The corridor stank.
Not just "bad smell" stank. This was a physical assault—the kind of stench that crawled up your nostrils and set up camp in your sinuses. Rotting garbage, sewage, something organic and wrong.
Overhead, a single fluorescent light flickered, throwing shadows that made the peeling wallpaper look like it was breathing. The dim light barely reached the floor, where Jude could make out puddles of dubious liquid and scattered trash.
Something rustled in the darkness.
Jude froze.
A rat—fat and grey—scurried across the corridor ahead of them, disappearing into a crack in the baseboard.
"I really can't stand this," Jude muttered, stepping carefully over what might have been a discarded takeout container. Or a dead animal. Hard to tell. "Even for a slum, I get that it's going to be dirty and messy, but why does it smell like this?"
The robber—still wearing his mask—replied in a muffled voice. "Not sure. Probably the body in one of the rooms rotting again."
"Again?"
Jude glanced over. The man had his nose pinched shut with two fingers.
Oh, smart.
Jude reached up and did the same. His voice came out nasal and compressed. "Why would someone be stupid enough to hide a corpse in their own apartment and just let it rot?"
"Might not be hidden. Could've just died there." The man navigated around a puddle without looking. "Landlord says it happens. Addicts overdose, gangsters bleed out after crawling home. Sometimes nobody notices for weeks."
"And people still rent here?"
"You're welcome to book a presidential suite at the Gotham Grand. Or you could sleep under a bridge. Your choice."
Jude considered his three dollars. "Suddenly this place seems pretty nice."
They were both right. A poor person with no money couldn't afford a hotel. And sleeping on a park bench or under a bridge was a death sentence—best case scenario, homeless people would strip him of everything he owned. Worst case, someone would slit his throat in a dark corner and leave him to rot.
Just another corpse nobody would miss.
The man stopped at a door halfway down the corridor. Reached for his keys.
Jude grabbed his wrist.
"Wait. Who's home?"
The man blinked. "My wife."
"Okay. And how exactly are you going to introduce me?"
"I'll just say you're my new friend."
"Great. And what's your new friend's name?"
Silence.
The corridor's flickering light buzzed. Somewhere, water dripped.
Jude stared. "Are you serious right now?"
The man's face flushed above his mask. "I was a little preoccupied with the whole robbery thing—"
"With your brain, crime has no future. Or rather, you have no future in Gotham."
"Fine!" The man's voice rose. "What's your name?"
"Jude Sharp."
"That's... not a typical Gotham name."
"Hmm?" Jude tilted his head. "Where do you think I'm from?"
"I mean..." The man looked him up and down. "You're clearly Asian, but you don't look like it. You look like a Gotham native."
Jude raised an eyebrow.
"It's your whole vibe," the man explained. "The way you stand, the way you talk. You've got this... I don't know. Hard edge. The kind of look people get when they've seen some shit. Makes you blend in."
Something warm flickered in Jude's chest. The system had actually done its job properly. Not just slapped together an identity, but made him fit. Given him the face, the accent, the body language of someone who belonged in this nightmare city.
Three dollars well spent, he thought.
"My name's Drake Ryan," the man said.
"Ryan? Drake?" Jude grinned. "Are you secretly an archaeologist in your spare time?"
"What? No. I'm a software engineer. Why would—" Drake stopped. His expression went flat. "Oh. Ha ha. Very funny."
"I thought so." Jude gestured at the door. "But seriously, though. Software engineer? You shouldn't have ended up here. What happened?"
Drake's hand paused on the key, halfway to the lock. He looked at Jude for a long moment.
"I'm going to tell you," he said quietly. "But when we go inside, you don't mention any of this. Understand?"
Jude nodded.
Drake pulled the key back out. Started walking down the corridor.
"Let's go to the roof."
The stairwell was darker than the corridor, if that was possible. No lights at all. Just moonlight filtering through a grimy window every landing or so, casting pale geometric shapes on the walls. Their footsteps echoed in the enclosed space—hollow, heavy sounds that made Jude hyper-aware of every shadow.
Neither of them spoke.
Up one flight. Two. Three. Four.
At the top, Drake shoved open a rusted metal door.
The rooftop was cramped, cluttered with old equipment and debris. In the distance, Gotham's skyline glittered—high-rises and neon signs, all the wealth and corruption concentrated in those shining towers. Closer, the slums sprawled in darkness, broken only by the occasional streetlight or flicker of barrel fires.
A massive billboard stood at the edge of the roof, advertising something Jude couldn't read. But the backlight was bright enough to see by, casting long shadows across the tar-paper roof.
Rain pattered softly. Puddles reflected city lights like shattered mirrors.
Drake walked to the edge, looking out over the city. Then he grabbed a rusted metal chair, wiped the water off with his sleeve, and sat down. The cold metal made him shiver, but he didn't move.
"So," Jude said, leaning against the billboard support. "How did you end up here?"
Drake was quiet for a moment.
"My wife," he said finally.
He hunched forward, elbows on his knees. In the dim light from the billboard, he looked older than he probably was—exhausted, hollowed out.
"I was a programmer in Metropolis. Good job, decent pay. I was probably going to get laid off at thirty but I hadn't really thought about what came next. Never imagined I'd end up in Gotham."
He rubbed his face.
"About six months before I got laid off, my wife started coughing. Losing hair. I kept telling her to see a doctor, but she brushed it off. Said she was too busy with work."
His voice went tight.
"One day she came back from the hospital with test results. We hadn't been worried—figured it was stress, maybe a vitamin deficiency. Something simple."
Drake's hands curled into fists.
"Rare disease. The kind that shows up in medical journals because it's so uncommon. The treatment costs..." He laughed bitterly. "The medication alone would bankrupt most people."
Jude stayed quiet. This wasn't the time for commentary.
"I burned through our savings," Drake continued. His voice was cracking now, raw. "Every penny. Sold everything worth selling. It wasn't enough. She's getting worse. Hair almost completely gone. Started coughing up blood two months ago. Can't sleep. Her organs are starting to fail."
He pulled at his hair with both hands, yanking hard enough that a few strands came loose. His bloodshot eyes had dark circles deep enough to look like bruises.
"We were out of options. Completely out. Then someone—a specialist, I think—told us about a doctor here in Gotham."
Drake looked up at Jude.
"Dr. Victor Fries. Cryogenics expert. World-class genius. The guy managed to extend his own wife's life using some kind of experimental freezing technique."
Time stopped.
Jude's brain short-circuited. He heard the words. Understood them. But couldn't quite process the implications.
Dr. Victor Fries.
Cryogenics expert.
Froze his wife.
The pieces clicked together with the sound of a gun cocking.
Not just any doctor. Not some eccentric specialist trying experimental treatments.
Mr. Freeze.
One of Gotham's most dangerous supervillains. The guy who turned into a walking ice machine after a lab accident. Who robbed banks to fund his research. Who froze people solid and shattered them like glass.
That Victor Fries.
And Drake wanted to work with him.
Wanted Jude to help him work with him.
Jude opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried again.
No words came out.
All he could think, in perfect absurd clarity, was:
Tonight's forecast... a freeze is coming