Dressed in jeans, a white button-up shirt tucked into them, and his newly acquired World’s Okayest Bartender apron, Mattheus officially began his first day of business in the renovated pub.
He opened at nine in the morning.
Experience had taught him that no customers were likely to appear before noon, but opening early made him feel like a responsible business owner.
It also gave him several hours to familiarize himself with the new kitchen and decide what food he could realistically offer without hiring another person.
Mattheus could cook.
He had lived alone for more than a year, and neither poisoned himself nor burned down his home during that time, which placed him comfortably above a concerning percentage of people his age.
He was not a professional chef, but he could prepare sandwiches, burgers, pasta, simple meat dishes, and most breakfast foods without accidentally making any biological weapon (—a very real possibility, as he had learned after one of his classmates brought a cool-looking bluish tortilla de patatas to a class party.
They had assumed he’d simply added food coloring.
They learned otherwise the hard way when four kids ended up in the emergency room, Mattheus among them) .
Breakfast was what he wanted to test that morning.
The kitchen was fully stocked with ingredients from the Store, including several bags of pancake mix that had cost him about 34 SP (in total).
Mattheus usually preferred making pancakes from scratch.
They tasted better, and the process was easy enough when he was cooking for himself.
But measuring flour, sugar, baking powder, salt, milk, butter, and eggs every time a customer ordered pancakes would take far too long (he could make it beforehand and store it in his Inventory (food did not waste there) but buying the mix was cheaper than buying all the individual ingredients).
He needed something that could be prepared quickly and consistently.
Premade mix was the practical and economical solution.
And on the bright side, the mix sold by the Store was at least ten times better than any brand Mattheus had ever bought on his Earth.
It made pancakes so light and fluffy that he suspected whoever created it had either spent decades perfecting the recipe or made a deal with some kind of demon.
Either way, Mattheus approved.
The moment the first pancake came off the stove, he picked it up with his fingers, shifted it between his hands for a few seconds because it was still steaming hot, and bit into it.
Perfect.
Mattheus loved pancakes fresh from the pan, hot enough that eating them immediately was objectively a terrible idea.
He had burned his tongue many times over the years and learned absolutely nothing from the experience.
He ate the entire pancake while standing before the stove, then poured enough batter for two more.
Those survived long enough to reach a plate.
Mattheus added a generous portion of scrambled eggs beside them, carried his breakfast into the main room, and placed it on one of the tables.
He returned to the bar for a glass of apple juice before turning toward his newest and perhaps favorite purchase: a compact professional coffee machine.
It had cost almost six hundred SP.
An excessive amount, some might say, and Mattheus would not disagree, but he was half Italian, had been raised in Spain (where coffee was practically a way of life—any respectable Spaniard drank at least three or four cups a day), and refused to run a respectable establishment without proper coffee.
Serving instant coffee would have brought shame upon both sides of his family.
He prepared an espresso, breathed in its rich aroma, and carried the small cup to his table.
The pub was quiet and warm.
Morning light filtered through the windows (the windows projected the outside of the pub, but since Mattheus hadn’t bought the upgrade that allowed them to display things in real time, he had chosen thick, frosted glass instead.
It still let the outside light through, but no one could actually see through it).
His pancakes were still hot, his eggs looked perfect, and the smell of fresh coffee filled the room.
Mattheus sat down, ready to enjoy a peaceful breakfast.
The front door flew open.
A woman slipped inside, slammed it shut behind her, and pressed her back against it.
Mattheus stared at her.
For one brief, admittedly selfish moment, his first thought was: Seriously?
Just when I was about to eat?
Can’t I have a me moment?
As he looked closer, his irritation vanished—the scene felt strangely familiar: someone running into his pub, closing the door in a panic, and pressing themselves against it while watching the street outside…
Just like when Tim first entered his pub.
She could not have been much older than Mattheus, though fear and exhaustion made it difficult to tell.
Her tangled blonde hair fell around a pale face, and her wide blue eyes kept darting toward the walls.
She wore a tiny skirt, a small top that covered very little, and high-heel boots (definitely not fit for running through Gotham or anywhere else really).
Bruises darkened one arm and the side of her face, and she had several scratches on her legs (the red skin around them told Mattheus they were fresh).
“Are you okay?” he asked.
The woman jumped.
Her head snapped toward him, and her eyes widened further.
She had been so focused on whatever—or whoever—might be outside that she had failed to notice where she had entered.
She looked around frantically, taking in the tables, the long bar, the empty stools, and finally Mattheus himself.
Yep.
She was definitely running from someone.
Judging by her clothes, she was probably a prostitute.
The bruises and scratches told him that she had either escaped a violent client or been attacked by someone who wanted the money she had made from one.
Neither possibility was good.
“Easy,” Mattheus said, raising his hands.
“I’m not going to hurt you.”
She did not relax.
Mattheus could hardly blame her.
This was Gotham, after all, and she looked like she’d just escaped a particularly nasty situation.
Not trusting strangers was common sense anywhere, doubly so in Gotham.
And while Mattheus didn’t look particularly threatening—a pretty Mediterranean boy was hardly the most intimidating sight—he was still a man, and if this woman had escaped from something even remotely as horrible as the darkest possibilities his imagination was currently conjuring up, then…
yeah.
Her reaction was very understandable.
