Gotham's rainy night carried a bone-chilling cold. Fat raindrops pounded the asphalt, splashing into tiny sprays and blurring the outlines of its streets and alleys.
Like a cornered beast, Wilson Morgan fled wildly through the maze of back alleys, his ragged breathing mingling with the patter of rain and echoing through the empty passages.
Every step was heavy and stumbling, as though some terrifying shadow capable of devouring everything were pursuing him.
In Gotham, chases filled with such fear and despair had always belonged to Batman and the most vicious criminals.
But Wilson knew perfectly well that the being he was fleeing now was far more terrifying than that Dark Knight—
Three days earlier, Wilson had just checked out of Gotham Hospital.
The weakness in his body had not entirely faded, and a lingering ache permeated every limb, but he had no time to linger.
Nothing had ever stopped Gotham from running. Many people with stronger constitutions had left the hospital before him, returning to their lives and jobs.
Wilson ran a small dry cleaners, his family's only source of income.
His wife and daughter were still lying in hospital beds, recuperating under observation.
The steep hospital bills and medical expenses weighed on him like a mountain, leaving him struggling to breathe. He had to return to his dry cleaners as soon as possible and earn enough to pay those bills.
When he gritted his teeth and struggled to raise the shop's heavy rolling shutter, a sharp ache shot through the muscles in his arms, as though they were protesting in silence.
In that moment of utter exhaustion, a long-buried memory suddenly surfaced, making him yearn for the Wayne Enterprises of old.
Back then, Gotham's newspapers had been filled with reports of Bruce Wayne returning from his studies abroad and