On the 44th floor underground of the Iceberg Lounge, the air conditioning ran like a giant morgue.
Oswald Cobblepot, the short, stout man known behind his back as the Penguin, stood in front of an oak desk.
A map of the East End was spread across the desk, with several coordinates densely circled in red ink: the water tower in Shantytown, a garbage dump at the docks, and a foul alleyway that even stray dogs avoided.
These places had one thing in common—they were so poor that even the rats wanted to move out overnight.
A stack of hand-drawn intelligence reports lay next to the map, with dates, times, and types of activities noted in scrawled handwriting.
Every single one came from his informants—the pigeons, sparrows, and crows on the streets of Gotham.
The Penguin held an ivory-handled letter opener, its tip slowly tracing across the map, from the water tower to the docks, and from the docks deep into Shantytown.
“Has Maroni been beaten so badly by that big black guy in the cape lately that even his own mother wouldn’t recognize him?”
He asked without turning his head.
His voice wasn’t loud, carrying a forced elegance, like a gentleman discussing a dinner menu.
The subordinate standing in the shadows shuddered.
He had seen the Penguin use that letter opener to open letters, and he had seen him use it to take people apart.
“Yes, boss. Maroni has lost three core warehouses. Two locations at the docks were taken out by Batman, and even his top enforcer, ‘Scarface,’ is still lying in the ICU. They say his ribs were crushed like a box of stepped-on crackers. It was done by Spider-Man.”
The Penguin let out a short laugh.
It sounded like a sharp, wet hiccup from an old mother duck being strangled.
“Then let’s help him freshen up a bit more.”
The Penguin suddenly stabbed the letter opener into the map, the tip piercing the red circle over the water tower in Shantytown.
“Have some rumors spread 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 someone in pajamas—a bunch of useless trash. Add a little detail: ‘While Spider-Man was slapping him, he asked: Is your boss Maroni already so old he can’t even tie his own belt?'”
The subordinate hesitated for a moment.
“Boss, Spider-Man didn’t actually hit him that hard. Scarface was mainly…”
The Penguin spun around abruptly.
A hypocritical smile squeezed onto his fleshy face, the curve of his lips like a wound sliced open by a knife.
“Does Gotham need the truth?”
His voice suddenly dropped very low, so low only the subordinate could hear.
“No. Gotham only needs an excuse for those idiots to tear each other’s throats out.”
He pulled back his smile, his face turning cold.
“Get lost and get to work. Remember to make it sound nasty—the kind of thing that would make Maroni flip the dining table immediately after hearing it.”
The subordinate bowed and retreated, his leather shoes making a hurried scraping sound on the floor.
After the door closed, the 44th floor underground fell back into that morgue-like silence.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Like some kind of countdown.
…
At the top of the abandoned water tower in the East End.
Leon crouched on the edge of the iron frame, hugging his knees, looking like a stray cat that had been beaten down by life.
The night wind was strong enough to blow away the meager warmth inside his suit.
He hunched his shoulders, feeling that the cheap fabric provided essentially zero protection against the cold.
The new suit was cool, but it wasn’t cold-proof.
Spending three hundred and sixty dollars could stop small-caliber bullets, but it couldn’t stop Gotham’s night wind.
Leon had just hung two thugs who were prying open a convenience store’s rolling shutter door onto a streetlamp in an East End alley.
Now, he crouched on top of the water tower, looking down at his feet.
Gotham’s neon lights blurred into a mass of red and green spots in the rain and mist.
It looked high-end, but underneath, it was all the smell of sewers and expired burgers.
In the distance, a ring of warm yellow lights glowed atop Wayne Tower, looking like the only clean thing in this gray city.
Leon stared at that ring of light for two seconds before looking away.
That wasn’t his Gotham.
His Gotham was Shantytown below, where the corrugated iron roofs were packed together like fish scales.
It was the attic that leaked like a showerhead.
It was the crumpled hundred-dollar bill and a few coins in his pocket.
It was wearing a self-sewn suit every night, crouching on top of a water tower in the cold wind, waiting for the next mugger to appear.
Hmm… I should add the city center to the patrol route.
I can’t even swing around in this dump…
Leon yawned.
“System, I’m applying for reimbursement for a set of thermal underwear.”
His mind was as quiet as a pool of stagnant water.
Coo.
A pigeon landed on the iron frame next to him.
Its feathers were gray with a glossy, oily green-purple sheen.
It looked well-fed.
Leon pulled a breadcrumb so dry it could be used as a brick from a small pocket in his suit and tossed it over.
“Eat up. Why do all the pigeons in Gotham look like they’re about to collect protection money? They have the same temperament as the people in this city.”
The pigeon looked down and pecked at the breadcrumb, then looked up and gave him an incredibly disdainful look.
That look clearly said: You’re giving a bird this?
Leon felt like he was being looked down on by a pigeon.
“Fine, you’re so noble, you’re so great. Next time I’ll buy a baguette and break off a piece specifically for you. Satisfied?”
The pigeon ignored him, flapped its wings, and flew away.
Leon watched the pigeon disappear into the night, feeling that the bird’s gaze was off.
It felt like… this pigeon was writing an observation diary for some existence he didn’t know about.
The title would probably be: On the Daily Dazing and the Decline in Feeding Quality of Gotham’s Newest Broke Spider-Man.
Before he could figure out why the pigeon despised him, his Spider-Sense suddenly twitched.
It didn’t hurt, but it was a bit itchy, like someone had brushed the back of his head with a feather.
Leon rubbed the back of his head.
“Is the sense broken? Or is there a fan nearby peeping at me?”
He looked left and right.
No one.
Even the pigeon from before was gone.
There was only Gotham’s gray night sky and the never-ending sound of sirens in the distance.
Oh.
The Bat-Signal was lit over there.
Something was happening.
It was quite close.
“Seems like someone needs help from your friendly neighborhood Batman?”
Mimicking Batman’s deep tone to say a witty line, Leon shot a web, sticking it to the opposite water tower frame, and swung himself out.
The red and blue figure traced an arc in the gray night, quickly disappearing among the layers of corrugated iron roofs in Shantytown.