That night, Vincent tossed and turned in his holding cell, unable to sleep.
The crazy woman in the next cage kept babbling without pause, and the brute across from him snored like a rusty handsaw.
Only his cellmate seemed remotely normal.
Well, normal was a stretch.
The man’s gaze crept over Vincent like a greasy hand, watching him very carefully.
He was a sharp-looking young man with slicked-back hair, brilliant blue eyes, and a prominent hook nose.
He sat perfectly upright on the wooden bunk, legs crossed, wearing a suit that looked a few sizes too big.
When their eyes met, the youth spoke first.
“I’m Oswald.
I work for Mr.
Maroni.
What’s your name?” “I don’t know.” The thought of being shipped off to Arkham in the morning made Vincent miserable.
Had he actually spoken to Gordon a bit longer, he would have realized he wasn’t being locked away just yet, it was only a routine psychiatric evaluation.
Trapped in his own ignorance, Vincent rolled over in frustration, flashing his backside directly at Oswald.
The other man had no intention of dropping the conversation.
“You’ve got a great shape!” “What the hell do you want?” A shiver ran down Vincent’s spine.
He flipped back around, keeping a hand over his rear.
“Just a little joke.
Don’t take it personally!” Oswald smiled, flashing a mouthful of bright white teeth.
“But you really are in great shape.
Perfect muscle for a enforcer.
I happen to be recruiting lately.
Any interest in joining the Romans, taking a seat in the Senate, and stepping into a bright future?” “The Romans?” The name sounded vaguely familiar to Vincent.
“Wow.
A Gothamite who doesn’t know the Romans?
Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of Mr.
Carmine Falcone either.” That name rang a bell.
The biggest mob boss in Gotham.
Apparently, his syndicate went by the Romans.
So Oswald was trying to recruit him into the mafia.
Failing to find Batman only to get recruited by gangsters was a massive detour from his ideals, but the immediate problem wasn’t whether to join or not.
It was that declining the offer meant a one-way ticket to Arkham.
“If I sign up, can you get me out of here?” “Of course, my friend.
We run errands for Mr.
Maroni.
You think a petty police station can hold us?” The words had barely left Oswald’s mouth when heavy footsteps echoed down the hallway.
Following a metallic jangle of keys, a fat-bellied guard unlocked the cell door.
“I’m taking him with me,” Oswald said, adjusting his collar and pointing at Vincent.
“He costs extra.” Even with security cameras monitoring the hallway, the guard openly extended his hand for cash.
“The Romans pay their dues on time every month,” Oswald snapped.
“You should be asking your damn commissioner for that money, not me!” “But he isn’t part of the family.
Besides, Gordon handled this one personally.” “Is that so?
Fine…” Realizing the negotiation was dead, Oswald shook his head in disappointment.
He unstrapped his wristwatch.
It was a flashy gold piece, quite heavy.
Vincent watched in confusion, wondering why a complete stranger would sacrifice such an expensive item just to bail him out.
But when Oswald wrapped the watch around his knuckles and slammed a fist into the guard’s stomach, sending the man retching bile, Vincent realized he had been too sentimental.
Cheered on by the surrounding inmates, Oswald delivered a parting kick to the downed guard, then turned and gestured to Vincent.
“You’re free.” …
Following that day, Vincent joined the Romans, becoming a low-level thug under a mid-level thug who answered to Maroni, the syndicate’s second-in-command.
His future in the Senate looked absolutely promising.
Oswald had invented the name “The Senate” himself, drawing inspiration from ancient Rome.
He had seriously promised Vincent that the syndicate would eventually rule Gotham, and everyone living in this building would become true Roman senators.
In reality, the Senate was just another old slum apartment in the Lower East Side.
The damp two-story wooden structure housed a sea of cockroaches and woodlice beneath its floorboards.
Every step made a sickening crunch of fracturing carapaces…
crack!
The harsh reality made it impossible for Vincent to believe Oswald’s grand promises.