Keeping his movements slow, Mattheus reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone.
The woman tensed.
“Just locking the door,” he explained.
He opened the pub interface and selected the entrance.
While Mattheus wasn’t entirely sure how technologically advanced this version of the DC Universe was—most of his customers still carried flip phones—this was also a world with teleportation, cloning technology, and a thousand other things that would have been pure science fiction back on his Earth.
Electronic locks were hardly going to be considered cutting-edge technology here.
He had locked the door from his phone a few times before, and no one had so much as batted an eye—once when Tim was being chased by a group of thugs, and another time after one of his customers had almost been robbed and was running away from said robbers.
Entrance Locked.
A soft click came from behind the woman.
She flinched and spun around.
“No one can open it from outside now,” Mattheus said quickly.
“Only me.”
That explanation did not appear to reassure her as much as he had hoped.
“But you can still leave whenever you want,” he added.
“I’m not locking you in.
I’m locking everyone else out.”
The woman tested the handle.
It moved beneath her hand, confirming his words, though she did not open the door.
Some of the tension left her shoulders—not much, but she no longer looked stiff as a bowstring or a cat about to jump.
“My name is Mattheus,” he said.
“Owner, bartender, cook, waiter, cleaner, and current employee of the month.”
Her gaze flicked toward his apron, and Mattheus followed her gaze.
“The award was heavily contested.” He smiled as charmingly as possible.
For a fraction of a second, the corner of her mouth twitched.
Progress, he thought to himself.
“What’s your name?”
She remained silent.
“That’s fine,” Mattheus said.
“You don’t have to tell me.”
Several seconds passed with no one saying anything.
Mattheus’s eyes wandered to one of the pictures on the wall as he thought about how to deal with this situation.
“Holly,” she finally muttered.
“Nice to meet you, Holly.”
She looked toward the windows again.
Mattheus followed her gaze but could see nothing through the thick glass.
For all he knew, whoever had chased Holly could be standing directly outside.
Calling the police was the obvious solution.
Anywhere but in Gotham, that is.
Mattheus had learned quite a bit about Gotham during the past two weeks, and what he had known beforehand from comics, films, games, and television did not exactly inspire confidence in the local authorities.
The Gotham City Police Department was not entirely corrupt, but there were enough rotten officers to make calling them a gamble.
Even the honest ones might treat Holly as a criminal and not as a victim just because she was a prostitute.
Besides, Mattheus could not call them.
His phone was not connected to Gotham’s telephone network or internet.
Unless he purchased the appropriate upgrades, it remained as isolated from the local universe as the rest of his pub.
“Do you have a phone?” he asked.
Holly hesitated before nodding.
“Is there someone you’d like to call?
A friend or a relative?”
A pimp, he added in his head.
Mattheus had once listened to a documentary about prostitution in Las Vegas while playing League.
He had barely paid attention at first, but the stories grew increasingly disturbing until he stopped playing entirely (much to his teammates’ frustration).
The documentary explained how pimps controlled the women working for them through violence, drugs, money, threats, and their families.
Leaving was rarely as simple as walking away.
Most, if not all, of the women had every cent taken from them, being financially controlled by their pimps.
Physical violence was the norm— they were beaten for disobedience, not making as much money as the pimp wanted or just because the pimp felt like it.
Death threats were used to keep them from escaping.
Their pimps controlled where they lived, what they wore, who they spoke with, and how long they worked.
The police were supposed to offer them a way out, but many of the women saw officers as enemies rather than protectors because of how they had been treated by them.
Mattheus had never looked at prostitution the same way afterward.
If that was how bad things could become in Las Vegas, he did not want to imagine what the same life was like in Gotham.
Mattheus kept several meters between them and made no attempt to approach.
Holly reminded him of a cornered animal—terrified, exhausted, and ready to bite or scratch anything that came too close.
Even the smallest animal became dangerous when it believed it had nowhere to run.
Mattheus could use Exile if she attacked him, but banishing a frightened woman whose life might be in danger would leave a terrible taste in his mouth.
Better to give her space and avoid giving her any reason—or opportunity—to panic.
Holly stared at the floor for a long moment.
“My friend,” she said eventually.
“Selina.”
Mattheus froze.
Holly.
Blonde.
Blue-eyed.
A prostitute living in Gotham with a friend named Selina.
There was only one person in DC Comics she could reasonably be: Holly Robinson.
Catwoman’s old friend, former roommate, occasional informant, and, in some versions of the comics, the second Catwoman.
Not the real Catwoman, obviously.
Nothing against Holly, but in Mattheus’s heart, Selina Kyle would forever be the one and only Catwoman.
She was one of his favorite DC characters, and anyone else wearing the costume was merely borrowing it.
Mattheus forced his expression to remain neutral.
There were countless versions of the DC Universe, and their histories could differ wildly.
In several continuities, Selina and Holly had met when they were young and become friends, with Selina, being the older of the two, taking on something of a protective role.
What happened afterward depended entirely on the continuity.
In one, Holly killed a group of terrorists, and Selina took the fall for their deaths, later even manipulating her into leaving Batman.
In another, Holly eventually settled down and got married, only to be murdered by her own husband.
Mattheus did not know which history this world followed.
The only facts he had were that a blonde prostitute named Holly had Selina Kyle’s phone number.