Cole Vance squatted in the leaky attic, several yellowed old newspapers spread across the floorboards.
The attic was sparse—a corrugated tin roof, a beat-up sofa, a pile of scavenged junk tucked into the corner, and plastic sheeting covering the leaking spots.
Wind blew through the vent, making the plastic sheet billow and collapse like the shallow breathing of something half-dead.
None of this, however, could ruin Cole’s radiant mood at this very moment.
He was currently clutching a thick manila envelope in his hands.
He had retrieved it earlier that morning from the back alley behind an abandoned laundromat in the East End.
The drop point chosen by Agent White: the manuscript slipped into a crack in the wall, and the payment stuffed back into the same crack, wrapped in a plastic bag beneath a loose red brick.
Squatting in that alley filled with moldy bedsheets and rusted washing machine drums, Cole had glanced left and right to ensure no one was watching before pulling out the brick, retrieving the envelope, and slipping away along the wall.
Back in the attic, he blocked the vent with a loose wooden board before squatting next to the ragged sofa to break the seal.
The entire routine played out like a secret agent drop.
Perhaps both sides were terrified of getting slaughtered by a giant bat while walking the streets at night.
Stacked neatly inside the envelope was two thousand dollars.
His manuscript fee!
His hard-earned, legitimate income!
What remained after taxes, processing fees, and protection money was all in old bills—twenties and fifties, crumpled, with curled edges, carrying that distinct Gotham aroma of gunpowder and mildew.
Cole dumped the cash onto the sofa and counted it bill by bill.
He counted it once, then counted it again.
Two thousand, not a cent short.
This was the payment for the serialized comic he created under the pen name “Gotham Veteran Driver.”
Chapter 1 of *Fallen Hero: The Phantom of Gotham*.
As for why he was afraid of retaliation from Batman, the comic’s title gave away more than a clue…
On his second day after transmigrating, Cole realized that with his current situation, finding a job would be next to impossible.
Underage, an illegal resident, no ID, no documentation, nothing to prove that “Cole Vance” legally existed in this world, and not even white.
The only skill he could trade for cash was his trade from before transmigrating.
Right, he was an art student.
Had he mentioned that already?
Cole’s major rank had never dropped below number one.
He didn’t need guide lines to draw human proportions, and his perspective, lighting, and color sensitivity were off the charts.
Since he had transmigrated, not utilizing these hands would be a crime against himself.
Not plagiarizing and adapting would be an even bigger sin!
As for what to draw?
Draw Marvel’s Avengers or Spider-Man in DC?
No, no, no.
This was Gotham!
And what kind of superhero doujinshi sold best in Gotham?
Modified and corrupted Batman doujinshi, of course.
A fallen hero, a divine icon dragged through the mud.
He drew Batman as a tragic male protagonist pinned down and ground into the mud by villains on a rainy night, his mask half-shattered to reveal a young, pale face underneath that practically screamed, “Why am I still in this city?”
Simply put: the more melodramatic, the more corrupted, the better.
He had even written Batman an exquisitely tragic backstory: standard protagonist setup with deceased parents, struggling alone in the dark, misunderstood by all of Gotham, with only the Joker, Penguin, Killer Croc, Riddler, Scarecrow…
occasionally giving him a glint of warmth.
Of course, Cole didn’t draw Crime Alley.
He was afraid Wayne Enterprises would check his water meter—even though he never paid a water bill in the first place.
Batman was the holy trinity of Gotham—Father, Son, and Holy Spirit—a black-clad martyr wedded to Gotham, a Sisyphus keeping the city from falling into the abyss, a Prometheus bringing hope to the people, Gotham’s eternal Muse, an indelible mark etched into the city forever.
Oh Batty, so many people love you!
Who could resist softening him up a little?
Cole had nearly brought himself to tears writing that part.
Unsurprisingly, this thing sold like wildfire among Gotham’s lower class.
Every youth in the slums had a copy.
Even Maroni’s goons would flip through two pages while taking a dump in convenience store restrooms, sighing as they read.
So hot, so spicy…
Cough, no.
Agent White said the first issue was snapped up as soon as it hit the street stands, and the underground comic circle was already asking when the second issue would be released.
Cole crossed himself in his mind with zero sincerity as he counted the money.
“Sorry, Bruce. This chapter was taken from g.com without permission.
I didn’t want to exploit your reputation either.
But who told you to be so famous?
Besides, you really do have that ‘broken hero’ potential.”
Cole rubbed the bills against his face.
Ink, mold, gunpowder—the smell of two thousand US dollars.
“Smells like heaven.”
Cole prayed earnestly that Batman wouldn’t trace his way back up the distribution line.
After all, Bruce Wayne was only in his twenties right now, far from evolving into that omniscient bat monster sitting atop the Mobius Chair.
The young master surely didn’t have that ironclad a grip on Gotham’s print media, right?
…Right?
Right now, he couldn’t even keep tabs on Falcone and Penguin, so how would he have time to browse the underground comic scene?
Probably.
Having secured the cash, Cole had only one thought: the suit!
He was sick of that PJ set.
Nobody gets to call him “Pajama Boy” anymore!
Cole pulled the hood of his old jacket down low and dashed into an underground materials shop in the East End that very night.
The shop operated out of the basement of an abandoned laundromat, its entrance hidden behind a dumpster in the back alley.
The shop reeked of engine oil mixed with rust.
The shopkeeper was a one-eyed man with an unlit cigar dangling from his mouth, staring blankly at a staticky TV set.
Cole darted between the shelves, his movements as swift as someone snatching discounted eggs at a supermarket.
“Polymer fiber, two rolls.
Lightweight titanium alloy plating, one box.
Bulletproof fabric—that’s the priciest, but I need a roll.
