Once money was involved, many people forgot the danger to their lives. Just like that famous saying: with three hundred percent profit, capitalists would risk the gallows.
Now that Dilite was robbing them, his careless words had stirred up their fear of being ruled by poverty. In Gotham City, if you had no money, you had to live in the slums, where someone died by accident every day.
That feeling was practically hell.
No one wanted to live like that. They might as well take this chance and make a desperate gamble.
So, as Dilite approached them, the three burly men lunged at him. One grabbed for his legs, one went for his gun, and one reached for his throat. The three seemed to have discussed it beforehand, coordinating with remarkable precision.
Dilite had originally thought there was no way he could avoid them. After all, as far as he knew, each of his alternate personalities had their own talents, while he, the core personality, was just a weak, homebound nerd.
But for some reason, as he watched the three men pounce on him with murderous looks on their faces, panic flashed through Dilite's heart while his body moved on its own.
Dilite swung the gun in his hand, smashing the head of the man reaching for his throat and splattering blood everywhere. The man trying to seize his gun grabbed nothing but air, only to be met by another vicious blow from the gunstock that left his face covered in blood. Someone did manage to grab Dilite's legs, but Dilite merely bent his knees and hunched forward slightly, stabilizing his stance without being toppled.
There was nothing more to say after that. If they could not subdue Dilite immediately, the person holding the gun would always hold the greatest