In the storage room, Bruce crouched in a dark corner, his throat tightening and his back teeth chattering.
He'd encountered countless accidents in his life, but never before had he felt such a strong urge to hang this self-proclaimed teammate from a streetlamp and let him dry out.
Outside the ventilation louvers, the Deadshot had already turned his gun and was walking towards the small room.
If we were to retaliate now, or if Batman were to suddenly appear, it would seem suspicious no matter how you look at it.
Even worse, if Chen Mo gets bored and takes action, this city hall building could very well be razed to the ground and turned into a cemetery tonight.
Bruce took a deep breath, his fingers, hidden in his sleeve, rapidly tapping the dial, giving the approaching fighter jet and Batmobile the order to hover and stand by.
The next moment, the coldness on his face vanished like the tide, replaced by a look of panic and confusion.
"Don't shoot! Please don't shoot!"
A flurry of activity came from behind the mahogany cabinet, accompanied by the clatter of two silver forks being kicked away. A tall figure emerged, hands raised high.
Bruce's bespoke suit had several noticeable gray stains, and his black hair was disheveled and hanging loosely over his forehead.
His arms were raised high above his head, his hands shaking violently, causing his long legs to sway uncontrollably.
"You're all just after money. Let's talk this out. Wayne Enterprises has plenty of cash in its accounts. Name your price!"
Bruce shuffled forward, stammering as he spoke, perfectly portraying a wealthy man terrified by a sudden kidnapping.
As he walked into the open space of the hall, he didn't forget to glare fiercely at Chen Mo, who was standing next to the marble pillar.
"And you! You new cook at the manor!"
Bruce yelled at the top of his lungs, his voice cracking with grievance, "You betrayed your employer! I'll have Alfred fire you when we get back, and you won't get a single penny of your dishwashing allowance this month!"
Chen Mo leaned against the pillar, even thoughtfully raising the bottle and waving it at him, "Have a safe journey, young master. Remember not to drink cold water in the kidnappers' car, it's easy to get diarrhea."
Bruce:...
The Deadshot, holding a specially made weapon, frowned even more deeply beneath his mask.
He glanced at Bruce, who was trembling like a leaf, and then at Chen Mo, who was leisurely drinking.
Despite having lived in Gotham for so many years, this was the first time he had ever witnessed such a bizarre scene of deep affection between master and servant.
"It seems that not only is Young Master Wayne rich, but his employees also have excellent mental fortitude."
Deadshot walked up to Bruce, pressing the specially made barrel directly against the wealthy man's chin. "But the fact that you volunteered saves us a lot of trouble."
"Don't worry, I'll cooperate, I'll cooperate 100%!"
Bruce swallowed hard, his eyelids twitching uncontrollably, and he curled up into a ball. "Don't get my clothes dirty. This suit is custom-made on Savile Row; it'll take three months to arrive."
Mick Rory swaggered over, dragging a flamethrower, his face contorted into a grotesque grin.
" Floyd, why waste your breath on him? This pretty boy is annoying to look at. I'd rather roast him half-cooked and take him away."
"Idiot! The employer wants living people, not charred corpses!"
Deadshot coldly interrupted his companion's foolish act, flicking his wrist and slamming the heavy butt of his gun into Bruce's neck.
Just before the butt of the gun touched his skin, Bruce naturally turned his head to the side, his eyes rolled back, and his body went limp, collapsing straight onto the carpet.
The whole process was smooth and natural, and even the way he fell and knocked over the champagne tower next to him looked incredibly realistic.
"Done, job done."
Deadshot bent down and tossed the unconscious Bruce onto his shoulder like a sack of flour.
" Mick, find them something to do, don't let the cops follow them too closely."
"Haha, I've been waiting to hear that!"
Heat Wave let out a strange laugh, and suddenly tightened the valve of the flamethrower in his hand. Two violent pillars of fire spread along the red carpet, turning the corridor leading to the outside into a sea of fire.
Mr. Freeze, holding a freeze gun, reinforced the retreat route behind the three, creating a thick ice wall over two meters high, completely blocking the security personnel's pursuit route in the hall.
Security guard: Here you go, bro. Why would I risk my life for such a small amount of money?
Thick smoke billowed up, accompanied by the sirens blaring. Three figures, leading Gotham's richest man, rushed out the gate and into a modified van that had been parked in the back alley.
The banquet hall was in complete chaos, with guests screaming and scrambling towards the corners where the fire hadn't started.
Beside the marble Roman columns, Chen Mo bit into the last piece of garlic bread and downed the last bottle of red wine in one gulp.
The female assistant in the black dress, squatting on the ground, had tears streaming down her face and tremblingly tugged at his suit trouser leg.
"Sir... Young Master Wayne has been kidnapped. Shouldn't we call the police?"
"Why call the police? What good will they do? Go call Batman."
Chen Mo casually placed the empty wine bottle on the dining table, straightened his collar which had been blown by the wind, and slowly patted the food crumbs off his fingertips.
Mr. Freeze, Heat Wave, Deadshot.
Mr. Freeze and Deadshot are fine; they've always been around Gotham.
What's going on with this Heat Wave?
Why would a country bumpkin from Central City inexplicably come to Gotham to take on side jobs?
The whole thing reeks of a deliberately staged, poorly made spectacle.
A playful smile tugged at the corner of Chen Mo's lips.
Since a clue has been delivered to our door, wouldn't it be a waste not to follow it and trace it back to the source?
The rain outside the hall grew heavier, and rainwater poured in through the broken stained glass windows of the city hall.
In the dim, damp back alley, a heavy van without license plates roared to life, its tires scraping through the wet asphalt, leaving a trail of blue smoke as it sped into Gotham's intricate, rainy night streets.
Deep inside the cargo compartment, Bruce leaned limply against the metal box, his eyelids slightly closed, his breathing as steady as if he were asleep.
The tiny generator in his sleeve was pulsating at a faint frequency, continuously uploading the route he was taking to the Batcomputer.
He was also thinking silently.
Who struck? The Penguin? The Riddler? Or the Joker?
However, just as the truck made a sharp turn and swerved around the street corner...
A lazy figure with his hands in his suit trouser pockets was walking slowly through puddles under the dark eaves a few dozen meters away.
Chen Mo's stride seemed ordinary, but his figure left a faint dark gold afterimage in the air, always staying firmly in the blind spot behind the truck.