Yet three months went by, and Vincent gradually adjusted to life in the Senate.
Collecting protection money, guarding territories, and engaging in brutal street fights with rival gangs taught him that being a mob enforcer wasn’t nearly as glamorous as the movies suggested.
It was mostly a flashy facade.
Walking down the street with a crew felt powerful, but sitting on a concrete curb chewing on stale black bread was the actual reality of his life.
Thank god for Oswald.
He was a remarkably decent boss who looked out for his men.
Without his patient guidance, Vincent might never have survived his first few weeks.
…
Back in the present, splash of cold water had cleared his head.
On his way back to his room, he ran right into Oswald.
“Hey brother, we got work!
It’s at Mr.
Maroni’s casino.
We just handle security until three in the morning, and it’s two hundred bucks a head.” Vincent nodded automatically.
“What’s with the face?
Look alive!
This is your first time working outside the lower district.
You might even catch a glimpse of Mr.
Maroni himself!” “Oh…
right!” To save Oswald the embarrassment, Vincent forced a smile.
How could he possibly smile?
Three months since his arrival, and no system had appeared.
No reward shops, no superpowers, and absolutely no clue on how to get home.
According to Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, once physiological and safety requirements were met, a person naturally looked for purpose.
But what purpose?
Vincent used to pull all-nighters playing open-world video games, but right now, he just wanted to clear his mind and pray for an automated quest tracker.
*Dropping me into this fucking hellhole is one thing, but give me a reason.
You have to tell me what I’m supposed to do!* Returning to his room, he opened a wardrobe smelling heavily of mothballs, revealing a solid black suit.
Joining the Romans demanded nice clothes.
Slicking your hair back with pomade was even better.
Living in a basement apartment, yet dressed like a high-society gentleman.
As Vincent pulled the jacket from its hanger, a superhero comic book slipped from the inner pocket and hit the floor.
He had no memory of reading comics here.
He didn’t even know if superhero comics existed in this world.
Picking it up and flipping through the pages, he quickly realized this was no ordinary book.
It was a comic about Batman.
Three full months, and he had finally seen the name again in Gotham.
Even if it was on a paper, it still made his heart race.
The villain in the pages was a biologist named Dr.
Hugo Strange.
Needing funds for his research, Strange had borrowed heavily from Maroni.
Unable to repay the debt and humiliated by the mob boss, the doctor unleashed his latest experiments; three biological monsters.
They attacked Maroni’s casino, slaughtered everyone inside, and cleaned out the vault.
The story suddenly ended there.
Plenty of pages remained, but they were entirely blank.
“So this is the system’s hint.
It really is a damn open-world game.” Vincent cursed, rubbing his messy hair.
He wasn’t stupid.
Connecting the keyword “casino” took very little effort.
The plot stopped because he and Oswald were heading to that exact casino tonight.
They were destined to become nameless cannon fodder, torn to shreds by biological monsters.
Those two hundred dollars were literally blood money.
Without this warning, Vincent would be a dead man tonight.
But with this prophetic comic, he felt he had a fighting chance.
The immediate priority was survival.
Could he tell Oswald the truth?
*Hey brother, I have this comic book that says we’re both going to die horribly tonight!* The man would think he belonged in an asylum.
Besides, two hundred dollars was a fortune.
Oswald was exactly the type to gamble his life for a payday.
And he actually possessed the muscle to back it up.
Just last week, the pair had been ambushed outside the apartment by a gang of lunatics in red hoods.
Oswald had single-handedly beat up a dozen men until they couldn’t get up, getting out of the fight with nothing worse than a torn seam on his trousers.
What about playing sick and staying home?
It was an option, but he refused to let Oswald face that slaughterhouse alone.
Oswald had broken him out of jail, given him a job, and lent him money for his suit.
In a a shithole like Gotham, Oswald was a rare decent soul, and Vin’s only true friend.
“Fuck it.
We take it as it comes.” Slipping into the suit, Vincent tucked the comic into his waistband and headed to the casino.