Gotham Port at night is always like this: quiet, deathly still, and filled with an unspeakable repression.
Daytime belongs to the successful, and night belongs to the rats. Order and Chaos have never appeared so distinctly in the same place. If you're an old resident of Gotham, then you should already know one rule: don't run around at night.
You won't just lose your wallet, your virginity; you might even lose your life.
This has never been a good place to settle down, but desperate people flock here... Wait, when I say 'desperate,' I mean it literally.
"Splash, splash."
The slightly dirty seawater lapped against the shore, adding a unique feeling to the already deep night. A fish cautiously wiggled its tail, wanting to dart to the surface for air. The weather tonight was terrible; it was probably going to rain.
Suddenly.
"Thud!"
A heavy object falling from the sky plunged into the Water, and the splashing Water scared the poor fish to the bottom of the sea. The moment the heavy object hit the Water's surface, the icy seawater poured into his body through his nostrils, ears, and mouth, instantly waking him from his terrible Chaos.
"Cough, cough... What the hell? Where is this?"
The man, dressed only in pajamas, struggled to keep his balance on the Water's surface, desperately trying not to sink, but his still muddled brain couldn't manage the action. Eventually, he could only observe his surroundings while swimming towards the dark shore.
In this not-so-warm weather, after soaking in the icy seawater for 10 minutes, plus the thin, already soaked pajamas, the exhausted man collapsed onto the beach upon reaching shore and didn't want to get up again.
He panted, looking at the starless sky above him, then reached up and touched his chest. Yes, there were still three charred bullet holes in his pajamas, but where was the blood? Where were the wounds?
His heart, which should have been shattered, was still beating strongly, his thoughts a mess. Finally, he gave up trying to understand. Since these things he had never believed in before had appeared... he would just accept them.
"Hahaha."
The man who had fallen from the sky chuckled twice, then flipped the sky the middle finger, crawled up from the beach, and casually tossed the blood-soaked, bullet-riddled pajamas into the sea. Bare-chested, he walked step by step towards the distant lights still glowing in the port.
After bidding farewell to the past, he walked with weary steps, and perhaps... with a touch of luck from escaping death.
The "Old Gun" bar, the liveliest place in Gotham Port three years ago, was now deserted three years later. Of course, it wasn't because Christian's skill had declined, but because the stubborn old man refused the "friendship" of the Russian Mafia that managed this area.
As an old soldier, Christian didn't allow those messy things to happen on his turf. This insistence had once earned him praise, but now, it had gotten him into trouble. Not all dockworkers would continue to drink at Christian's place under the personal threats of Jamie's lackeys.
After all, it was just a drink; there was no need to risk your life for it, right?
Christian had held out for a month. No one knew how much longer he could last, but according to Jamie's character and rules, if Christian continued to be defiant, something bad might happen.
At 2 AM, a heavy rain began to fall, rattling against the windows. Christian, with White hair and wearing a worn leather jacket, stood behind the somewhat dilapidated bar, wiping glasses. These tasks weren't supposed to be his, but three days ago, after the last bartender left without a word, taking the 500 U.S. dollars from Christian's bar cabinet, he had no choice but to do them himself.
Three flashily dressed young men were gambling in the corner, playing the crudest dice game. You couldn't expect these dropouts to play sophisticated blackjack. They weren't customers; they were just Jamie's lackeys sent to harass Christian.
This was just a small bar, no music, no singers, no messy decorations, full of a retro feel. And on a stormy night, probably no one would come here, so Christian planned to close in 10 minutes, and maybe even use his old Springfield rifle to drive away these little punks.
Just then, "Ding-dong."
The bar door opened. Christian and the punks looked up simultaneously, then saw a strangely dressed guy walk in. He was an Asian man, wearing a dirty black hoodie on his upper body, which looked like it had been picked up from some trash heap. He was simply wearing pajama bottoms, barefoot, looking like a down-and-out vagrant.
Christian instinctively wanted to yell at him to leave. However, the man looked up, first scanning the entire bar. He didn't even look at Christian, but focused his attention on the three punks who had already resumed playing dice. A smile spread across his lips, and he strode towards them.
Christian silently resumed wiping glasses, his other hand resting on the wooden grip of the old Springfield beneath the counter. He recognized that kind of smile... It wasn't an expression that should appear on a vagrant, but why say anything? After all, it would just be Jamie's bastard lackeys who suffered.
As Christian put on a spectator's expression, the dirty man also struck up a conversation with the flashy punks.
"Hey, guys, can I join you?"
The guy rubbed his hands, showing a very interested expression. His English was very fluent, with a slight California accent. This should have been a good way to greet them, but his dirty appearance and unlikable smell severely lowered his appeal. The punk with green-dyed hair glanced at him, then, without turning his head, refocused on the dice in his hand and gave him a cold voice,
"Scram!"