And give me the cheapest secondhand sewing machine you have.”
The one-eyed shopkeeper squinted at him skeptically.
“Kid, what are you buying all this crap for?
Planning to build yourself a coffin?”
Cole flashed a bright, innocent smile.
“Buying materials for my high school craft club.
We’re holding a superhero cosplay contest, and I’m the club president.”
The shopkeeper grunted, clearly not believing a word.
But in Gotham, as long as you paid enough money, even if you said you were buying an atomic bomb to blow up the moon, the owner would only ask if you needed free delivery.
Cole paid cash, hauled his heavy bags, and rushed back to the attic before curfew.
He spread the materials out.
Ballistic nylon, five yards, sixty-six dollars.
The sewing machine, the cheapest handheld model, thirty-five dollars.
Titanium alloy plates, only enough to protect his chest and shoulders, sixty dollars.
Polymer fiber and other accessories took another small two hundred.
Just in materials, three hundred and sixty dollars was gone.
Cole counted his remaining money—over sixteen hundred—rolled it up carefully, and stuffed it into the sofa crack.
Then he sat before that unknown-hand sewing machine and went to work.
As everyone knew, every Spider-Man was a skilled tailor.
He didn’t know how this rule came to be, but if Peter Parker could craft a suit by hand, he should be able to as well.
The clatter of the sewing machine hummed through the sealed attic all night long.
Polymer fibers were stitched into the joints for flexibility.
Titanium alloy plates were cleverly hidden over the chest and back—enough to block point-blank shots from small-caliber handguns.
The mask was re-stitched with an inner lining to fit his facial structure, no longer looking like a red sock pulled over his head.
The loose red-and-blue pajamas were entirely dismantled, trimmed, and reassembled.
Three hours later, Cole stood before the cracked full-length mirror.
Under the dim light, the red and blue suit possessed a sleek matte texture.
The snug cut accentuated his form, while the titanium plates formed minimalist geometric lines across his chest and shoulders.
The overall quality jumped straight from “bargain bin knockoff” to “high-end custom cosplay.”
Cole flexed his arms, testing the tight fit of the fabric.
“Looks cool enough, but the defense still can’t stop heavy caliber rounds.”
He muttered to himself, “Whatever, as long as I dodge fast enough, defense is just for show.”
After striking a classic pose in the mirror, Cole leaned against the ragged sofa and stared at the red-and-blue-clad figure reflected in the glass.
Working towards becoming Peter Hulk!
Four tons of force was just the starting point; where the ceiling lay, he didn’t know.
But who said he couldn’t be Peter Hulk and Peter Stark at the same time?
Nano Suits were cool as hell, okay?
Thinking of the liquid metal texture of a Nano Suit, he looked back at the remaining sixteen hundred dollars tucked into the sofa seam.
Not enough.
Far from it.
He had to keep drawing.
Cole sat down at his desk and spread out drawing paper.
He had already planned the next chapter’s topic: *Three Thousand Untold Secrets Between Batman and Maroni*.
No need to overthink the exact plot; the Gotham underclass loved this stuff anyway.
“For my Nano Suit, Bruce, I’m sorry.”
Cole made another insincere sign of the cross in his heart.
“Once I save up enough money, I’ll stop.
Probably.”
…
Meanwhile, on the outskirts of Gotham City, beneath Wayne Manor.
The light inside the Batcave was dim and suffocating, with only the massive monitor screens casting a faint blue glow.
Bruce Wayne sat before the main monitor, his chiseled jawline as cold and hard as marble.
He had just returned from the docks, still in his suit, his cape draped over the back of his chair like a pool of congealed black liquid.
Alfred was helping him tend to a wound on his back—scratched by rebar at the docks last night, not deep, but quite long.
“Achoo!”
Bruce sneezed loudly, so hard he nearly bounced out of his chair.
Alfred set down the antiseptic, expression calm as ever.
“Master Bruce, it seems someone is passionately discussing your heroism behind your back.
Or perhaps you spent too much time in the cold rain last night and caught a chill.
Shall I prepare some ginger tea for you?”
“I’m fine, Alfred.” Bruce’s eyes didn’t leave the screen.
“Falcone and Penguin have been too quiet lately.
It’s not normal.
I need to keep a close eye on them.”
“Rather than the mob, I believe you should also pay attention to this.”
Alfred picked up a colorful little booklet from a nearby tray.
“I bought this at a roadside newsstand today.
It’s number one on the bestseller list.”
Bruce glanced at the cover.
On the cover was a man in a tight black suit, bound by heavy iron chains, kneeling in the mud, his mask half-shattered to reveal a young, pale, grief-stricken face underneath.
Rain dripped from his chin, the entire image oozing a bizarre, uncomfortable beauty.
The title was boldly printed across it: *Fallen Hero: The Phantom of Gotham*.
Bruce’s temple throbbed twice.
“Alfred, I told you not to bring this garbage into the Batcave.”
“I merely find the author’s imagination to be remarkably vivid.”
Alfred calmly slid the booklet into his apron pocket.
“He even crafted an exquisitely tragic backstory for you.
Frankly, it possesses far more depth than the playboy persona you adopt at dinner parties.
At least in this story, you have a soul.”
The corner of Bruce’s mouth twitched.
He wanted to refute it, but found himself completely at a loss for words.
As the protector of Gotham, he didn’t care about these silly fanworks.
Really, he truly didn’t care.
In a place like Gotham, people fabricated rumors about him, drew satirical comics, and wrote bizarre novels every single day.
As long as these things didn’t voluntarily dance in front of his eyes to blind him, it was fine.
Bruce turned his head back and resumed staring at Falcone’s dock activity data on the monitor.