At five in the morning in Gotham, the air carried an uncleared waft of gunpowder smoke mixed with the musty stench bubbling up from the sewers.
Cole Vance stood in the back kitchen of “Gary’s Sunshine Bakery,” facing a massive mound of raw dough heavy enough to send an ordinary person straight to the hospital.
He dusted flour, kneaded, and pressed with practiced ease.
The entire sequence flowed seamlessly, so fast it left behind blur after blur.
If an outsider saw this, they would definitely think the kid was a cook monk who had escaped from Shaolin Temple.
In reality, Cole had only been working here for three days.
On his first day, Boss Gary had tried to teach him hand-by-hand how to “breathe soul” into the dough.
But Cole had taken one look at the greasy attempt, slapped the dough into perfect elasticity, and cracked the cutting board right down the middle in the process.
All while keeping a sunny smile on his face while inwardly cursing American dough-kneading techniques for ten minutes straight.
He had thought the sandwich the boss’s wife gave him last time was just stale; turns out that was just how it tasted fresh out of the oven.
A total waste of food.
Boss Gary had shut his mouth right then and there.
Looking at Cole’s bright, harmless face, he thought the kid was probably born for heavy labor.
*Great kid.
Capable and hardworking.*
As Cole kneaded the dough, he replayed his highlight reel in his mind.
Yesterday’s scene of tossing sacks of banknotes off the top of the water tower was still spinning in his head.
Bright green hundred-dollar bills spiraled down through the dim morning light, landing on corrugated metal roofs, clotheslines, and in front of unlit shack doorways.
So satisfying.
The job at the bakery was tough, but the best part was that it came with two free meals.
In Gotham, when you were an underage illegal immigrant who wasn’t willing to join a gang, a place that fed you, didn’t point a gun at the back of your head, and even paid you a little cash was practically heaven on Earth.
Cole glanced back at the bread slowly rising in the oven.
The aroma drifted into his nostrils, giving him a brief, unrealistic illusion.
Maybe Gotham really had a ray of sunshine.
Maybe diligent shop owners like Gary and his wife were the conscience of this city.
*Though the pay is way too low, definitely not a long-term plan.*
*That stupid manuscript review is taking forever.
If they’re reviewing it, fine, but delaying publication and holding back royalty payments is just too much.*
Even so, Cole hummed a couple of bars: “Spider-Man, Spider-Man…”
His mood was still pretty fantastic.
Overall, at least.
The kitchen door pushed open.
Boss Gary’s tubby frame shuffled in like a freshly baked giant artisan loaf.
Her skin-tight dress squeezed her like a red sausage ready to burst at any second, and her nails were painted redder than blood.
Cole paused his hands and offered a standard, rehearsed-a-thousand-times sunny smile.
“Morning, Boss.
Morning, Ma’am.
This batch of baguettes will be out in ten minutes.”
Boss Gary said nothing, merely staring at Cole with a look in his eyes that made the hair on the back of Cole’s neck stand up.
He had seen that look before.
Back in the slums, drug dealers looked at their merchandise with that exact same expression.
Only the dealers were looking at cocaine, while Boss Gary was looking at him.
*Come on, don’t do this.
I just complimented you guys…*
Boss Gary stepped up to Cole’s right, resting a thick, greasy, sweat-stained hand on his shoulder.
Meanwhile, the wife circled around to his left.
Reeking of pungent cheap perfume, she pressed close to Cole, laying her red-clawed hand on his other shoulder.
Cole was sandwiched in the middle like a patty being seared on both sides.
He could feel the heat radiating from Gary’s flab through his work clothes—a sensation like being wrapped in a grease-soaked, damp rag, sticky and smelling faintly of leftover garlic.
The wife reached out a finger and unhurriedly hooked the strap of Cole’s apron.
Tilting her head, her heavily lipstick-coated lips parted to reveal a gold tooth glinting coldly.
“Little Cole, tired?” Her voice sounded like metal scraping against sandpaper, making Cole’s ears ache.
Trying to protect his first legitimate job, Cole’s smile froze for a split second before instantly bouncing back.
“Not tired at all!
For the future of Sunshine Bakery, I can knead another hundred loaves.”
Boss Gary chuckled, squeezing forward another inch as the heavy garlic breath intruded right against Cole’s neck.
“You do great work.
And you’re really…
quite handsome.”
His hand squeezed Cole’s shoulder with unnatural force—not an elder encouraging a junior, but a buyer sizing up the weight of goods.
The wife chimed in, her fingers creeping up the apron strap inch by inch until they settled on Cole’s collarbone.
Her fingernail lightly dragged across his skin, bringing a sickening chill.
“Tell me, sweetie, do you want to make some extra cash?”
Cole looked down at the dough on the cutting board.
In his mind, that sweet dream about “Gotham sunshine” shattered into dust with a sharp *snap*.
*I hate America.
“Sure do.
Though if I remember right, my contract says five bucks an hour,” Cole said in a tone that remained breezy, as if discussing how dark today’s bread should be baked.
The wife giggled, her sausage-cased chest trembling violently.
“Five bucks is what outsiders earn.
If you’re obedient, you won’t have to do heavy labor like kneading dough and tending ovens anymore.”
She leaned in close to Cole’s ear, lowering her voice with a nauseatingly clingy tone.
“Just keep the two of us company.
Only us two.
Whatever you want to buy, I’ll buy it for you.”
Boss Gary nodded along, his jowls wobbling.
“Much better than washing dishes or hauling bricks out there, isn’t it?
This is Gotham—how many people would kill for an opportunity like this?”
Cole kept his head down, looking at his flour-covered hands.
Yesterday, these hands had lifted an overturned sedan, smashed drug dealers’ teeth together, and scattered hundred-dollar bills into the slum.
Now, these hands were coated in flour, dried dough still stuck between the fingers.
He wondered if those sacks of cash he threw out were just tossed to dogs.
He wondered why he had wasted three days of his youth in this hellhole learning how to knead dough.
He wondered why he had actually been humming “Spider-Man, Spider-Man” so cheerfully just moments ago.
*He had actually fucking believed there were good people in this dump.*
Cole originally wanted to say something polite.
Like “I’m actually a decent guy,” or “I have a sick grandmother to take care of at home,” or even “I’m allergic to garlic.” But in the end, he said nothing of the sort.
Cole merely gave a resigned chuckle.
The smile remained sunny as ever.
As expected.
Gotham, that blessed land of outstanding people, couldn’t possibly harbor a single good person.
He had been too naive, trying to pick a clean pearl out of a cesspool.
Cole gently patted the flour off his hands.
He raised his head, looking first at the boss’s wife on his left, then at Boss Gary on his right.
His gaze paused on each of their faces for a second, as if confirming something.
Then he spoke, his voice calm—so calm it sounded like he was discussing how much yeast to add today.
“Alright then.
You two asked for it.”