On the forty-fourth underground floor of the Iceberg Lounge, the air conditioning ran so cold it felt like a massive morgue.
Oswald Cobblepot—the short, stout man mocked behind his back as the Penguin—stood before an oak desk.
Spread across the desk was a map of the East End, several coordinates densely circled in red ink: the shantytown water tower, the dockyard junkyard, a filthy alleyway that even stray dogs avoided.
These places shared one thing in common: they were so poor even the rats wanted to pack up and move overnight.
Beside the map lay a stack of hand-drawn intelligence, scrawled handwriting annotating dates, times, and activity types.
Every single piece came from his informants—the pigeons, sparrows, and crows of Gotham’s streets.
Penguin held an ivory-handled letter opener, its tip moving slowly across the map, tracing from the water tower to the docks, and from the docks deep into the shantytown.
“Has Maroni been beaten so badly by that big guy in the cape lately that even his own mother wouldn’t recognize him?”
He asked without turning around.
His voice wasn’t loud, carrying an affected elegance like a gentleman discussing a dinner menu.
The henchman standing in the shadows shivered.
He had seen Penguin use that letter opener to open mail—and he had seen him use it to disassemble people.
“Yes, Boss.
Maroni lost three core warehouses, two dock locations were raided by Batman, and his top enforcer, Scarface, is still lying in the ICU.
Supposedly his ribs were crushed like a box of stepped-on crackers—courtesy of Spider-Man.”
Penguin let out a sharp, wet laugh.
It sounded like an old duck being strangled while hiccuping.
“Then let’s help perk him up a bit.”
Penguin slammed the letter opener into the map, its tip piercing the red circle over the shantytown water tower.
“Have our boys spread some rumors on the streets.
Wasn’t Scarface crippled by that brat in the red-and-blue pajamas?
Then spread the word that the Maroni family can’t even handle a kid in sleepwear—a bunch of useless trash.
Throw in a little flavor, like: ‘While slapping his face, Spider-Man asked: Is your boss Maroni so old he can’t even hitch up his own belt anymore?'”
The henchman froze.
“Boss, Spider-Man didn’t actually hit him that hard.
Scarface mainly…”
Penguin spun around abruptly.
A thoroughly fake smile stretched across his fleshy face, his lips parting like a knife wound.
“Does Gotham need the truth?”
His voice suddenly dropped, so quiet only the henchman could hear.
“No.
He wiped the smile from his face, his expression freezing over.
“Get to work.
Make sure it sounds nasty—nasty enough that Maroni flips his dinner table when he hears it.”
The henchman bowed his head and hurried out, his leather shoes squeaking sharply against the floor.
After the door closed, the forty-fourth underground level sank back into morgue-like silence.
Penguin stood before the map, pulled out the letter opener, and tapped the red circle on the water tower lightly with its tip.
Once, twice, three times.
Like a countdown.
…
Atop the abandoned water tower in the East End.
Cole Vance squatted on the edge of the iron framework, clutching his knees like a stray cat beaten down by life.
The night wind blew hard enough to scatter whatever meager warmth remained inside his suit.
He shrank his neck, feeling that the thermal insulation of this cheap fabric was practically nonexistent.
The new suit was cool, sure, but it couldn’t block the cold.
Spending three hundred and sixty dollars could block small-caliber bullets, but not Gotham’s night breeze.
Cole had just strung up two thugs who were prying open a convenience store’s metal shutter onto a streetlamp in an East End alley.
Now squatted atop the water tower, he looked down at his feet.
Gotham’s neon lights blurred through the rain and fog into patches of red and green; it looked high-end from afar, but underneath it was all gutters and expired burgers.
In the distance, a ring of warm yellow lights lit up the roof of Wayne Tower, looking like the only clean thing in this gray, gloomy city.
Cole stared at that ring of light for two seconds before shifting his gaze.
That wasn’t his Gotham.
His Gotham was this shantytown beneath his feet, its tin roofs packed together like fish scales.
It was an attic that leaked like a showerhead.
It was the crumpled hundred-dollar bill and few coins in his pocket.
It was wearing a suit he stitched himself every night, squatting atop a water tower in the freezing wind, waiting for the next mugger to show up.
*Mmh…
I should add downtown to my patrol route.
I can’t even swing properly in this dump…*
Cole yawned.
“System, I’m applying for a thermal underwear reimbursement.”
His mind remained as silent as a stagnant pond.
*Coo, coo.*
A pigeon landed on the iron frame next to him.
The bird looked brazen—its chest puffed out, neck bobbing, tilting its head to stare at him with a street-hardened “What’re you lookin’ at?” look.
Cole pulled a piece of breadcrumb out of his suit’s small pouch—dry enough to serve as a brick—and tossed it over.
“Eat up.
Why does every pigeon in Gotham look like it’s here to collect protection money?
Same attitude as the people in this city.”
The pigeon pecked at the crumb, then raised its head and gave him a look of utter contempt.
The look plainly said: *This is what you’re feeding a bird?*
Cole felt looked down upon by a pigeon.
“Fine, you’re high and mighty, you’re magnificent.
Next time I’ll buy a baguette and break off a piece just for you.
Satisfied?”
The pigeon ignored him, flapped its wings, and flew away.
Cole stared at the pigeon as it vanished into the night, feeling that something was off about that bird’s eyes.
It felt like…
this pigeon was writing an observation journal for some unknown entity.
The title would probably be *On the Daily Dazing and Declining Feeding Quality of Gotham’s Newest Broke Spider-Man*.
Before he could figure out why the pigeon looked down on him, his Spider-Sense suddenly tingled.
It didn’t hurt, but it tickled slightly, as if someone had brushed a feather against the back of his head.
Cole touched the back of his head.
“Is my sense malfunctioning?
Or is one of my fans peeping at me nearby?”
He looked left and right.
Nobody.
Not even the pigeon from earlier was in sight.
There was only Gotham’s dim, grayish night sky and the endless wail of police sirens in the distance.
*Oh, the Bat-Signal is on over there.
Something’s going down.
Pretty close, too.*
“Looks like someone needs help from your friendly neighborhood…
Batman?”
Mimicking Batman’s deep tone with a witty twist, Cole shot a strand of web, snagged the opposite water tower frame, and swung out.
The red-and-blue figure traced an arc through the gloom of the night, swiftly vanishing amid the stacked tin roofs of the shantytown.