Cole Vance was jarred awake by the searing burn in his empty stomach.
The dream—Stark, an unlimited black card, and Batman crouching nearby offering him tissues—shattered into the cold morning air of Gotham, thick with the stench of rust and rotting seaweed.
He stared at the ceiling, thinking the only flaw in that dream was waking up from it.
Waking up meant facing reality, and reality meant being completely broke.
Cole patted his hollow belly, then glanced at the dried webbing on his wrist.
Describing Spider-Man’s webbing in too much detail would probably get him flagged for inappropriate content.
*Sigh.*
Cole’s logic was simple and airtight: No money meant no protein, no protein meant no webs, no webs meant no system rewards.
A flawless capitalist death loop.
Thank you, Gotham.
Thank you, system.
And thank you, Old Ma, you idiotic pro-America shill.
Relying on intercepting food from street punks every day wasn’t a sustainable long-term plan.
He was currently much stronger than an average adult, and security down at the docks was notoriously lax.
An undocumented kid could easily slip in and haul crates.
Taking it one day at a time would at least bring in a steady income.
*Sigh.*
Why did transmigrating still mean having to look for a job?
He didn’t want to be a broken-down Spider-Man anymore; he wanted to be Batman.
Cole rolled out of bed and decided to try his luck at the docks.
***
Gotham South Docks.
The air hung thick with the stench of cheap rolling tobacco and diesel exhaust.
Larry sat sideways on a rickety wooden chair and spat a glob of phlegm that landed with pinpoint accuracy exactly two centimeters from Cole’s shoe.
With aim like that, the guy could have medaled at the Olympics.
Cole had staked out the docks for most of the day before this foreman finally showed his face.
He had overheard the man’s name from a few street thugs while doing his good deeds earlier.
“Larry, need an extra hand hauling cargo?”
Larry squinted at him, eyeing him up and down.
*Hmm…
A starving illegal immigrant kid looking for work.*
*Wait, hold on.*
The Asian youth was undeniably good-looking.
Even in a faded, washed-out hoodie, his face was clean enough to look like it had been cut out of a high-end billboard.
In Gotham, looks like that were a form of hard currency.
Not in the sense of “you’re handsome,” but in the sense of “you’ll fetch a high price.”
In every sense of the word.
A clean-cut Asian kid who clearly didn’t look like an addict…
fun to play with and appetizing.
Even better.
Larry’s eyes rolled thoughtfully, and he held up three fingers.
“Three days, thirty bucks.”
Cole did the math instantly in his head.
Thirty for three days came out to ten dollars a day.
Minimum wage in New York was sixteen-fifty an hour.
In other words, one hour of legal work in New York was enough for Larry to work him like a dog for three days.
Flawless Gotham economics.
“Deal.”
Since the guy was actually willing to pay, he might as well take it.
Larry pulled a grooved combat knife from his belt and slammed it into the tabletop with a sharp *clack*.
“Not so fast.
The rules just changed.
You can have the cash, but first, you pay an ‘initiation fee.’ Pharmacy down the block is run by an old man.
Go rob it.
Split the cash eighty-twenty in my favor, and from then on, you can walk tall around these docks.
Of course, whether you walk tall or get carried out horizontally depends on your performance.”
Once the kid committed a crime, it would be far less risky to kidnap and sell him off.
Cole stared at the knife.
A few hundred bucks.
Protein powder.
High-tensile webbing.
The slightly naive Cole was already mapping out his escape route in his head.
The alley behind the pharmacy had a broken security camera, and hopping over two walls led straight to the subway station.
Perfect.
[System Warning: Severe criminal tendencies detected.
Superpower degradation penalty countdown: 3, 2—]
Cole straightened his spine instantly, his eyes blazing with a righteous fervor that made Larry’s skin crawl.
His switch in demeanor was so lightning-fast it would put traditional face-changing masters to shame.
“Larry, you are insulting me.”
Larry froze.
“Robbery?
That’s against the law.”
