The steel pipe was still in his other pocket.
He didn’t know when the next bill would float down, so he kept it.
Deepest inside.
In the deepest reaches of the slums, an area where even the homeless refused to gather.
There were no tin shacks here, no shelters pieced together from scrap cardboard—only a half-collapsed red brick wall and a concrete ledge at its base barely wide enough to shelter half a body.
Rain dripped from the ledge, soaking the base of the wall into a patch of dark green moss.
Lying on the moss was a homeless man already crawling with white maggots.
He lay on his side, knees curled, arms bent, head resting on one hand.
Like the posture of a fetus in its mother’s womb.
But the skin on his face was gray, his lips were white, and his eye sockets were deeply sunken, like two dried-up wells.
He had several wounds scattered across his arms, shins, and outer ribs—festering injuries struck by blunt objects, stomped on by boot soles, and worn away piece by piece by life itself.
The skin curled back along the edges of the wounds, exposing the dark red flesh beneath, covered in a thin, translucent film of pus.
You could smell the stench from several meters away—sickly sweet, like overripe fruit left to rot under the sun for three days.
Flies rested on the wound on his calf, but he didn’t wave them away.
It wasn’t that he didn’t want to; he simply lacked the strength.
Beside him curled a dog.
It was too filthy to discern its original color—maybe yellow, maybe white, maybe black-and-white spotted.
Now it was a uniform gray-brown, repeatedly soaked in muddy water, motor oil, and unknown liquids.
The dog’s belly sagged loosely, its teats swollen and ringed with red marks left by nursing puppies.
It had just given birth.
Somewhere in a corner, a puppy whined softly, its delicate voice sounding like wind blowing over rusty wire.
The mother dog didn’t look back.
It remained curled beside its master, chin resting in his palm.
The old homeless man’s fingers twitched—a final, involuntary muscle spasm before death.
His fingertips brushed against the dog’s ear.
The dog lifted its head and licked his finger.
The finger was icy cold, coated in dust, with dirt packed under the nail.
The dog’s tongue was warm, pink, and slick with saliva.
It was probably the only clean thing in the entire alley.
The old man’s lips moved.
His voice was faint, light as wind slipping through a crack in sheet metal.
“You can eat me.”
The dog didn’t understand.
It just licked his finger.
“Thank you for staying with me.” His voice was dry as sandpaper dragging across glass.
“Everyone left.
The landlord.
The foreman.
The guy who swore we’d take temp jobs together.
The docks.
The convenience store worker who nodded to me every day.
They’re all gone.”
He paused, his Adam’s apple moving as if trying to swallow something.
But there was nothing in his throat.
“Only you are still here.
Only you didn’t abandon me.”
The dog rested its chin in his palm.
The hand had almost lost all warmth, but the dog didn’t care.
It kept its chin there, eyes half-closed, tail sweeping slowly across the ground, kicking up a tiny puff of dust.
You still do.”
He closed his eyes, and his hand slipped off the dog’s head, falling onto the cold concrete.
His fingers remained slightly curled, as if still clutching at something.
A hundred-dollar bill drifted down, landing on his knee.
Green against gray, like a leaf floating in from another world.
A hole torn in his pants revealed a kneecap so gaunt it was covered by nothing but a thin layer of skin.
The bill settled on his kneecap, its edge fluttered by the wind, softly tapping against the prominent bone.
He didn’t open his eyes.
He no longer had the strength to pick it up, to spend it, to use it.
Money was useless to the dead.
A hand darted out from the side, snatching the bill away.
It was a skinny hand, fingernails packed with black dirt, with a scabbed knife scar between the thumb and forefinger.
Its owner was a young man in a hoodie, his cap pulled low, revealing only a length of chin marked by a newly healed scratch.
Clutching the bill in his fist, he turned to leave.
The dog bared its teeth—as if its tail had been stepped on, as if its stomach had been kicked, pressing all its fear and pain into a single rasping growl.
Its lips peeled back, exposing pink gums and a few worn, yellowed canines.
The dog was very old.
Several teeth were missing.
But it bared them anyway.
The man turned, raised his boot, and kicked the dog square in the stomach.
The dog’s belly caved in completely.
Its body flew like a kicked rubber ball, bouncing off the ground and flipping midair before slamming into the red brick wall.
Its ribs struck the corner of a brick with a dull thud.
The dog let out a sharp gasp—not a bark, but the sound of air violently squeezed from its lungs.
Then it hit the ground, lying on its side, its four legs twitching.
