Late at night in Gotham, the wind carried an indelible scent of rust mixed with the foul stench rising from the sewers.
The two smells blended together like the city itself—a rotten foundation covered beneath a layer of corroded steel.
Leon crouched atop a rusted drainage pipe.
The sandwich he had legally bought that morning had long since vanished, and now his stomach was engaged in what could only be described as “friendly friction” with his internal organs.
How did he get the money?
Was your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man not allowed to pick up a few stray dollars while patrolling the streets?
Did people have any idea how much loose cash flew around whenever bank robbers, gangsters, or convenience store thieves stuffed money into those cheap sacks and ran through Gotham’s streets?
Leon glanced downward and fired a strand of Spider Web.
The weak strand drooped pitifully from the wall like an overcooked noodle.
Severe protein deficiency.
Even his superpowers had started cutting corners.
Cold-hearted system.
Leon cursed silently in his head.
Even capitalism isn’t as ruthless as you are.
I hate social Darwinism.
Then a sound echoed from deep within the alley.
Not a scream.
Leon was already used to Gotham’s screams.
Robbery screams were short.
Fight screams were full of curses.
The screams of people forced to pay protection money carried numb resignation.
But this sound was different.
It was deliberately suppressed, trapped in the throat like the whimper of a small animal with its neck pinned beneath a boot.
Leon’s ears twitched.
The sound made him uncomfortable.
Like fingernails scraping across a chalkboard.
Like biting into sand.
So he slid silently down from the drainage pipe.
Farther ahead, a broken streetlamp sparked and flickered.
Within the unstable light stood a burly man wearing a filthy leather jacket, pinning a small figure against the brick wall.
A girl.
She looked no older than twelve or thirteen.
A dirty rag had been stuffed into her mouth.
Her eyes were wide open, yet there were no tears in them.
Only resignation.
The man roughly tugged at her waistband with one hand while pressing the back of her head hard against the cold brick wall with the other.
Leon didn’t waste time talking.
He lunged forward instantly, grabbing the man by the back of the neck with his right hand while twisting the man’s arm behind his back with his left. Get faster updates on g.com.
Crack.
The sound of a dislocated joint snapped through the alley like breaking dry wood.
Leon slammed his knee into the man’s lower back and drove him face-first into the muddy ground.
Filthy water mixed with motor oil splashed everywhere.
The entire sequence took less than two seconds.
Clean.
Efficient.
Practiced.
The burly man’s face sank into the mud, bubbling helplessly.
Leon lifted his foot, preparing to deliver another kick that would permanently destroy this guy’s interest in using his lower body—
“Stop hitting him!”
A scream interrupted him.
Leon froze mid-motion.
The girl collapsed into the corner, desperately pulling the rag from her mouth while gasping for air.
But instead of running toward her rescuer, Gotham’s friendly neighborhood Spider-Man—
She rushed toward the burly man lying in the mud.
Her thin hand reached straight into his jacket pocket and pulled out a crumpled roll of stained banknotes.
She held the money tightly like it was the final rope keeping her alive in the entire universe.
Then she backed away.
“He gives me money.”
Her voice trembled violently, but beneath the trembling was a desperate determination.
“Don’t hit him. We… we agreed to this. I need the money.”
Leon slowly lowered his foot.
He stared at the roll of cash in her hands.
Wrinkled.
Softened by sweat.
Covered in mud and stains he didn’t want to identify.
Then he looked at the man on the ground, grimacing in pain.
Leon vaguely recognized him.
Some dealer who sold boosters around the district.
Finally, his eyes landed on the swollen bruise near the corner of the girl’s mouth.
This wasn’t robbery.
And it wasn’t simple assault.
It was a transaction.
A perfectly normal transaction in Gotham.
Leon hauled the burly man out of the mud, ripped off his leather belt, and expertly bound his hands behind his back using Spider Web.
Then he crouched in front of the girl until they were eye level.
“Tell me what happened.”
Tears filled her eyes, but none of them fell.
When she spoke, her voice was flat and emotionless, like someone reading off a grocery store discount flyer.
Father.
The Docks.
Shipping container.
Broken leg.
The Docks didn’t care.
Temporary workers in Gotham were worth less than weeds growing through concrete.
Insurance belonged to office workers inside Wayne Tower.
Workers’ compensation belonged to people with contracts.
Temporary laborers had nothing.
They weren’t even considered human.
The wound became infected.
The fever wouldn’t stop.
The registration fee at a real hospital was enough to feed both of them for an entire month.
The emergency room nurse took one look at their clothes and demanded the deposit first.
Five thousand dollars.
Neither of them had ever even seen five thousand dollars in their lives.
Small clinics refused to treat him.
Illegal back-alley doctors were smarter than anyone else in Gotham.
They knew better than to waste medicine on poor people with severe infections.
If the patient died in bed, even the burial cloth would cost money.
Black-market antibiotics were more expensive than gold because the gangs controlled the supply routes.
The only medicine they could afford was the cheapest painkiller available.
Not to cure the illness.
Just to make her father groan a little quieter.
So he wouldn’t disturb the neighbors.
At that point, the girl actually smiled.
On her bruised and swollen face, the curve of her lips looked uglier than crying.
Like a crumpled piece of paper trying desperately to flatten itself smooth again.
Church.
Priests.
God loves everyone.
But God doesn’t hand out amoxicillin.
Police.
When police officers came to this neighborhood, they brought guns.
Not medicine.