Cole’s tone was as earnest as a public service announcement, his voice carrying clearly enough for half the docks to hear.
“Honesty is the foundation of a person’s place in society.
I may be so poor that I don’t even know where my next breakfast is coming from—honestly, my stomach contains nothing right now except air and hope—but I possess a heart of gold.
You want me to commit robbery?
No.
That would be a betrayal of justice.
I, Cole Vance, live as a good man and die as a well-spent one.
Man, that’s philosophical.
I’m putting that on my tombstone.”
The laborers hauling crates around them stopped in their tracks, staring at the dramatic teenager as if he were an escaped mental patient.
In Gotham, shouting about “honesty” and “justice” in broad daylight was rarer than running down the street completely naked.
At least streaking could be chalked up to being drunk.
Besides, plenty of people did that anyway.
When Larry finally processed what was happening, his weathered face flushed crimson.
It was the humiliation of being lectured in public by a snot-nosed kid.
In Gotham, that kind of insult had to be washed away in blood.
Or at the very least, by selling the brat straight to the Pleasure House.
“You fucking playing me?”
Larry surged to his feet, his rolls of fat quivering with rage.
“Giving you face and you spit on it!
Fine, you’re so high and mighty?
You won’t see a single cent.
As for you—”
He looked Cole up and down, sizing him up like a pig headed for slaughter.
“Those old freaks down at the underground Pleasure House will pay top dollar for you.
A face like that will easily clear my debts.
Don’t worry, they’ll treat you real nice.
For the first month, at least.”
Several burly thugs closed in around him.
Standard Gotham workplace culture: if talking fails, use fists; if fists fail, pull knives; if knives fail, drop a shipping container.
Oh, wait.
The container part was his idea.
Cole sighed.
“So you’re saying my onboarding orientation is a one-way ticket to a freak show?
Gotham’s labor laws really are comprehensive.”
Backing away, he ranted frantically in his head, *System, you seeing this?
I’m not the one starting this fight; they’re trying to sell me to degenerates.
This counts as self-defense, right?
No point deductions?
Or do you expect me to go quietly and rehabilitate the customers at the Pleasure House with the power of friendship?
Just picture that for a second.*
The system remained silent.
Tacit approval.
Or maybe it was just thoroughly disgusted.
Cole didn’t know if the system had a mind of its own, but he sure liked to think it did.
The lead thug threw a heavy punch straight at Cole’s face.
Cole’s foot slipped—as if tripping over an oil slick on the ground, letting out a dramatic “Whoa!”—and his entire body lurched awkwardly to the left.
The thug overcommitted with far too much momentum, unable to pull his punch, and smashed his fist directly into the crane control lever behind Larry.
*Crack.*
That punch was worth at least three months of worker’s comp.
The lever snapped clean off.
Suspended mid-air, a shipping container let out a screech of grinding metal that set teeth on edge.
“Watch out—though I honestly don’t know which way you should dodge!”
Cole casually gave another nearby brute a shove.
Before the man could react, he crashed headlong into Larry.
Larry rolled across the pavement like a giant meatball, coming to a stop right on the edge of the falling container’s shadow.
He rolled considerably faster than he could walk.
*BOOM—*
The container crashed into the ground.
Larry wasn’t crushed, but the concussive shockwave launched him into the air, sending him headfirst into a large bamboo basket packed with rotting fish.
Well, look at that.
Birds of a feather.
The remaining thugs moved to rush him, but Cole was already backing away toward the pier’s edge in “sheer panic.”
“Don’t come any closer!
If you do, I’ll jump!
I swear I’ll jump!
If I go into the drink, that’s one less body you can sell!”
As Cole shouted, his foot “accidentally” caught on a thick hemp rope coiled on the ground.
The other end was tied to an unloading hook.
Snapped taut by the sudden jerk, the heavy iron hook swung back like a wrecking ball.
Physics really was a beautiful thing.
*Thwack.
Thwack.
