At the shop entrance, under Downton's watchful eye, the young saleswoman froze—startled by his sudden appearance.
Just moments before, she'd seen off a lavish customer.
She'd stood at the doorway, reluctantly watching him drive away… when, without warning, a shirtless man emerged from behind the departing car.
"What the hell?!" she gasped, instinctively covering her mouth.
Downton met her gaze with a cold, amused smile. Her heart hammered in her chest, and she stumbled backward into the shop, slamming the door shut behind her.
Unfazed, Downton strode past the idling vehicle and stopped before the glass door she now clutched like a shield. He gave it a sharp rap with his knuckles—then laughed.
"Come out and greet a customer!"
"No! Waaah—!" The sob tore from her throat. Greet him? He wasn't a customer. He wasn't even human!
How could someone just appear like that—out of thin air?
Her mind raced, then snagged on a half-forgotten memory: a nursery rhyme her mother used to whisper when she was a child—
Beware the Court of Owls, that watches all the time,
Ruling from the shadows, hidden in plain sight.
They see you in your home, they see you in your bed—
Speak their name at midnight… and they'll send the Talons for your head.
Even in Gotham, few children escaped that rhyme. Bruce Wayne himself had nightmares about owls long before he ever donned the cowl.
But Downton had no idea what terrified her. He simply peered through the glass—his eyes flicking over her trembling form, her soaked black stockings.
Not out of lust. He wasn't that kind of predator. But the sharp ammonia stink of fear-urine was unmistakable.
He rolled his eyes. With a fluid motion, he drew a pistol from his waistband and tapped the muzzle against the glass.
"Let's try this again," he said, voice flat. "Robbery. Open the door—or I shoot."
"I… I—?"
Oddly, the gun calmed her.
He's not a demon. Not a Talon. Just a thief.
If that was all he wanted… she could handle that. Gotham survived on robberies.
"Don't shoot!" she called, voice cracking. "This door's imported—it costs more than your whole outfit!"
She pushed the door open, wiping her eyes with a shaking hand.
"The boss isn't here. My coworker's out with her boyfriend. I'm… I'm alone." She gestured weakly toward the counter. "Cash register's right there. Take what you need—just… please don't hurt me." A fresh sob escaped her.
Downton glanced at the damp streaks on her legs and wrinkled his nose.
"Go change your clothes. You reek. Hurry up."
"I—?"
"What, 'I'? Move."
When she hesitated, he tapped her temple lightly—but firmly—with the butt of his gun. At 1.7 meters, she barely reached his shoulder; he stood 1.86 meters of coiled intensity.
She flinched, then scurried toward the back room—pausing only to flick on the cash register as she passed.
A soft cha-ching filled the silence, followed by the gentle clatter of bills and coins.
However, Downton didn't touch the money. Clothes were far more urgent. While the saleswoman ducked into the back to fetch something, he picked out a black suit and slipped into the fitting room.
When he emerged, she was mopping near the entrance. At the sound of his footsteps, she froze—then scrubbed faster, eyes darting toward the door.
Between frantic swipes of the mop, she muttered without looking up,
"You'd better grab the money and go. Someone already called the police. I… I didn't hit the alarm, but a customer saw you with the gun."
Downton let out a dry chuckle. "Appreciate the tip. Shame the timing's off—I'd pour you a drink for that."
His eyes flicked up to the security cameras mounted near the ceiling. Without another word, he strode across the shop, raised his pistol, and fired three sharp rounds. Glass and plastic rained down as the cameras sparked and died.
The shots made the saleswoman flinch hard, her knuckles whitening around the mop handle.
Before she could speak, Downton asked, "That all of them?"
She swallowed. "There's… one more. In the staff break room."
"Good to know." He didn't bother with it.
He walked to the register. The store was mid-to-high-end—mostly card payments, only a thin stack of bills in the drawer for change. He scooped up the cash and returned to the saleswoman, pressing the bills into her trembling hands.
"The store's been robbed," he said lightly. "Who cares where the money ends up? If anyone asks, say I took it all."
Then, just to sell the act, he fired a short burst into the ceiling and display racks—no one hurt, just chaos. As the echoes faded, he reloaded, pushed open the door, and stepped onto the street.
The small crowd that had gathered scattered at the sound of gunfire—except for two men in worn coats who drew pistols and stepped forward.
Downton raised his hands, gun pointed skyward. "Easy. Didn't lay a finger on her. Borrowed less than a grand and a change of clothes. Hardly a crime of the century."
The men glanced into the store. The saleswoman stood unharmed, clothes intact, face pale but steady.
After a tense beat, they holstered their weapons.
The older one—a balding man with tired eyes—hurried inside to check on her.
The younger lingered. "Cops usually 'patrol' the bars two blocks south this time of day," he said quietly. "Head north. And if you're thinking of boosting a car… they won't catch up fast."
Downton blinked, then grinned. "Gotham's not all bad, huh? Thanks, friend."
He turned toward a sedan parked at the curb, raising his gun to smash the window—
"HEY!" the young man shouted, sprinting after him. "That's my car!"
Downton froze mid-swing. "You couldn't lead with that?"
He lowered the gun, shaking his head. "Almost wrecked a good Samaritan's ride. My bad."