Yet it crawled back up.
It lay on the ground for about five breaths before pushing with its hind legs, propping its body up inch by inch.
The side of its stomach that had been kicked trembled violently, its ribs heaving unnaturally fast, like the heartbeat of a Sparrow trapped in a fist.
Its hind leg was limping, afraid to touch the ground, leaving it standing on three legs.
But it stood.
Limping on that hind leg, step by step, it walked slowly back to its master’s side.
It took a long time to cross those few short meters.
It curled up once more, resting its chin in the hand that would never move again.
From the corner came the whines of the puppies.
The dog didn’t look back.
It kept its chin resting there, eyes half-closed, tail sweeping slowly against the ground.
The dust it raised settled on its own paws.
Cole Vance crouched on top of the water tower, emptying the last bag of money.
A few bills remained inside, around four or five hundred dollars.
He pulled them out, folded them, and stuffed them into his clothes.
*Buzz.*
The System sounded again.
Cole’s hand froze midair.
Squatting on the water tower, hands in his pockets, his knuckles turned white as his fingers gripped the bills.
Wind swept between the tin roofs, carrying up the sounds of people scrambling over the cash below—cursing, screams, tearing fabric, the thud of fists against flesh.
Then Cole curled his lip, turned, and climbed down the wall.
The man who had stolen the money and kicked the dog was gone.
So was the bill.
The dog was still curled beside its master.
Hearing his footsteps, it lifted its head, a low growl rolling from its throat.
Its lips peeled back to reveal those few worn, yellowed teeth.
Its body shivered, three legs propping it up while the kicked side of its belly surged rapidly.
But it didn’t back down.
Cole crouched down.
Eye level with the dog.
He didn’t reach out to pet it, didn’t say “It’s okay,” nor did he make any gesture humans make when trying to comfort an animal.
He simply crouched there, pulled three hundred-dollar bills from his pocket, and slid them unfolded straight into that cold, lifeless hand.
The bills pressed against the fingers, their edges trembling lightly in the wind.
As if the hand were still gripping something, refusing to let go.
The dog leaned down to sniff the bills.
Ink, mud, sweat, blood.
Then it sniffed its master’s fingers.
Finally, it laid its chin back down onto the three bills.
Its tail swept slowly across the ground, puffing dust onto Cole’s shoes.
Cole stood up.
He turned and climbed back up the wall to the top of the water tower, with only a single hundred-dollar bill left in his pocket.
The System finally fell silent as well.
Zipping up his jacket, he crouched at the edge of the water tower.
Below, things he couldn’t see were still taking place.
Wherever the money landed, people fought over it, hid it, or burned it.
Some clutched it as they walked into pharmacies, while others clutched it as they waited to die.
The sounds of struggle echoed up from between the tin shacks, muffled like people arguing underwater.
Someone was crying, someone was laughing, someone was cursing, someone was praying.
Cole listened quietly.
He knew this world wouldn’t get better because of a few bags of cash.
The old homeless man waiting for death by the wall still died.
The dog was still kicked, and the puppies would still whine for milk.
Once they grew a little older, they too would be kicked, and they too would curl up beside someone waiting to die, licking that person’s fingers before resting their chins in a hand that would never move again.
The docks would still crush the legs of day laborers.
Antibiotics would remain unobtainable.
Painkillers would still be sold by the tub—cheap, abundant, addictive—and the streets would always be here, waiting for the next person to fall.
Gotham’s inner logic wouldn’t change in the slightest just because a teenager in pajamas scattered a few bags of hundred-dollar bills.
But tonight, in some corner of Gotham, someone might be holding a hundred-dollar bill, sleeping through the first night of their life without having to worry about how they were going to die tomorrow.
Maybe the man with wet bills stuffed in his shirt pocket.
Maybe the homeless man whose hands were blistered from burns, who closed his eyes without a word.
Maybe a woman he hadn’t seen, who rushed out of a tin shack, grabbed a bill, ran back inside, and barred the door tight.
Maybe a child who hid the money under their pillow and stayed awake all night, terrified that if they opened their eyes, they’d realize the cash was just a dream.
That was enough.
Cole stood up and shook out his numb legs.
His knees popped softly.
The murky gray wind blew past him, carrying the scent of rust, mildew, and that sickly sweet stench of something quietly rotting away.
The single hundred-dollar bill in his pocket pressed warm against his chest.
He didn’t look back at the alley.
He turned, climbed down the water tower, and vanished into the shadows of the shantytown.