Bad morning, Gotham.
Jude jolted awake, the words already on his lips.
The nightmare clung to him. Batman. Gotham's tallest clock tower. Hanging upside down from a gargoyle by his ankles while a cape-wearing psychopath tickled the soles of his feet.
For hours.
Hell-level torture, he thought, shuddering.
The dreams-reflect-reality thing didn't make sense here. He barely thought about Batman. Sure, he'd seen the news about criminals getting hospitalized, but that didn't explain dream-torture.
Must be Gotham's fault. The city infected your subconscious.
Bad morning, Gotham.
He pulled on his clothes, glanced at the window.
Still dark.
Frowned.
Checked his phone: 11:22 PM.
He'd been asleep for ten minutes.
But he felt wired. Alert. Energized to the point of restlessness. Sleep was impossible now.
"Side effects," Jude muttered. "Should've read the fine print."
He opened the system shop, found the item he'd bought that afternoon.
Blue Petal Energy Tea - $30 Duration: 24 hours Effects: Stamina regeneration, mental clarity, zero fatigue Note: "I can do this all day!" - Steve R.
He'd been stressed that morning, wanted something to help him stay sharp through the evening shift. Bought it at 2 PM. Hadn't realized the effect would last until 2 PM tomorrow.
"Even Captain America needed to sleep," Jude said to the empty room. "Your version is stronger than the original."
He made a mental note: read product descriptions more carefully. Checked the shop again and found the counteragent—pink petal tea that would cancel the blue. Cost another $30.
Not worth it. He was stuck being awake.
Might as well be productive.
He bought a basic driving manual for $5 and started reading.
Asset points needed to be spent carefully. Sure, he could buy Basic Car Driving Proficiency for $500, but learning it himself first would save money. The system was generous about upgrades—if you had Basic level, you only paid the difference to reach Intermediate. Similarly, his Intermediate Wheelchair Driving would only cost $200 more to upgrade to Advanced.
While browsing, another option caught his eye.
"Driving simulator training?"
He tapped it. $5 per session, two hours each time.
Customizable terrain, road conditions, weather, vehicle types. Reasonable price for VR training.
Can I drive an F1 car?
He checked the manual. No racing sections. Made sense—this was for beginners, not professional drivers.
The simulator offered racing cars, but without knowledge of how to drive one, attempting it would be suicide. Even virtual suicide.
Better to stick with basics.
Jude spent thirty minutes reviewing the manual and tutorial videos. Then dove into the simulation.
Two hours later, he emerged back into reality, slightly dizzy but satisfied.
Virtual training meant no consequences. He'd driven off cliffs, crashed through buildings, accelerated to ridiculous speeds on impossible terrain. Very cathartic.
Shame there's no flight simulator, he thought. I could've crashed into some executive offices.
When he checked his skills, he didn't bother looking at the system's evaluation. Two hours had taught him acceleration, braking, steering, and stopping. The finer points—parallel parking, highway merging, defensive driving—those would take more practice.
But practice could wait.
The two-hour session had been intense. He needed entertainment.
He spent $1 on a TV series he'd been watching back home and $3 on food. Skewers materialized in front of him, along with a cold drink.
This is perfect, he thought. All-nighter with skewers, soda, and TV. No worrying about being tired for work tomorrow.
His hand dropped unconsciously to the Beretta at his waist.
Hadn't taken it off since Drake gave it to him.
Gunfire cracked in the distance.
Jude paused the show. Listened.
Two shots. Handgun, probably. Somewhere in the building or close by.
His thumb traced the gun's grip.
Should I go check?
He didn't know what was happening down there. Didn't know who was shooting or why. His gun training consisted of Drake showing him the safety, the trigger, and saying "point the dangerous end at bad guys."
He could probably fire it. Where the bullet would go was anyone's guess.
But what if someone needs help?
He understood, suddenly, what separated heroes from everyone else.
Didn't matter if you were bulletproof or mortal. Didn't matter if you had super strength or just ordinary muscle. Didn't matter if a bullet could kill you instantly.
What mattered was whether you could walk toward the gun instead of away from it.
"But I'm just an ordinary person," Jude said aloud. "Small ability, small responsibility. Keeping myself alive comes first."
Two more shots rang out.
He winced.
Whoever got shot twice is probably dead anyway. Too late to help.
"Damn it."
The shots kept coming.
"Are you fucking kidding me?"
Jude opened the system shop again, scrolling through defensive items.
Outside, in Gotham's eternal night, a woman's voice suddenly split the darkness.
"FUCK YOU!" The accent was American West Coast, the volume was impressive, the fury was palpable. "WHO THE HELL IS STILL AWAKE AT THIS HOUR? YOU LIKE MAKING NOISE, ASSHOLE? STAND STILL AND I'LL PUT A BULLET IN YOUR ASS AND SHOVE IT IN YOUR MOUTH!"
In a dark alley below, a woman lay against the wall, whimpering in pain. Both hands were bleeding—bullet wounds through the palms, pinning her temporarily.
The man standing over her had bloodshot eyes, one hand holding a pistol, the other tearing at her clothes. Greed and madness warred in his expression.
He froze when he heard the shouting.
Then footsteps. Heavy. Deliberate. Coming from a nearby alley.
BOOM.
A shotgun blast echoed across the East End.
"YOU BASTARD! WHERE ARE YOU?"