Night in Gotham was like an inverted cauldron, trapping every drop of light inside.
Cole Vance crouched on the roof of an abandoned apartment building opposite the East End slums, watching the sky turn from ink-black to a filthy, deadly gray that looked like a shroud that could never be washed clean.
A layer of frost clung to the sheet-metal ventilation duct behind him; even the frost in Gotham was gray.
Cole zipped the work jacket he’d picked up from a thrift stall all the way to his chin.
The slick, worn fabric pressed against his neck, cold as the skin of a dead snake.
The ragged sofa in his attic was still waiting for him, its popping spring lined up right to dig into the small of his back.
Lying down meant hearing his spine clank against the iron frame, vertebra by vertebra.
But today, he didn’t want to go back.
Close his eyes, and all he could see was the shantytown—corrugated tin roofs packed tightly together like fish scales, each sheet pressing down on souls who weren’t quite dead yet.
He had seen too much.
In his half a month in Gotham, he had seen dockworkers who had crossed the mob, impaled on iron frames with their skin burned down to the bone.
He had seen a homeless man whose leg bone was shattered by a convenience store owner’s shotgun.
He had seen three fourteen-year-old kids squatting in a back alley, calmly divvying up loot like a bag of chips—a pair of limited-edition sneakers stripped off another fourteen-year-old.
Cole pulled the red-and-blue mask sewn from cheap cloth over his face and flipped off the ventilation shaft.
No real goal.
He just didn’t want to stay anywhere with a roof over his head.
Day and night in Gotham were two different cities.
Night belonged to lunatics, criminals, and that maniac who liked hanging himself under roof eaves.
Day belonged to everyone—and to no one.
It belonged to the elites in tailored suits stepping out of Wayne Enterprises, to the vagrants in dark alleys making themselves into breeding grounds for maggots, and to the respectable folks who priced antibiotics far out of the poor’s reach, then turned to the camera and said, “We are committed to providing equal medical care for all patients.”
The ranchers were fencing off land; the farmers were driving up crop yields.
Cole crouched at the edge of the apartment roof, looking down at the street below, a ludicrous question tumbling through his mind: In Gotham, what did it actually mean to be a good person?
Did the word mean the same thing here as it did everywhere else?
Before he could figure it out, gunshots rang out.
At the bank on the corner.
Three consecutive muffled thuds, like someone hammering nails through a quilt.
Then came screams.
Even the screams of Gotham’s citizens carried a weary tone of “here we go again.”
Bank robbery had practically become a daily check-in routine in Gotham.
Cole flipped down from the rooftop.
In the bank lobby: four robbers, two handguns, one shotgun, and a submachine gun.
The hostages were herded into a corner, squatted in rows like frozen meat neatly stacked in a supermarket display.
A young woman in a gray hoodie buried her head in her knees, shoulders trembling, though she made no sound.
Beside her, a middle-aged man in wire-rimmed glasses held his head in his hands.
His glasses hung askew, a fresh crack running across one lens.
“I have a wife and kids, I have a wife and kids, I have a wife and kids…” he chanted like a mantra.
One robber was swinging a short-handled sledgehammer against the counter glass.
Three strikes failed to break it, drawing a curse from his mouth.
Another was shoving cash into an oversized canvas bag with violent movements, like stuffing scrap paper into a trash can.
The third swept a shotgun back and forth across the hostages, muzzle shifting left to right, right to left, as if debating which disobedient soul to shoot first.
The fourth—the one holding the submachine gun—stood in the center of the lobby, barking orders.
“Move!
Move!
Move!” His voice squeaked like a chicken getting its neck wrung.
Cole slipped through the ceiling ventilation duct, hanging upside down directly above the lobby.
No quips.
No righteous lectures.
Little Spidey was really in no mood today.
Cole let go of his webbing and dropped like a sinker.
His toes slammed into the shoulder of the robber with the submachine gun.
Sinking his weight down, he locked his knees around the man’s neck, twisted his hips, and flung him clear across the room.
The submachine gun flew from the robber’s grip, skidding far across the floor until it struck the counter edge and spun three times.
The remaining three robbers turned at once.
Cole gave them no time to react.
A web line from his left hand latched onto the wrist of the sledgehammer wielder and yanked upward.
The hammer flew loose, crushing the man’s own foot.
Before the scream could escape, Cole dragged him to the floor.
A line from his right hand wrapped around the ankle of the cash-stuffer and pulled back sharply.
The robber slammed spine-first onto the tile floor, his head hitting with a dull *thud*, sending greenbacks scattering everywhere.
The man with the shotgun finally reacted, raising his barrel.
Cole shifted aside just an inch.
The shotgun blast scraped past his ear and tore into the ceiling, blowing a gaping hole in the drywall as debris showered down like snow.
He grabbed the barrel, shoved it upward, and slammed the stock backward directly into the robber’s face.
The snap of the bridge of his nose was as crisp as snapping a celery stalk.
Four men, twelve seconds.
Cole dragged them to the bank entrance and wrapped them one by one around the stone pillars with webbing.
Different poses, lined up neatly.
Like four packages awaiting signature on delivery.
One was still groaning, blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth, his nose crushed sideways.
Cole squatted in front of him, looking into his eyes.
“Nose bone’s broken.
Go to the hospital and get it set.
Hit the ER, not outpatient—by the time you get through outpatient, the bone’ll have healed crooked.”
The robber said nothing.
He couldn’t figure out what this guy in pajamas was doing or what kind of crazy talk he was spouting.
Who the hell could afford a hospital?
Did he look like some elite middle-class worker from Wayne Enterprises?
The canvas bags of cash lay piled beside the counter, stuffed full, crisp green bill edges peeking out from the tops.
Hundred-dollar bills, no small change.
Well, that was a stupid thought—who steals coins during a bank robbery?
Sirens were rushing over from a few blocks away, drawing nearer like an approaching stray dog with a low growl rumbling in its throat.
Most of the hostages had fled, leaving the lobby practically empty.
The young woman in the gray hoodie glanced back as she ran out, her lips moving, though what she said was lost.
The middle-aged man in wire glasses ran fastest, not even stopping to pick up his dropped glasses.
The old man was the last to leave; as he passed Cole, he paused, pulled a half-melted hard candy from his pocket, and set it on the counter.
Then he walked out.
Maybe because Cole’s frame really did look like a kid’s.
Cole stood in front of the bags of cash.
According to the script he’d been playing for the past half-month, he should fire a web line right now, swing out the back door, and vanish before the sirens got close.
Clean, slick, true to the friendly neighborhood persona.
Cole reached out and gripped the neck of one of the bags.
*Hum.*
The system sounded—a low, continuous hum, like a thin needle pressing against the back of his skull.
It didn’t pierce through, but let him know it was there.
Waiting for him to pull his hand back.
Cole didn’t pull back.
He lifted the bag of cash.
The hum grew slightly louder.
No images flashed in his mind.
No twelve-year-old girl clutching dirty money, no “he was the only one willing to pay,” no price list for antibiotics and painkillers.
Nothing.
He simply held the bag of money, standing in the empty bank lobby, listening to the sirens drawing closer and the system’s low, persistent hum in his head.
Then he spoke.
Not loudly, and not to the system—to himself.
“Shut the fuck up.”
The humming paused for a fraction of a second.
“I know what I’m doing is right.”
The system fell silent, as if abruptly choked by the throat.
Cole stacked the bags of cash one by one, lashed them together into a massive bundle with webbing, and heaved it onto his shoulder.
With four tons of strength, carrying a few bags of greenbacks was child’s play.
He stepped out through the back door, scrambled up the wall, and vanished into Gotham’s murky morning light.