Gotham nights never end.
In this city, crime is as natural as breathing.
At a desolate street corner in the East End, two thugs were struggling with the rolling metal shutter of a closed convenience store.
One of them, gripping a rusted crowbar, was huffing and puffing as he jammed the iron wedge into the narrow gap beneath the door, his mouth spewing a steady stream of filth and curses.
The other was acting as a lookout nearby, his neck shrinking into his collar to escape the biting chill of the wind.
Leon crouched atop a lamppost diagonally above them, looking exactly like a giant red-and-blue spider.
The resemblance was uncanny, especially since this giant spider was currently spacing out while idly weaving a web between his fingers for fun.
Leon stopped his weaving and noticed the two misguided youths who had unfortunately chosen to break the law right under his nose.
He stared at the crowbar for two seconds, internally critiquing the thug’s terrible understanding of leverage.
Dropping down, he hung completely upside down from the lamppost on a web line, stopping so his face was directly in front of the lookout thug.
“Hey, guys. Why are you picking a fight with a door in the middle of the night? This door goes to work on time every day, diligently blocking the wind and rain, never late, never leaves early. Have you even considered its feelings?”
The lookout snapped his head around, his eyes nearly bulging out of his sockets.
He found himself staring at an upside-down mask made of cheap fabric, complete with crude, bug-eyed goggles.
“Spider-Man!”
The thug let out a shriek that sounded exactly like a duck being stepped on, the noise echoing down the empty street.
Leon swayed gently on his web line.
“Correct. And your prize is—”
He suddenly released his feet and dropped lightly onto the pavement.
Before the two thugs could even process what was happening, Leon’s hands began to flick with frantic speed.
Thick strands of white webbing shot from both of his wrists, accurately plastering themselves onto the chests of the two men.
Leon gave the web lines a sharp, brutal tug.
The two thugs were yanked forward, violently slamming into each other like a pair of high-powered magnets.
He casually circled the pair three times.
The webbing wrapped around them rapidly, sticking them firmly back-to-back like conjoined twins trapped in a bad relationship.
Leon dusted off his hands, effortlessly hoisted the “conjoined thugs” off the ground, and hooked them directly onto the metal sign bracket hanging above the convenience store’s entrance.
“Just hang out here and wait for the police. And don’t move. Once this webbing dries, it’s going to be harder than an ex-girlfriend’s heart. If you try to tear it off, you’re going to lose a lot of skin. Try it if you don’t believe me.”
The thug who had been holding the crowbar tried to struggle, but the high-tensile webbing bit painfully into his flesh, forcing a piercing scream of agony from his throat.
Leon sighed heavily.
“See, I told you. You minor villains these days just don’t listen to advice. You’re never going to become supervillains if you can’t even follow basic instructions.”
Leon shot a fresh web line, officially ending his slacking time, and swung out over the rooftops toward the next block.
Meanwhile, on the other side of Gotham, the situation wasn’t nearly as “friendly.”
At the East End docks, five heavily armed smugglers were rapidly unloading wooden crates from the trunk of a black sedan.
The leader of the crew was a mid-level manager for the Maroni crime family.
Dressed in an expensive trench coat, he casually leaned against the car, flicking a gold lighter to spark a cigar.
High above them, a massive, dark silhouette dropped silently from the gargoyle of an adjacent warehouse, descending like a piece of solidified midnight.
The smugglers didn’t even hear the sound of his boots hitting the pavement.
The lookout thug standing at the very back of the group opened his mouth to warn them, but before he could turn his head, a massive hand clad in Kevlar plating clamped brutally over his face.
Thud.
The dull sound of the man’s skull being slammed into the side of the car door was exceptionally jarring in the silent harbor.
Then came the second, and the third.
Batman’s movements completely lacked any unnecessary flair or acrobatics; every single punch was calculated, devastating, and aimed directly at incapacitating his target permanently.
The fourth thug finally realized what was happening.
Just as he drew his pistol from his shoulder holster, Batman’s armored fist had already connected solidly with his ribs.
Crack.
The sound of the ribs shattering was so crisp it made a person’s teeth ache.
The fifth man—the leader in the trench coat—dropped his cigar and bolted toward the shipping containers.
A Batarang spun through the damp air like a metallic blur, accurately pinning the fabric of his pant leg directly into the wooden dock.
The leader stumbled hard, falling flat on his face with a pathetic cry.
Batman walked over slowly, his heavy black cape billowing menacingly in the sea breeze.
He grabbed the back of the man’s expensive coat and hauled him off the ground like a dead dog.
The mobster grimaced in pain.
Upon seeing the terrifying cowl inches from his face, pure despair filled his eyes.
“Fuck… what goddamn bad luck today. Why is it you?”