Thwack.*
Three thugs took the swinging hook to the back of their heads in rapid succession, collapsing into a neat pile with their eyes rolling back into their skulls.
It was so synchronized it looked choreographed.
Cole brushed the dust off his hands and called out to Larry, who was still stuck in the basket of rotten fish: “See, Larry?
That’s what happens when you lack integrity.
Even God couldn’t watch anymore; the Almighty literally gave you a push just now.
You need to do some soul-searching.
By the way, keep the thirty bucks.
Consider it my contribution to your medical bills.”
With that, he turned on his heel and bolted.
Thirty dollars gone, but at least he hadn’t been trafficked.
Besides, he had definitely hit his daily cardio goal.
***
Wandering through the dark, damp streets of Gotham, the hollow hunger in his stomach had evolved into sharp cramps.
It went from “a bit hungry” straight to “my stomach is eating itself.”
Cole passed by a diner.
Freshly baked bread was on display in the window, the aroma of toasted wheat and rich butter hitting him like a physical assault.
In Gotham, that smell was more enticing than any crime.
Cole stopped.
Plan A was a complete disaster.
Time for Plan B!
Cole didn’t go inside to beg.
Instead, he stood outside the display window, weaponizing his face—youthful, slightly aloof, touched with just the right amount of weary vulnerability—as he stared at the bread inside.
His eyes were clear and melancholic, like a stray kitten that had been soaked in the rain for three days, yet carrying an unyielding pride that screamed, *I’m starving, but I won’t beg.*
He had practiced this exact expression in the mirror seventeen times.
It was the ultimate secret technique he had deduced from watching idol dramas in his past life.
In theory, it had to work.
Though in a place like Gotham, the logic of teen dramas might not entirely apply.
This city really was full of exceptional talent…
Inside the diner, the proprietress was wiping down a table.
She noticed the boy outside—his slender silhouette, the eyes pleading hunger while desperately trying not to show it, and that face.
Especially that face.
She stared for three seconds.
Then she set down her rag and walked over.
Not stepping outside, just walking up to the entrance.
She pushed the door open, looking Cole up and down, appraising him like a piece of merchandise.
A typical Gotham evaluation: first see what you’re worth, then see how you can be used.
“What are you standing here for?
Blocking my business.” She stared at his face for another two seconds.
“With a face like that, wouldn’t you make way more working as a host at a club down south instead of loitering here?
Or did you think the entry barrier for high-end clubs was too high?”
“That’s illegal,” Cole said, his tone utterly sincere.
The woman scoffed.
“It’s completely legal.”
“?”
Cole really didn’t know much about American law.
He had assumed that trafficking or employing minors in places like that was entirely illegal under any circumstance.
For real?
That was actually legal?
She gave his face another glance.
“Forget it.
I’m short a dishwasher in the back.
Ten bucks a day, two meals included.
You in or not?”
Cole blinked.
That turnaround was even faster than the brawl at the docks.
“What are you staring at?” She shoved a bag containing sandwiches that had expired just today into his arms.
“That’s an advance on your lunch.
Be here at six tomorrow morning.
Late means docked pay.
Skip out and I call the cops, and I’ll tell them you stole from me.”
Cole looked down at the bag of sandwiches in his hands, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard.
Then he smiled—a smile so radiant it looked like a sunny day Gotham would never see.
“Thank you, ma’am.
Wishing you booming business, packed tables, and endless tips.”
Clutching the sandwiches, he turned and ducked into an alley.
The moment he was out of sight, he ripped the packaging open and took a massive bite of the ham sandwich.
The crust was a bit stale and tough, but it was meat.
It was protein.
It was the raw material for webbing.
The more he ate, the more he pitied his own miserable fate.
He truly hated the feeling of not having a single red cent on him.
Chewing away, Cole reflected that there really were good people in this world after all.
Provided you were good-looking enough, of course, and willing to work twelve hours a day for a measly ten bucks.
Whatever.
She was willing to pay.
Good enough.