The man wasn't annoyed; instead, he continued to smile and say, "Don't be like that, guys, give me a chance! My dice-rolling skills are excellent!"
The green-haired punk, having been disturbed twice, was already a bit impatient, but just as he clenched his fist, the tall, thin young man with ash-White hair sitting opposite him stopped his companion. Then, with a hint of mockery, he looked at the uninvited man,
"Want to join? You can... but what will you use as a stake? You don't have a single penny on you, do you? So just go back to the garbage dump and pick up hamburgers; that's where you belong, hahaha."
After speaking, the three punks laughed simultaneously. However, the young man just shrugged, pulled out a chair, and sat down. His hands rested naturally on the table, and he said earnestly,
"You see, I'm a healthy adult. I have two hands, two legs, and..."
"Hey, bastard, we're not interested in men!"
The last punk, with red hair, felt insulted. He impatiently slapped the table, spilling beer all over it. "Especially not someone like you! Get out!"
Under the angry stares of the three, the vagrant calmly spread his hands and finished his sentence,
"Um... I mean, I have one life. I'll bet that with you guys. Fair, right?"
After this sentence was spoken, the entire bar fell silent. The three punks were speechless, but not because they were scared or shocked. Their first reaction was, 'Is this guy a lunatic?'
Then, their second reaction was relief!
It wasn't easy to make a living under Boss Jamie. He often arranged for some less important gang members to do some very "dangerous" things. Unfortunately for these three guys, they were among those less important peripheral members; otherwise, they wouldn't have been assigned to threaten a defenseless old man at this hour.
Even more unfortunately, in three days, there was a very "dangerous" deal... And at this moment, a seemingly suicidal lunatic delivered himself to them. Could anything be better than this?
The three exchanged glances, and finally, the guy with silver-gray hair spoke. He tried to make his expression fiercer, apparently imitating Boss Jamie. He lowered his voice,
"Do you know what your words mean?"
"Uh-huh."
The dirty young man shrugged. Clearly, he knew.
"Do you know the consequences of not keeping a promise? Just last month, a guy who cheated us was thrown into Gotham Port. His body still hasn't been found. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
"Alright, no need to say more. Give me a pair of dice. If I lose, I'll naturally do as you say."
The young man leaned casually back in his chair, pointing at his disgusting-smelling hoodie and saying, "Look at my current state. Do you think I'm still afraid of death?"
"Alright! Cole, give him a pair of dice!"
The green-haired young man placed a pair of dice in front of the other young man. He reached out, picked up the dice, looked at them, then looked up and gave the three punks a brilliant smile,
"Oh, right, I forgot to mention, my name is He... Never mind, just call me Cyber, Cyber, um... Cyber Hawke."
"Nobody cares what your name is. Just start, trash man."
Cole mocked him mercilessly, then began to shake the dice in his hand. The other two also started shaking theirs. They were playing the simplest version: three dice, the lowest score pays. It was so simple even a three-year-old could play, but judging by the scattered banknotes and coins around them, these three guys were playing for quite high stakes.
Cyber loved such occasions, loved such opponents. Three greenhorns, and most importantly, they had what he needed most right now. Plus, it was a rainy night outside, with thunder, and the only witness was an old man who had been watching them.
"Fate is smiling upon me!"
Cyber blurted out a nonsensical remark, then reached out and picked up the dice along with their wooden cup, slammed them onto the table, and without waiting for the others to react, was the first to reveal the dice.
"Eighteen points! See, I told you, fate is smiling upon me!"
The three punks were dumbfounded. They exchanged glances again, then placed three banknotes next to Cyber and started shaking the dice again. The second round began.
"Oh, eighteen points again, how lucky!"
Third round, "Look, it's eighteen points again. I must be on a lucky streak, huh?"
Fourth round, "Tsk tsk, I don't even know what to say anymore."
"Bang!"
Cole's fists slammed onto the table. He felt humiliated again. In a fit of rage, Cole's left hand swept over his belt, then he fiercely stabbed the table. A gleaming dagger plunged into the table beside Cyber. The black handle was still trembling slightly. Cole, like an enraged bull, stared fixedly at Cyber and cursed loudly,
"You f***ing cheated! Bastard! I'm going to kill you!"
"Hey, calm down, man!"
Cyber didn't even look at the dagger stuck beside him. Instead, he slowly picked up the banknotes in front of him, stacked them, and said nonchalantly, "Your knife, which has never seen blood, can't hurt anyone. That's how it is at the gambling table: there are wins and losses. Instead of yelling at me, why don't you sit down and play a few more rounds? Maybe you'll win back your money, right?"
At this point, even a blind man could see that Cyber was not normal. A normal person wouldn't be completely unfazed by a dagger stuck beside them. But they were, after all, Jamie's lackeys, so they naturally had more than just a dagger for self-defense. So, when Cyber looked up, a gleaming silver metal barrel was pressed against his head.
That was... a gun.