Late at night in Gotham's Otisburg district, a heavy-duty truck rumbled down the street, its cargo rattling with every bump in the road.
Carl, the driver, had one hand on the wheel and the other gripping a greasy burger. His eyes lazily scanned the empty road ahead. It was 10:05 PM—Gotham time—and the streets were, predictably, deserted. That kind of silence was intoxicating for an old Gotham trucker like Carl. He floored the gas. The speedometer crept up to 80.
He'd been running this route for years, and in his eyes, this wasn't speeding—it was cruising.
Drivers in Metropolis might still worry about traffic laws or pedestrian safety. But in Gotham? Carl had learned the golden rule a long time ago: only by smashing through convention could you make real money. And if that meant occasionally smashing through a few pedestrians too? Well… so be it.
The reason he'd managed to stay out of GCPD custody all these years wasn't just because of his driving skills. It was the speed, sure—but also the cleanup crew. He had people. Discreet people.
To be fair, he wasn't a terrible driver. In all his years, he'd only hit a handful of folks—at least, none that mattered. And lately, traffic on this stretch had thinned out even more. Not his problem.
"Life, uh... finds a way~" he mumbled through a mouthful of burger, half-singing some tune stuck in his head. He figured that since he hadn't run anyone over this year, he was technically doing charity work.
"Wahoo—!"
The triumphant scream tore through the night, piercing the truck's cab just as a dazzling, rainbow-colored streak flashed past his window.
It wasn't just a scream. It was a cocktail of adrenaline: four parts exhilaration, three parts joy, two parts sheer terror, and one part... serenity?
The hell was that?
Carl's eyes bulged. He dropped the burger onto the floor and leaned forward, craning his neck toward the side mirror, trying to get a better look at the psychedelic blur hurtling ahead.
In that moment, his brain went through a list of possible explanations:
—A rocket-powered ice cream truck
—A terrorist's tricked-out neon bike bomb
—A midnight ghost racer from an urban legend
—A delinquent teen riding a flaming streetbike from hell
—Or some nutjob in a bodysuit driving a homemade Batmobile
But what he actually saw broke his mind a little.
"Wait... is that a glowing wheelchair?!"
"Wahoo—!!"
Across the city, Ren was having the time of his life.
His newly upgraded electric wheelchair—now an absolute beast thanks to a mod package and a solid investment of 300 asset points—was maxing out at 120 km/h, which was technically double its original limit.
With Intermediate Wheelchair Proficiency unlocked, Ren was now the Drift King of Otisburg. He was basically Takumi Fujiwara—if Takumi drove a tricked-out LED street racer built for the elderly.
A rainbow blur streaked through the dark, the wheelchair's custom LED light strips glowing like a futuristic rave on wheels. You couldn't miss it. Ren wasn't just fast—he was Gotham's most dazzling blur. Even Ghost Rider would've done a double take.
It was aerodynamic. Waterproof. Shock-absorbing. Complete with seatbelts and airbags. A mobile marvel.
In just seven minutes, Ren had crossed the district and was cruising into the East End. Any would-be muggers or carjackers who saw the neon death-chair blitz past instantly lost all will to commit crimes.
Because how the hell do you shoot something you can't even track?
Of course, this was Gotham. There were always a few psychopaths who thought they could snipe anything.
A handful of shots rang out from alleyways—but Ren's ride zigzagged unpredictably, the bullets sailing harmlessly into dumpsters or brick walls. The glow twisted and danced, disorienting their aim. A few would-be shooters ended up just cursing and giving up.
The only thing anyone managed to catch was a blurry photo—uploaded in seconds to blogs and forums. And for once, Gotham's infamous "urban legends" had photographic proof. No one could claim the Ghost Wheelchair Racer was just a myth anymore.
Ren zipped through narrow alleys, his vehicle hugging every corner like it was born to race. It didn't matter how tight the turns were—if the wheelchair fit, he went. The system's GPS map, bought via Q&A function, gave him flawless directions. Way more reliable than any greedy nav app.
Eventually, he hit a narrow alley and the system pinged a notification—time to dismount.
Ren skidded to a perfect stop at the alley's edge, drifted into a full brake, then hopped off. With a practiced motion, he folded the wheelchair—its frame snapping inwards until it resembled a unicycle. Lightweight. Compact. Street-smart.
He wheeled it through the alley and, on the other side, stood Drake's building.
Ren checked his watch. "Ten-twelve. Not bad. Still room to optimize."
Maybe in a few days, Gotham would have a new urban myth on its hands: the Ghost Racer in the glowing wheelchair. But really, in a city this insane, what was a 120-km/h neon death-chair compared to everything else?
He shrugged, hoisted his "Old Man Fun-Chair" under one arm, and climbed the stairs.
---
Meanwhile, on a rooftop across the East End, a certain feline silhouette lingered.
Catwoman stood on the edge, watching the blur fade from sight. It took her several long seconds to fully process what she'd just seen.
That young man—the one she'd saved not long ago—was now blazing through Gotham on a glowing wheelchair from hell.
She blinked, exhaled, and shook her head.
"I used to think Gotham couldn't get any crazier."
Ren: Lies. All lies.
---
Back on the road, Carl was still behind the wheel, jaw clenched, muttering curses at the city around him.
"This damn place... I've lived in Gotham my whole life, but I've never seen that before. This city just gets weirder every year."
He didn't notice the massive shadow gliding above him until it was already too late.
A shape swept across the skyline—a silhouette of outstretched wings. It passed over his truck like a predator stalking prey, then dropped.
"Scarecrow, Penguin, now some frozen freak show they call 'Mr. Freeze'—and that's not even counting that flying rat from all the rumors... what's next?"
He spat a wad of phlegm out the window.
"Gotham's freaks can all rot in—"
CRASH.
The windshield shattered inward.
A black figure dropped into the cab like a demon made flesh.
It didn't speak. It didn't need to. Its very presence was suffocating. Eyes like glowing voids, a cape that billowed like wings of shadow, and a face carved in stone.
A nightmare given form.
Carl didn't breathe. He couldn't.
In that frozen second, everything he'd ever heard came back to him: the stories whispered at midnight, the rumors passed between street thugs, the warnings carved into alley walls.
That when darkness falls over Gotham, the Bat descends.
He watches. He judges. He punishes.
Carl's voice trembled with fear, barely a whisper escaping his lips.
"B-B-Batman..."
(End of Chapter)