It was well known that before Batman appeared, Gotham was nothing short of a cesspool. Chaos ran deep, gangs and black-market trades flourished, and if you could imagine a crime, chances were you could buy it on a corner. Big and small crews spread like weeds across every street and alley.
David Patrick was one of those men who thrived in the chaos. He started young—made his first money moving marijuana on campus—and when the money piled up, he never strayed too far from where it began. His Cross Gang grew out of those campus hustles, and soon other crews were forced to give him respect in nearby districts.
But everyone knew Gotham's underworld was a different beast. To grow big, muscle wasn't enough. David wasn't brilliant, but he had a certain street cunning that kept him alive.
That was why, when word spread about the new HISHE Café in Kingston, he paid attention. It wasn't his turf, but it was strange—local gangs had backed off the block without a fight. In Gotham, that didn't happen unless someone with serious backing was involved.
So when a "small scuffle" between his lower-level punks spilled into that café, David didn't treat it lightly. For once, he came down himself.
The young thugs who'd been caught were terrified. They weren't used to seeing their boss outside the shadows, let alone involved in what should've been a routine beatdown.
"Mr. Liam," David greeted, cigar clamped in his teeth. His tone was polite, but his eyes gleamed with the hunger of a predator testing his prey.
Liam didn't bother with small talk. "Who's 'Crazy Elliot'?"
The room went quiet.
David shifted aside, revealing a skinny kid in a leather jacket. A dragon tattoo curled down his arm, but his pale, trembling face ruined the tough image.
That was Elliot.
He was no shot-caller—just a middleman with a couple green punks under him. He'd earned a rep for being wild, but right now? He looked ready to collapse.
Everyone knew Liam wasn't to be underestimated. On the surface, he looked like some frail scholar who'd be knocked over by a breeze. But rumors said otherwise—about bosses suddenly breaking legs, rivals disappearing in "accidents." No one who crossed him seemed to last long.
Elliot's legs shook as he stepped forward. One of his boys whispered desperately, "Remember—quiet voice, strong aura. Big shots don't need to yell."
Elliot nodded, swallowed, and tried to say something tough. His lips moved, but no sound came out.
Liam raised an eyebrow. "Buddy, did you leave your vocal cords at home?"
"…"
David's glare burned the back of Elliot's neck. Panic surged through him—if he embarrassed the gang here, David might put a bullet in his head later.
He puffed out his chest, forcing himself to act fierce.
"Sit down," Liam said calmly.
"Oh. Okay."
Elliot dropped into the chair without thinking, looking up like a loyal dog. A second later, he realized—why had he obeyed so quickly? He tried to stand, but his legs buckled under an invisible pressure. He froze.
"I just… suddenly wanted to sit," he muttered weakly.
Liam smiled faintly. If centuries of psychic training couldn't cow a two-bit junkie, then it would've all been for nothing.
The younger gangsters were stunned. Was this really Crazy Elliot—the knife-swinging maniac who claimed he cut his way from Crime Alley to Arkham? Now he looked like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
"Tell me about your boys," Liam said, gesturing at the ringleader who'd harassed a girl earlier. "You. Come here."
The kid shuffled forward with his head low.
"He says he works under you," Liam asked.
Elliot glared at the boy, then nodded stiffly. "Yeah. He's mine."
"He harassed my customers and tried to throw hands. Mr. Elliot, what do you think?"
Elliot glanced at David, saw the warning in his boss's eyes, and desperation twisted into malice. He straightened, voice louder this time.
"The Cross Gang's been around for years. We don't bow to anyone. Business is a battlefield—fairness is what counts!"
He jabbed a finger at his own thug.
"So—what arm did he use first? I'll cut it off here and now as an apology. Mr. Liam, that fair enough for you?"
"…?" Liam blinked.
"…?" The thug looked ready to faint.
Even Liam hadn't expected that curveball.
The thug whimpered, eyes wide. "Big brother, I thought you always said—people in our world have to be ruthless, show presence?"
SMACK! Elliot slapped him across the face.
"Shut the hell up!"
The kid clutched his cheek, but his voice trembled. "But… my mom? You just said screw my mom… Boss, that's… kinda sudden. Shouldn't I, uh, talk to my dad first?"
Elliot: "…"
Liam couldn't hold it anymore. He laughed out loud.
Good lord—was this a gang showdown or a comedy skit in his café?