Batman remained entirely silent. Get faster updates on g.com.
His gaze beneath the cowl was as cold as a frozen grave.
“I mean,” the man stammered, shivering violently from the pain and terror, “why isn’t it that spider kid? At worst, he just ties people up and hangs them from streetlights… Oh, right, I forgot this isn’t that spider freak’s territory. Bat, can’t you consider outsourcing this area to your vigilante colleague too?”
He looked down at his own unnaturally twisted ankle, genuine tears welling up in his eyes.
“You just straight-up shatter bones. Seriously, I’d way rather run into Spider-Man. Plus, he never lets my banter fall flat; we actually chat quite well. But you? You just give us the silent treatment while you cripple us.”
The pressure from Batman’s iron grip increased slightly, choking off the man’s breath.
“Could your customer service attitude be a bit… friendlier?” the thug choked out.
Batman threw him violently to the ground, pulled a specialized zip-tie restraint from his utility belt, and expertly bound the man’s wrists behind his back.
From start to finish, the Dark Knight didn’t say a single word.
He didn’t like to talk while he worked.
…
In Gotham’s Upper East Side, inside a lavish private estate owned by Wayne Enterprises.
This place and the dilapidated slums of the East End seemed to exist on two entirely different planets.
The massive crystal chandeliers were blindingly bright, and wildly expensive champagne bubbled softly in imported crystal flutes.
Bruce Wayne, who had rushed back to maintain his public playboy persona, was wearing a custom-tailored Italian suit.
He held a glass of untouched champagne, completely surrounded by a gaggle of high-society socialites.
A blonde model was telling an utterly vacuous joke about yachts and trust funds, accompanied by bursts of reserved, hypocritical laughter from the group.
Bruce was laughing right along with them.
The curve of his lips was perfectly measured, carrying just the right touch of wealthy frivolity.
But his gaze was completely vacant.
Through the suffocating scent of expensive perfume and the sparkle of million-dollar jewelry, he seemed to be staring blankly at the night sky outside the massive floor-to-ceiling windows.
Far in the distance, out toward the East End, the faint wail of police sirens could be heard echoing through the smog.
The thumping bass from the estate’s speakers vibrated the surface of the pool outside.
No one inside noticed the distant sounds of the city screaming.
A woman leaned her waist heavily into his arms, her overpowering perfume swirling around him like a chemical weapon.
Bruce smiled effortlessly and lowered his head, using the smooth motion to check the time on his watch and completely avoid her gaze.
“Sorry, ladies. I think I need to catch up on some beauty sleep. The aftereffects of last night’s yacht party still haven’t quite worn off.”
He walked away, swirling his glass lazily, his posture looking exactly like that of a billionaire playboy whose body had been completely hollowed out by alcohol and endless nightlife.
…
At three in the morning, Leon, who fortunately had absolutely no billionaire public image to maintain, swung back through the narrow vent of his attic.
Stripping off his sweat-soaked, poorly stitched suit, Leon collapsed onto the broken sofa with the exposed springs and dug a handful of loose coins out of his pocket.
These were the coins he had “picked up” from the unconscious thugs’ pockets tonight.
The system’s moral judgment regarding such “illegal gains” was wonderfully vague; as long as he wasn’t claiming massive, organized assets, the buzzing warning alarm in his head remained at a tolerable level.
Leon tossed the coins into an empty tin can sitting in the corner.
Clink.
Clink.
The crisp metallic sounds echoed in the drafty, silent attic.
When on earth is that publisher going to pay out the manuscript fees?
Two more leaks had appeared in the ceiling.
Leon sighed heavily, stood up, and dragged the tin can over to catch the newly formed drops of dirty water.
Drip.
The sound of dripping water and the clinking of loose change alternated with a rather depressing rhythm.
He lay back down on the ruined sofa, staring blankly at the expanding water stains on the ceiling, and began calculating tomorrow’s budget in his head.
“System, do you think I could get rich if I patented and sold my web fluid?”
The system, as usual, completely ignored him.
“True. This stuff dissolves into water after three hours. The buyer would probably track me down and chase me through the streets with a kitchen knife.”
Leon rolled over, and the rusty sofa springs let out a loud creak of protest.
Tomorrow I should probably check out the South Side.
I heard there’s an auto repair shop hiring under-the-table mechanics…
Never mind, the owner of that shop is heavily tied to the local cartels.
I’m going to have to stretch this cash.
Currently, I have exactly one hundred and twenty-three dollars and fifty cents to my name. Find the original chapter at g.com.
If I eat poorly enough, it should last until the day the manuscript fees finally arrive.
…
In Gotham’s North End, inside a heavily guarded secret stronghold of the Falcone Crime Family.
