Cole Vance pointed at the burly man on the ground.
“Do you know what he does?”
The girl remained silent.
“He deals powder.
Every bit of product in this neighborhood passes through his hands.
Before your dad broke his leg, he probably bought his smokes from him.”
The girl clutched the bills tighter.
Her knuckles turned white, as if the bones were about to pierce through her skin.
“I know.”
Her voice was as faint as a mosquito’s hum, terrified of being heard by anything outside the alley.
Yet when she said it, there was no hesitation in her eyes, no struggle.
Only resignation.
At just twelve years old, she had already weighed every option, discovered that each one led straight into the abyss, and closed her eyes to choose the shallowest drop.
God, was she even twelve?
She hadn’t even grown all her teeth yet, tiny and emaciated.
“But he’s the only one willing to give me money.”
Cole stood up.
He turned back to the bound dealer, grabbed the man’s jaw, and forced the mud-streaked face upward.
“Look at me.
Remember this face.
It’s me.
Don’t touch this kid.
You hear me?”
The dealer didn’t speak, his eyes holding the stubborn defiance of someone with nothing left to lose.
Cole lowered his voice even further.
“This isn’t the first time you’ve seen me.
You know I roam these streets.
If you dare retaliate against her, I’ll find you.
And then I’ll tear your bones apart, one by one.”
The dealer suddenly stopped shaking.
He grinned, revealing yellowed teeth with several missing, muddy water trickling through the gaps.
He spoke in a tone that sounded utterly sincere—even tinged with grievance.
“You don’t get it.”
He coughed, muddy water catching in his windpipe, making his voice wet and muffled.
“You don’t understand how this area works.
You think I’m the bad guy?
Do you know what other people would do?
They’d throw a bag over a girl this age and drag her straight to the Pleasure House in the South District, or to the underground brothels down at the docks.
“Over there, she’d have to take dozens of men every day.
Meet the quota, you get food; fall short, you get the whip.
“Three months…
hell, that’s for an adult.
She’d last a few days tops before she was ruined.
Then they’d toss her in a back alley like trash to wait for the body collectors.
A corpse like that wouldn’t even fetch a decent price.”
“What about me?”
His voice suddenly spiked, thick with the indignation of being wronged.
“I only make her stay with me!
“And I pay her!
“I give her money!
“She needs my powder, but I don’t just give her that—I give her cash!
More than anyone else would!
“With this money, her dad gets to live a few more days.
A few more days, you get that?
In a place like this, every extra day alive is pure profit.
You think that’s a bad thing?
Around here, what I’m doing is called fucking charity.
I’m a good man.
Don’t you think?”
When he asked that last question, there was genuine expectation in his eyes.
He wasn’t pretending.
He truly believed he deserved an answer in the affirmative.
Cole said nothing.
He stared at the dealer’s face.
Mud, bloodshot veins, rotten yellow teeth, and eyes that practically screamed: *I’ve already been so generous, why aren’t you satisfied?*
Sincere.
Aggrieved.
Straight from the heart.
The man wasn’t lying.
He genuinely believed he was a good person.
He truly thought that by sharing her with fewer men, hitting her fewer times, and tossing her a handful of dirty bills, he was doing God’s work in Gotham.
He truly, deeply believed he was a good man.
Cole laughed.
It wasn’t a Wayne-style smile.
It wasn’t a saintly smile.
It wasn’t any of the expressions he had practiced seventeen times in front of the mirror.
It was the laugh of someone struck by something so absurd that laughter was the only reaction left.
He was laughing out of sheer fury.
A loud, hollow laugh.
Damn it, he hadn’t wanted to admit he was just a spoiled brat clinging to socialist ideals, but fuck Gotham—it always found a new way to shatter a normal person’s worldview.
Cole hauled the dealer off the ground by his jaw with one hand, slamming that sincere face hard against the brick wall.
“You think you’re a good person.”
The dealer’s jawbone ground faintly against Cole’s fingers.
“You think keeping her to yourself is an act of mercy?
You think throwing her some dirty cash is earning good karma?
What’s next?
If you pass a stray cat on the street and don’t slit its throat, are you going to demand praise from God and marvel at how your kindness spared another cute little cat for the world?”
Cole shoved the man’s face another inch into the wall, grinding the rough brick grit deep into the skin.
“You’re not a good person. Visit g.com for the full chapter.
You’re just slightly more calculating than the other beasts.
You wanted a higher-end indulgence to soothe your conscience, but since you couldn’t afford it, you settled on depreciated goods.
You’re not a good man—you’re just a shrewd animal!”
Cole released his grip and took half a step back.
He looked down at his own boot, then at the dealer’s leg.
“What I just said?
You’d better treat it like gospel and carve it into your skull.
If you cause trouble for her, I’ll be back for you.
I know how the mob handles traitors, and I run these streets too, bro—don’t think I’m some soft-hearted saint who can’t bring himself to do what’s necessary.”
The toe of his boot hovered right over the dealer’s thigh.
“I hear the human femur can withstand about eight tons of pressure.
I’m pretty sure if I stomp down right now, the force won’t be too far off from that.
Your bone will probably turn to dust.
Want to test it?”
Only now, after showing no real fear through everything else, did the dealer let out a wretched scream.
Tears and snot poured down his face, mixing with the mud to smear across his cheeks.
“No!
You can’t!
If you cripple me, I won’t be able to work tomorrow!”
“Didn’t you say you’re a good man?”
Cole’s voice suddenly turned very quiet.
Soft, as if reasoning with a small child.
“A good man should be willing to make a few more sacrifices.”
The dealer’s lips trembled, unable to utter another word.
Cole reached into the man’s pocket, pulled out the battered leather wallet, and took out every scrap of cash inside.
Without counting, without even looking, he shoved the whole wad into the girl’s hands.
The girl cradled the pile of bills.
Crumpled, stained with mud, stained with blood, stained with all the unspeakable filth from the bottom of Gotham.
She looked up at the teenager in the crude mask.
“Will you come back tomorrow?”
Cole nodded.
“I will.”
The girl didn’t say thank you.
In Gotham, those two words were too expensive.
More expensive than painkillers, more expensive than antibiotics, more expensive than human life.
The poor couldn’t afford them.
Cole walked her to the mouth of the alley, watching her frail silhouette vanish among the layers of corrugated tin shacks.
The shacks looked like stacked coffins, each housing someone who wasn’t quite done dying yet.
He stood there.
Staring blankly for a long time.
Then Cole spat onto the ground.
“Fuck this justice.”
The wind blew from the direction of the shantytown, carrying the stench of rust, mildew, and a sickly sweet odor—like something quietly rotting away in the dark.
In the distance, the half-broken streetlight continued to buzz, its light flickering on and off, on and off, just like the city itself: never truly bright, yet never entirely going dark.