Leon crouched in the leaky attic, several yellowed newspapers spread across the floor.
The attic was bare except for a tin roof, a broken sofa, and a pile of scavenged junk in the corner.
Plastic sheets covered the spots where the roof leaked.
Wind blew in through the vent, making the plastic sheets swell and collapse like the shallow breaths of something half-dead.
Yet none of this affected Leon’s mood at the moment.
He was holding a thick kraft paper envelope in his hands.
He had picked it up that morning from the back alley of an abandoned laundry in the East End.
Agent White had arranged the drop point: the manuscript went into a crack in the wall, and the payment came back in the same spot, sealed in a plastic bag and tucked under a loose red brick.
Leon had crouched among the moldy sheets and rusted washing machine drums, checked both ends of the alley to make sure no one was around, pulled out the brick, felt the weight of the envelope, and slipped away again, staying close to the wall.
Back in the attic, he first blocked the vent with a loose wooden board before crouching beside the broken sofa and tearing open the seal.
The whole process felt like a covert exchange between spies.
Perhaps both sides were worried about being found and torn apart by Batman if they walked the streets too openly at night.
Inside the envelope were two thousand dollars in neatly stacked bills.
His manuscript fee.
His legitimate income.
After taxes, processing fees, and protection money, all that remained were old twenty- and fifty-dollar bills.
They were crumpled, with curled edges, carrying Gotham’s distinctive smell of gunpowder and mold.
Leon poured the money onto the sofa and counted it once, then again.
Two thousand.
Not a single dollar short.
This was payment for the serialized comic he drew under the pseudonym “Gotham Veteran Driver.”
The first chapter of Fallen Hero: Gotham Phantom.
It wasn’t hard to guess why he was nervous about Batman finding out, considering the title alone.
On his second day after transmigrating, Leon had already realized that getting a normal job would be nearly impossible.
He was a minor, undocumented, with no papers to prove he even existed in this world — and he wasn’t white.
The only thing he could use to make money was the skill he had before crossing over.
Right.
He was an art student.
Had he mentioned that?
Back in his original world, his ranking in professional courses had never dropped out of the top one.
He didn’t need construction lines to draw human proportions, and his grasp of perspective, lighting, and color was exceptional.
Since he had transmigrated, it would be a waste not to use these hands.
It would be an even bigger waste not to become a copycat artist.
As for what to draw?
Marvel’s Avengers or Spider-Man in DC?
No.
Absolutely not.
This was Gotham.
And what kind of superhero fan comic would sell the best here?
Naturally, a twisted Batman story.
The fallen hero.
The idol dragged through the mud.
He portrayed Batman as a tragic protagonist being crushed into the dirt by villains on a rainy night, his mask half-broken, revealing a young, pale face underneath that seemed to ask, “Why am I still in this city?”
The more melodramatic and broken, the better.
He even gave Batman an extremely tragic backstory — the classic setup of losing his parents, fighting alone in the dark, and being misunderstood by all of Gotham, while only the Joker, Penguin, Killer Croc, Riddler, and Scarecrow occasionally showed him a sliver of “warmth.”
Of course, Leon avoided drawing any narrow alleys.
He was terrified of Wayne Enterprises coming to check his water meter, even though he never paid for water anyway.
Batman was the trinity of Gotham — Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.
The widow in black who married the city and became its martyr.
The Sisyphus forever holding Gotham up.
The Prometheus who brought hope.
Gotham’s eternal muse.
The permanent brand seared into the city’s soul.
Oh Bat, so many people loved him.
Who could resist the urge to “mother” him a little? The source of this chapter is g.com.
Leon had almost moved himself to tears while drawing that part.
Unsurprisingly, the comic sold extremely well among Gotham’s lower class.
Almost every young person in the slums had a copy.
Even Maroni’s thugs would sometimes flip through a few pages while squatting outside a convenience store, sighing as they read.
So spicy, so erotic… cough, no.
Agent White said that the moment the first chapter appeared at the newsstands, it was completely sold out.
People in the underground comic circles were already asking when the second chapter would drop.
While counting the money, Leon made the sign of the cross in his heart with zero sincerity.
“Sorry, Bruce. I didn’t want to exploit your name. But who told you to be so famous? And you really do have the potential to be ‘broken.'”
Leon rubbed the bills against his face, breathing in the smell of ink, mold, and gunpowder.
“Smells so good.”
He sincerely hoped Batman wouldn’t trace the distribution channel back to him.
After all, the current Bruce Wayne was still only in his twenties.
He hadn’t yet become the all-knowing Bat-monster who sat on the Mobius Chair.
The young Master Wayne probably didn’t have that much control over Gotham’s underground print media yet.
Right?
Right now he was busy enough just keeping an eye on Falcone and Penguin.
He probably didn’t have time to browse underground comics.
Probably.
After getting the money, Leon had only one thought: the suit!
He was fed up with those pajamas.
Don’t call him Pajama Boy anymore!
Leon pulled the hood of his old jacket low and rushed into an underground materials shop in the East End late at night.
This shop was located in the basement of an abandoned laundry, its entrance hidden behind a dumpster in the back alley.
The shop was filled with a mixture of engine oil and rust.
The owner was a one-eyed man with an unlit cigar in his mouth, staring blankly at a television screen filled with static.
Leon moved through the shelves, his actions as nimble as someone grabbing discounted eggs at a supermarket.
“Polymer fiber, two rolls. Lightweight titanium alloy plates, one box. Bulletproof fabric — this is the most expensive, but I must have one roll. And one of the cheapest second-hand sewing machines.”
