Wade Wilson had gone to Gotham.
For now, few people knew about it.
Gotham didn't know, either.
When Chen Mo woke up, a light rain was falling in the attic. To be precise, it wasn't raining outside. It was raining inside.
The patch of ceiling he had covered with old newspapers three times had finally given up the fight. Rainwater dripped through the cracks and landed squarely in the mug he hadn't washed last night. Clink, clink, clink, like Gotham tolling a funeral bell for a broke bastard.
He lay on the battered sofa, half his face pressed against crumpled draft paper. The first thing he saw when he opened his eyes was Batman's chain-bound pecs.
The lines were beautifully drawn-so beautifully that even his own conscience ached a little. Having it ache once in a while was a refreshing experience, rather like a recurring stomach problem. It felt a bit like a trial pass for the domineering CEO experience.
Bruce was asleep on his chest.
This Bruce was a dog: four legs, shed fur. Chen Mo looked down at him, and he opened his eyes to look back. Man and dog stared silently at each other for three seconds, like two refugees who had just woken from the same rotten dream.
"Morning, Bruce," Chen Mo said hoarsely. "You kicked me in the ribs again last night. Did you know that? Were you chasing rabbits in your dreams? Your legs are short. Give it up. You'll never catch them."
Bruce yawned, revealing a mouthful of white teeth.
A milky, chubby, stinky puppy smell.
Grabbing the dog by the scruff and dumping him on the floor, Chen Mo sat up. The battered mattress let out a scream.
It sounded like an old man stepping on a Lego in the middle