Inside the Johnsonburger Gunfight Feast—tucked into the shadowed crook of Little Italy on Gotham's East Side—the bald shop owner sat with a chipped coffee cup in one hand and the day's news playing on a staticky TV above the counter.
He'd hoped for more coverage of Bruce Wayne. The name still carried weight with old-timers like him. But this generation's Wayne? Quiet as a ghost. Seven years gone, and all he'd done since coming back was blink once at the airport before vanishing into the manor on the hill.
Now there was silence. Nothing.
The screen flickered with reports from Burnley—another gang war, seventy dead. The owner didn't flinch. In Gotham, that wasn't news. That was Tuesday.
He stirred sugar into his coffee, unmoved. If anything, it was cause for a quiet toast: Seventy less thugs on the street today.
But then his thoughts drifted—to the young Asian kid who'd held up his shop not two weeks ago. Sharp eyes, shaking hands, but a fire behind them that didn't belong in this city. The kind of fire that either burned the world… or got snuffed out fast.
He wondered if it was already gone.
WHOOSH!
The door burst open.
The owner looked up—and frowned. Of all the souls in Gotham who might walk through his door right now… it was him.
"Boss," Downton said with a grin, "your gun's nice. Feels good in the hand."
He dropped his backpack on the counter and tossed two fat bundles of cash beside it. The owner's gaze flicked from the money to the bulging travel bag still slung over Downton's shoulder.
He let out a slow breath.
"Looks like Gotham's got another successful scoundrel. Honestly? I'd rather you'd stayed gone."
"Don't be so harsh, boss," Downton shot back, leaning in. "That 'successful scoundrel' might just be someone else's future CEO. Or senator. Or—hell—mayor.
Face it: success drowns out the 'scoundrel' part faster than you can say 'campaign donation.'"
He rummaged in his bag, pulled out a handful of loose coins, and added them to the pile.
"Enough philosophy. Let's do business. Your gear's solid. So why's this place empty? If the locals won't buy, I will. Show me grenades."
The owner chuckled—a dry, raspy sound. "Ha. Fair point."
He turned, hefted a wooden crate from under the counter, and set it down with a thud.
"You wanna know why I've got no customers? Because I'm legit. Licensed dealer. Partnered with the Little Garden State National Guard. Paperwork, permits, background checks—none of that gangster nonsense."
Downton raised an eyebrow. "I get it. You're not dumb—you're delusional.
You opened a licensed gun shop… in Little Italy. The heart of Falcone territory. The Roman himself runs this block. Iceberg Lounge's three blocks east, Miller Port's crawling with his enforcers—this whole district breathes through his lungs.
And you're selling firearms that require government approval? To who? Honest accountants who pray they don't get shaken down on their way home?
Look—your presence doesn't cause trouble. But in Gotham, even existing near trouble is trouble enough."
He gave the owner a mock thumbs-up. "Still… you're not broke. So you've got backing. That National Guard connection? Real enough to keep the wolves off, I'll bet."
Then, without waiting for a reply, Downton yanked open the crate, stuffed a dozen grenades into his pack, and slammed the lid shut.
"Since your gear's mil-spec, show me the good stuff. M82s. RPGs. Something that makes noise.
Customers like me? Rare. This is your golden ticket, old man."
The owner snorted. "Screw you."
He shoved the crate aside, reached into Downton's bag, and pulled out a single dollar bill. Waved it like a flag.
"A pistol? A dozen grenades? Fine. I'll log 'em as range loss or faulty inventory. Nobody questions it.
But the heavy metal you're drooling over? That doesn't leave this shop. Not legally, not illegally.
However…" He leaned forward, voice dropping. "If you really need it, I know a guy. Underground. Top-tier. Same quality as mine—maybe better.
And since you're so curious: my son runs that whole operation. One of Gotham's top five black-market arms dealers.
So save your theories about National Guard handshakes. The reason I sit here, sipping coffee while the city burns? It's not paperwork keeping me safe—it's blood."
With that, the bald old man pulled a small slip of cardboard from his coat pocket and tossed it to Downton.
Downton caught it, glanced down. Just a single phone number, scrawled in smudged ink.
"This is my son's private line," the old man said. "Call it. Tell him I vouched for you."
Downton gave a slow, heavy nod—gratitude in his posture, if not his words.
"Still," he muttered, "you keep calling yourself a scoundrel, Old Deng. Yet here you are, handing out backdoor contacts like holiday candy. What's the angle? You got a thing for reckless kids? Or is it the cash in my bag that's got your attention?"
He tucked the card into his jacket, then pulled out a thick wad of bills and dropped it onto the counter.
"Hah!" The shopkeeper barked a laugh and shoved the money back into Downton's open bag. "Who wasn't a scoundrel at your age? Only the ones who live long enough—and keep their pockets lined—end up like me."
He leaned forward, voice dropping. "Let me tell you something, kid: every dirty dollar you earn outside a paycheck comes wrapped in blood or bad luck. Save your money. It's not even enough to buy my son a decent meal. I'm not doing you a favor—I'm giving him a favor. Saw the look in your eyes. You've got the stomach for real work."
"Tch." Downton flipped him off. "So you're recruiting me as your son's lackey? You have no idea what kind of storm you just invited into his life."
He grinned, sharp and wild. "Wait'll he finds out I'm the boss now. Hope he likes working for a madman—hahaha!"
Laughing, Downton hoisted his backpack—bulging with cash and grenades—and turned toward the door.
But after two steps, he spun back. "Oh—Old Deng! Where's the Iceberg Club?"
The shopkeeper's eyes narrowed. "You're walking in here with live grenades and asking for the Iceberg Club? You really think you've got a future?"
He flicked Downton's outstretched middle finger away, then jerked his chin toward the street. "Left when you step outside. Follow the waterfront to the warehouse district. Wherever you see the most thugs loitering? That's your stop."
"Thanks."
"Don't thank me. Just disappear. I've got a farm upstate—I'm leaving town tonight to go shear sheep for a week. Should've shot you the second you walked in."
He slammed a palm on the counter. "I knew you were trouble, but I didn't know you were aiming for the Romans. You think Falcone won't trace you back to me? I made twenty grand off you—and now I'll owe him a million if they find out I helped you. This deal just cost me everything!"
Downton smirked. "Ever consider the upside, old man? What if I don't die?"
He flashed two middle fingers this time—cheeky, defiant.
The shopkeeper huffed, hands on his hips. "If you live through this, my useless old dick might just rise again. Now get out of here. Take your money, your guns, and your suicidal ego—go haunt another city."
"Can't," Downton said, already heading for the door. "Gotham's the only place where real fun lives. My old life? Felt like I'd never even tasted pork—just sniffed the smoke from someone else's kitchen."
He paused at the threshold, rain already drumming against the glass. "Thanks for the card, Old Deng. See you in another life."
With that, he shoved the door open and vanished into Gotham's endless rain—backpack slung low, grenades clinking softly with every step.
Inside, the shopkeeper sank into his chair, eyes weary.
If the Waynes ruled Gotham by daylight, then for thirty years, Carmine Falcone had owned its nights.
And in those thirty years, every rival who crossed him—every fool who thought they could play king—ended up at the bottom of Miller Harbor.
Today will be no different, he thought.
Another body for the harbor.
Another dreamer who mistook rage for power.
Such a pity.