While Ma Zhaodi was working his third job, Prosecutor Harvey Dent had already gone home early.
Tonight had turned out differently from what he had imagined. The fire was serious, but not urgent, and he did not even need to stay at the scene for long. He could simply turn around and go home, because there was temporarily nothing left for him to do.
As for Johnny Vitti's murder, that was Commissioner Gordon's problem to worry about. Harvey, meanwhile, had already promised Glinda that they would hand out candy to the neighborhood kids.
If he got home late, she would probably be upset again.
Harvey drove home. It was still fairly early, so he opened the door in high spirits.
"Hey, Harvey, you're home right on time today?"
"Ha, I already made a promise to you, Mrs. Dent."
Just then, the doorbell suddenly rang outside.
"Guess who's here?" Glinda said as she turned and walked toward the front door.
"How would I know? Wait, let me open—"
A warning suddenly rose in Harvey's heart. It was not because he had sensed some strange omen, but because he realized that if someone wanted to attack on Halloween, this would be the perfect opportunity.
All they needed to do was bribe a child and disguise a carefully packaged bomb as a Halloween surprise. Almost no one would be on guard against that.
But before he could finish speaking, Glinda had already opened the door.
"Trick or treat!"
Several "little monsters" suddenly jumped out, interrupting his wild imaginings. There was no bomb, no attack, and no gang retaliation. It was simply a safe and happy Halloween.
Come to think of it, what reason would Falcone have to take revenge on a small-time prosecutor like him? Harvey had gone to check license plates in the parking lot of his nephew's banquet and been beaten up for it. Someone like that had no motive to make a move against him.
He laughed self-deprecatingly, feeling that he had been worrying far too much. Then he walked to the door and handed out candy to the little monsters with his wife.
"Happy Halloween, kids."
"Happy Halloween, Mr. Harvey!"
"Happy Halloween, Mrs. Dent."
Meanwhile, on the other side of town, at the Gotham Police Department in downtown Gotham City—
Gordon flipped through the mountain of case files and glanced at the clock. It was already deep into the night, so he casually stubbed out his cigarette in the Halloween-themed ashtray on the desk.
"Happy Halloween, Batman. Thanks for the gift."
"Happy Halloween, Commissioner Gordon—and go home early to spend time with your family."
Halloween passed in Gotham. Aside from one bizarre murder, the night had been as peaceful as a beautiful dream.
But for certain people, what had happened in Gotham that night was more like a nightmare.
It was a peaceful morning. As usual, Ma Zhaodi drove his beloved little wheelchair to work.
He was in high spirits. He had finished all three jobs in one night and earned quite a lot in the process. Even setting aside the little pumpkin lantern, just the twenty thousand dollars' worth of Asset Points, Intermediate Cooking Mastery, and Solomon Grundy's friendship already made it feel worthwhile. When he had left, Grundy had even shaken his hand amicably.
"Pumpkin man, scary, good man."
"Pumpkin man, friend, hamburger, tasty."
Because of this, Ma Zhaodi decided to bring Grundy something delicious every day from then on. Grundy would not starve to death, but he truly would remember Ma Zhaodi as his friend.
Perhaps one day, if Ma Zhaodi ran into some supervillain or assassin organization again, he could shout "Grundy, save me!" at a sewer entrance, then watch the big man force his way through the opening and climb up to help him.
Of course, if possible, Ma Zhaodi still hoped that this hypothetical situation would never happen.
"Good morning, Santos, Rick, Castro. How was last night?"
He cheerfully greeted his coworkers, but strangely enough, the three men who were usually laughing and chatting did not respond. Instead, they stared at him with odd expressions.
"What's wrong? You all look kind of strange."
"Huh? Ah, good morning, Ma Zhaodi."
"Good morning."
"Good morning, Ma Zhaodi. Did you go out to work a side job last night?"
"Hmm? Yeah, I did."
"Oh. You weren't at home?"
"You can't work a job while staying at home, Castro." Ma Zhaodi looked at the three of them in confusion. They were speaking far less briskly than usual, seeming hesitant and awkward instead.
"Um... I just want to confirm something. You're new to Gotham, right? You haven't joined any gang?"
"Oh my God, what are you talking about? Of course I haven't joined any gang. Haven't you noticed? I can barely even use a gun. I'm still training every day at the shooting range my supervisor recommended—wait, you three are really acting strange today. Did something happen?"
"Uh... did you see today's Gotham Daily?"
"Not yet. I haven't bought it—what's wrong?"
"What about the Gotham morning news? You didn't see that either?"
"What are you talking about?" Ma Zhaodi frowned. Seeing his coworkers' hesitant expressions, he suddenly felt a strange sense of foreboding.
"What happened in the news?"
"You'd better see for yourself."
Santos handed him a newspaper. Ma Zhaodi took it and casually scanned the page. When he saw the headline, his pupils immediately widened.
"Johnny Vitti Assassinated—Ugly Pumpkin Left at the Scene!"
"Last night, during Halloween, Johnny Vitti, the nephew of Gotham's Godfather Falcone, was found dead in the bathtub of his own villa. According to the forensic examination, Johnny's fatal injuries were two gunshots directly to the head."
"The murder weapon, a .22 Caliber Clipper Pistol with its serial number filed off, was left at the crime scene. No fingerprints were found on the gun. Two other items were also left behind: a crude silencer made from a baby pacifier, and a pumpkin lantern."
"No cash was stolen from the villa. According to police speculation, the incident was likely an act of revenge. Commissioner Gordon stated that the key clue in the case was the uniquely shaped pumpkin lantern left at the scene."
Dumbfounded, Ma Zhaodi turned the newspaper over with trembling hands. Printed on the back was a picture of the pumpkin lantern left at the crime scene.
Its twisted, agonized expression seemed to contain a distinct artistic quality. It bore traces of Miller's classical style, a touch of Monet's Impressionism, Matisse's Fauvism, Munch's Expressionism, Balla's Futurism, Picasso's Cubism, and Dalí's Surrealism—all of them seemed to have found expression in the little pumpkin. In short—
"Ha ha, we're doomed!"
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