A middle-aged man in an impeccably tailored suit sat behind a massive mahogany desk.
He was one of Carmine Falcone’s top lieutenants, directly responsible for managing the family’s underground banking and money laundering operations.
An intelligence subordinate stood before him, drenched in nervous sweat.
“Have you looked into it?” the lieutenant asked, his voice dead calm.
“It’s been confirmed, sir. That Spider-Man freak intercepted our shipment of physical cash a few days ago, but he didn’t keep a single cent for himself. He scattered the entire haul over the East End slums.”
The subordinate swallowed hard, his voice trembling slightly.
“He climbed to the top of that abandoned water tower and just started throwing it down by the handful. Hundreds of thousands of dollars, completely scattered to the wind. Those desperate bastards in the slums went absolutely feral grabbing it.”
The lieutenant picked up a heavy crystal tumbler of whiskey, the ice cubes clinking softly against the glass.
He didn’t speak.
He just stared thoughtfully at the amber liquid.
“Should we… send a team to deal with him, sir?” the subordinate asked tentatively.
The lieutenant took a slow sip of his liquor and spoke in a tone as casual as if he were commenting on the weather.
“Gotham has never had a shortage of lunatics.”
He set the glass down.
“We have a billionaire who dresses up like a giant bat to break bones in alleys. We have a guy in a green suit who has nothing better to do than tell riddles before blowing things up. And now, we have a freak in spandex who steals mob money just to rain it down on the slums. What makes this one so special?”
He looked up, his gaze reflecting the cold, calculating cruelty of an old-school mob boss.
“Has he touched our core business operations? Aside from that single intercepted cash run—which was untraceable dirty money to begin with and hadn’t even been logged into our accounts yet—has he actively sought out or assaulted any of our strongholds since scattering the money?”
The subordinate frantically shook his head.
“Then just keep an eye on him. Lunatics have their own twisted logic. As long as he doesn’t start kicking our doors down every single night like the Bat, let him scatter loose change to the rats.”
The lieutenant waved his hand dismissively.
“If Maroni is stupid enough to stick his neck out and declare war on the kid, let him. Let this spider freak wear down Maroni’s enforcers. It only helps us.”
The subordinate nodded quickly and backed out of the office.
The lieutenant turned his heavy leather chair, looking out the reinforced window at the gray Gotham skyline, and muttered to himself.
“But stealing cash and refusing to keep it… scattering it all to the poor… this particular lunatic is a completely new breed.”
On the other side of the city, deep beneath the Iceberg Lounge.
In his subterranean office, Oswald Cobblepot was huddled in his oversized leather chair.
He held an ivory-handled letter opener, slowly slicing open a sealed envelope.
His chief deputy stood across the oak desk, delivering a detailed report on the recent movements of the city’s various factions.
The Penguin finished reading, folded the letter neatly, and slipped it into a drawer.
“Falcone thinks it’s no big deal; he’s playing the waiting game. Maroni’s top enforcer, Scarface, was sent straight to the ICU by Spider-Man. Maroni can’t swallow that kind of public insult, but the Bat has been breathing down his neck too closely lately, so he doesn’t dare make a major move against the spider yet.”
The Penguin chuckled wetly.
His smile looked particularly comical and grotesque in the dim light, making him look exactly like his namesake.
“What do we need to do, Mr. Cobblepot?” the deputy asked.
“Absolutely nothing.”
The Penguin closed his letter opener with a sharp, crisp click.
“Let them all watch each other. Falcone sees Spider-Man as a harmless lunatic. Maroni sees him as a blood enemy. And Batman sees him as an unpredictable, unstable variable.”
He tapped the polished oak table lightly with a fat finger.
“Three factions. Three different perspectives. We will simply sit right here and wait to see who loses their patience first. The criminal order of Gotham is like a stack of counterfeit bills; pull one out carelessly, and the rest of the stack will follow.”
The scene pulls back from the underworld empires to a dilapidated, freezing attic in the slums.
Leon rolled over again, cursing softly as a broken sofa spring nearly punctured his kidney.
Another leak had sprung in the roof directly above him.
Furthermore, the shoulders of his homemade suit were badly frayed from the fight with Croc; he desperately needed to find some heavy-duty ballistic fabric to patch them up before his next patrol.
Or maybe he could just scour the local flea markets to see if he could find a thick motorcycle jacket to tear apart for materials.
Outside, the rain began to fall much harder.
Dense, heavy raindrops drummed violently against the corrugated tin roof.
The sound was deafening, like a thousand people tapping the exact same note simultaneously.
Leon pulled his thin blanket tighter around himself, closed his eyes, and finally fell into a deep, exhausted sleep amidst the rhythmic dripping of the leaks.
Goodnight, Makka Pakka.