desire to argue, obediently heading into the bedroom.

"Di, remember this: at night in Gotham, try not to go looking for excitement."

Mrs. Camilla gave Ma Zhaodi a careful warning. Only after confirming that he had heard her did she turn and return to the bedroom.

Ma Zhaodi agreed with her. Until he purchased a pistol-shooting specialization skill, even his daily life wasn't safe enough, much less his ability to save people.

For now, the most important thing was to gain enough skills to survive in Gotham. So after finishing the show, he once again entered his vehicle-driving training.

The moon rose and the sun set; the stars shifted across the sky.

The next morning, at eight o'clock.

Ma Zhaodi woke from the Simulated Driving Training and saw the bright daylight. After stretching, he walked into the kitchen and began humming as he made breakfast. Outside the window was the same alley where a woman had wailed and sobbed the night before, while a man had shouted curses and fired shots.

The smoke from breakfast drifted out the window and mingled with that from other homes. The warmth of everyday life made the rising sun seem hazy and beautiful. It was as though the moment the sunlight appeared, it washed away all sin and filth, turning the events of last night into a dream.

But in reality, someone's mood truly was shining brightly that morning.

"Good morning, Gotham."