The one-eyed owner squinted at him, his single eye filled with suspicion.
“Kid, what are you buying this stuff for? Planning to make yourself a coffin?”
Leon gave an extremely bright and innocent smile.
“I’m buying for the school’s handicraft club. We’re holding a superhero cosplay competition, and I’m the president.”
The one-eyed man snorted, clearly not believing a single word.
But in Gotham, as long as the money was right, even if you said you were buying an atomic bomb to blow up the moon, the owner would only ask if you needed free shipping.
Leon paid in cash and, carrying large and small bags, returned to the attic before curfew.
He spread out the materials.
Ballistic nylon, five yards, cost sixty-six dollars.
The sewing machine, the cheapest handheld model, thirty-five dollars.
Titanium alloy plates, only enough to protect the chest and shoulders, sixty dollars.
Polymer fiber and other accessories took another couple hundred.
Just for the material costs, three hundred and sixty dollars were gone.
Leon counted the remaining money — over sixteen hundred — carefully rolled it up, and stuffed it into the crack in the sofa.
Then he sat in front of that nth-hand sewing machine and began to work.
As everyone knows, every Spider-Man is a good tailor.
He didn’t know how this pattern formed, but since Peter Parker could hand-craft his suit, he should be able to as well.
The clatter of the sewing machine echoed throughout the sealed attic for the entire night.
Polymer fibers were sewn into the joints to increase mobility.
Titanium alloy plates were cleverly hidden in the chest and back, enough to at least stop close-range shots from small-caliber pistols.
The mask was resewn with an added lining to fit the shape of his face, no longer looking like a red sock pulled over his head.
The original loose red and blue pajamas were completely disassembled, cut, and reassembled.
Three hours later, Leon stood before that cracked full-length mirror.
The red and blue base colors had a matte texture in the dim light.
The tight-fitting cut perfectly outlined his figure, and the titanium alloy plates formed minimalist geometric lines at the chest and shoulders.
Leon moved his arms, feeling the tightness of the fabric.
“It’s a bit more handsome, but the defense still can’t stop large-caliber bullets.”
He muttered to himself, “But it’s fine. As long as I dodge fast enough, defense is just for show.”
He struck a classic pose for the mirror, then leaned back on the broken sofa, staring at the figure in the red and blue suit in the mirror.
The system was strengthening his body; his strength, speed, and reactions were all increasing bit by bit.
Striving for the day he could become Peter Hulk!
Four tons of strength was just the starting point; he didn’t know where the upper limit was.
But no one said he couldn’t become Peter Hulk and Peter Stark at the same time, right?
Nano-suits are very cool, okay?
Thinking of the fluid metallic feel of a nano-suit, he looked at the remaining sixteen hundred dollars in the sofa crack.
Not enough.
Far from it.
He had to keep drawing.
Leon sat at the table and spread out his drawing paper.
He had already thought of the content for the next chapter: The Three Thousand Secrets Batman and Maroni Had to Tell.
He wouldn’t overthink the specific plot.
Anyway, the lower classes of Gotham loved to see it.
“For my nano-suit, Bruce, I’m sorry.”
Leon once again made the sign of the cross in his heart with zero sincerity.
“Once I’ve saved enough money, I’ll stop. Probably.”
…
At this moment, on the outskirts of Gotham City, beneath Wayne Manor.
The light inside the Batcave was dim and oppressive, with only the massive monitoring screens emitting a faint blue glow.
Bruce Wayne sat before the main screen, his jawline as cold and hard as a piece of marble.
He had just returned from the docks and hadn’t changed out of his suit yet.
His cape hung behind the chair like a pool of solidified black liquid.
Alfred was helping him treat a wound on his back, which had been sliced by a piece of rebar at the docks the night before.
It wasn’t deep, but it was long.
“Achoo!”
Bruce suddenly let out a loud sneeze, the force of it nearly making him bounce out of his chair.
Alfred put down the medicine, looking calm.
“Master Bruce, it seems someone is passionately discussing your heroic figure behind your back. Or perhaps you stayed in the cold rain for too long last night and caught a cold. Shall I prepare some ginger tea for you?”
“I’m fine, Alfred.” Bruce’s gaze 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 this lead.”
“Rather than gangs, I think you should also pay attention to this.”
Alfred picked up a colorful pamphlet from a nearby tray.
“I bought this at a roadside newsstand today. It’s the number one bestseller.”
Bruce glanced at the cover.
On the cover was a man in a black skintight suit, bound by thick chains and kneeling in the mud, his mask half-shattered to reveal a young, pale face filled with pain underneath.
Rainwater dripped from his chin, and the entire image was filled with a certain eerie, unsettling beauty.
The title was written boldly: Fallen Hero: Gotham Phantom.
Bruce’s temple throbbed twice.
“Alfred, I told you not to bring this trash into the Batcave.”
“I simply feel that this author’s imagination is very rich.”
Alfred calmly tucked the pamphlet into his apron pocket.
“He even composed an extremely tragic backstory for you. Honestly, it has much more depth than the playboy persona you usually portray at banquets. At least in this story, you have a soul.”
The corner of Bruce’s mouth twitched.
He wanted to retort, but found he didn’t know where to start.
As the protector of Gotham, he didn’t care about these boring fan creations.
Honestly, he really didn’t care.
In a place like Gotham, people fabricated rumors about him, drew satirical comics of him, and wrote bizarre novels about him every day.
As long as these things didn’t actively flaunt themselves in front of him to burn his eyes, it was fine.
Bruce turned his head and continued to stare at the data of Falcone’s dock activities on the screen.