There were still good people in Gotham...?

At five in the morning, Gotham's air carried the lingering smell of gunpowder and mustiness rising from the sewers.

Chen Mo stood in the kitchen of Gary's Sunshine Bakery, facing a lump of raw dough big enough to put an ordinary person in the hospital.

He deftly scattered flour, kneaded, and pressed, every movement flowing seamlessly into the next, so fast that only afterimages were visible.

Anyone watching would surely have thought the kid was a kitchen monk who had run away from some Shaolin temple.

In fact, Chen Mo had only been working here for three days.

On the first day, Gary had tried to give him hands-on instruction in how to "breathe soul" into the dough. Chen Mo took one look at that greasy attempt, then kneaded the dough to perfect elasticity himself, cracking the worktop in the process.

And while he kept smiling on the outside, he spent ages inwardly cursing Americans' dough-making skills.

He had thought the sandwich the owner's wife gave him last time had been sitting around too long. Apparently, that was just how it tasted fresh out of the oven.

What a waste of food.

Gary had shut up right then. Looking at Chen Mo's bright, harmless face, he thought the kid might be a born manual laborer.

What a good kid. Capable, and capable of putting in the work.

As Chen Mo kneaded, he replayed his moment of glory in his head.

The sight of those sacks of cash spilling from the top of the water tower yesterday still played through his mind.

Green hundred-dollar bills had spiraled through the gray morning light, landing on tin roofs, on clotheslines, and outside the doors of shacks whose lights had yet to come on.

That felt good.

The bakery work was tiring, but it came with two meals a day.

In Gotham, when you were an underage illegal immigrant who refused to join a gang, a place that let you eat your fill without anyone pointing a gun at the back of your head-and even paid you a little-was practically heaven on earth.

Chen Mo glanced back at the bread slowly rising in the oven. The aroma drifted into his nostrils, giving him a brief, unrealistic illusion.

Maybe there was a ray of sunshine in Gotham, too.

Maybe hardworking shopkeepers like Gary and his wife were this city's conscience.

The pay was just a little too low. This wasn't a long-term solution.

That damn manuscript had been under review forever. Fine, review it, but they wouldn't publish it until the review was finished, and they wouldn't pay him either. What a rip-off.

Even so, Chen Mo hummed a few bars. "Spider-Man, Spider-Man..."

His mood was still lovely.

On the whole.

The kitchen door was pushed open.

Gary's rotund body shuffled slowly inside like an oversized, freshly baked rustic loaf.

His wife followed him, dressed particularly eye-catchingly today. Her tight dress squeezed her into something like a red sausage ready to burst, and her nails were painted redder than blood.

Chen Mo stopped working and gave them a standard sunny smile, practiced countless times.

"Morning, boss. Morning, ma'am. This batch of baguettes will be ready in ten minutes."

Gary said nothing. He just stared at Chen Mo, a gleam in his eyes that made the skin on Chen Mo's back crawl.

He had seen that look before. Back in the slums, drug dealers looked at their merchandise like that.

Except the dealers had been looking at powder. Gary was looking at him.

Don't do this. I just finished complimenting you...

Gary walked over to Chen Mo's right and placed a thick, greasy, sweaty hand on his shoulder.

At the same time, his wife circled around to the left. Reeking of pungent, cheap perfume, she edged her body closer to Chen Mo and placed her red-nailed hand on his other shoulder.

Chen Mo was sandwiched between them like a meat patty being fried on both sides.

He could feel the heat from Gary's mass of fat through his work clothes. It felt like being wrapped in a wet rag soaked in oil, sticky and smelling of stale garlic.

Gary's wife extended a finger and slowly hooked the strap of Chen Mo's apron.

She tilted her head, her heavily lipsticked mouth parting to reveal a gold tooth that gleamed coldly.

"Little Chen Mo, are you tired?" Her voice sounded like a strip of iron scraped over sandpaper, making Chen Mo's ears ache.

Trying to save his first proper job, Chen Mo's smile froze for a moment before quickly returning. "Not at all. For the future of Sunshine Bakery, I could knead another hundred lumps of dough."

Gary chuckled and pressed a little closer, sending that garlic smell straight into Chen Mo's neck. "You really do good work. And you're so... likable."

He squeezed Chen Mo's shoulder with an unnaturally strong grip. It was not an elder encouraging a youngster, but a buyer weighing up the merchandise.

His wife picked up the thread, her finger creeping up the apron strap until it stopped at Chen Mo's collarbone.

Her nail brushed lightly across his skin, leaving a sickening chill. "Tell me, sweetheart, would you like to earn a little more?"

Chen Mo looked down at the dough on the worktop.

With a snap, his beautiful dream of "Gotham sunshine" shattered, leaving not even a fragment behind.

I hate this America. I hate this Gotham.

"Sure. I remember the contract saying five bucks an hour." Chen Mo's tone remained light, as though they were discussing how thoroughly to bake today's bread.

Gary's wife giggled, the red sausage at her chest shaking violently. "Five bucks is what outsiders get. As long as you behave, you won't have to do this rough work, kneading dough and standing over ovens."

She leaned close to Chen Mo's ear and lowered her voice, her words carrying a nauseating, cloying quality. "Just keep the two of us company. Only us. Whatever you want, I'll buy it for you."

Gary nodded along, his fat quivering. "Much better than washing dishes or hauling bricks out there, isn't it? This is Gotham. Plenty of people couldn't get an opportunity like this even if they begged."

Chen Mo kept his head lowered, looking at his flour-covered hands.

Yesterday, those hands had lifted an overturned car, smashed a drug dealer's teeth together, and scattered hundred-dollar bills into the slums.

Now they were covered in flour, with bits of dried dough he had failed to wash off still stuck between his fingers.

He wondered whether those sacks of dollars he had scattered had all landed on dogs.

He wondered why he had wasted three days of his youth in this godforsaken place learning to knead dough.

He wondered how he could have been humming "Spider-Man, Spider-Man" so happily just a moment ago.

He had actually fucking believed there were good people in this shithole.

Chen Mo had wanted to say something civil. Something like, "I'm actually a respectable person," or, "I have a seriously ill grandmother at home to look after," or even, "I'm allergic to garlic." But in the end, he said nothing.

Chen Mo merely gave a resigned smile.

That smile was still sunny.

Of course.

Gotham, that blessed land of outstanding people, couldn't possibly have good people.

He had been too naive, insisting on finding a pearl untouched by shit in a cesspit.

Chen Mo gently dusted the flour off his hands.

He raised his head, first looking at Gary's wife on his left, then at Gary on his right.

His gaze rested on each of their faces for a second, as though confirming something.

Then he spoke, his voice calm-as calm as if he were discussing how much yeast to add today.

"All right. You two asked for this."