Jude hadn't been having a good time lately.
Not because of work—the Red Dragon Restaurant treated him well enough, despite Philip's persistent blood pressure problems. Not because of housing—Harvey Dent's rented apartment was comfortable, warm, significantly nicer than Drake's destroyed East End slum. Not because of money—he had savings, a car, regular income, relative security.
His personal life was objectively good. Stable. Safe.
The problem was him.
"Sir, no, please don't—"
"Stop talking and give me that necklace!"
"Okay, okay, don't shoot, please don't shoot—"
Jude braked hard, pulling the Death Car to the curb with more force than necessary. The tires squealed. His hands gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles went white.
He sighed.
Ever since receiving the intermediate physical fitness enhancement, his daily life had become significantly more complicated. The specific manifestations of this complication revealed themselves in increasingly troublesome ways.
He heard more. Saw farther. Smelled things he desperately wished he couldn't.
The direct result: he could no longer commute to and from work in peace.
Even sitting in his car with the windows rolled up, sounds reached him from nearby alleys, tunnels, abandoned rooms. Conversations. Arguments. Crimes. The acoustic details carried with crystalline clarity—the metallic click of a gun being cocked, the muffled whimper of fear, the shuffle of feet on pavement as someone tried to run.
Smells drifted through the supposedly sealed vehicle. Blood, rot, bodily fluids. The sharp copper tang of violence. The sweet-sick stench of decomposition. The acrid chemical burn of fear-sweat.
And his enhanced vision meant that places previously out of sight—dark corners, distant rooftops, shadowed doorways—now resolved with perfect clarity from his apartment window after work.
In a sinful city like Gotham, possessing such sensitive senses alongside a relatively normal conscience constituted a special kind of torture.
Every commute. Every errand. Every moment of supposed leisure became an exercise in witnessing atrocities he couldn't escape noticing.
Just like now.
"Jude, Jude, what are you doing?" He muttered to himself, staring at the steering wheel. "You should know very well that few heroes have good endings. And you don't have the ability to be one."
He hesitated in the driver's seat for several long seconds.
It was just a necklace. Small crime. Probably not worth dying over. The woman would survive. She'd file a police report that would go nowhere, join the statistics, become another number in Gotham's endless ledger of minor tragedies.
Maybe he didn't need to be a hero.
You're not as fast as the Flash. Not as rich as Batman. Not as strong as Superman. You will die if you try.
His original life—his real life, before transmigration—hadn't been like this.
He'd been polished smooth by an inexplicable world. Slippery. Cautious. Self-protective. The kind of person who couldn't be friends with anyone and couldn't afford to make enemies with anyone either.
He hadn't expressed opinions on everything, because that always angered someone. Some group who loved expressing opinions would inevitably take offense. And Jude didn't have the energy for arguments, didn't enjoy confrontation, so he'd been misunderstood as having no convictions at all.
His colleagues had all been like that anyway—only talking endlessly when advocating for themselves, when the topic directly affected their personal interests. So Jude had blended in, becoming part of the silent majority, daring to grumble only in spaces where no one could scrutinize him.
Because he knew that when he woke up, he'd still have to face his own life. Whether it was construction work that was a little too hot today, or traffic that made tomorrow's food delivery late. Life wasn't easy. So he'd retreated home, hidden away, started writing his little stories where he controlled everything.
He was used to hiding.
When you are poor, take care of yourself. When you are rich, help the world.
He'd been glad to be incompetent. It meant he had no obligation to grieve for others' misfortunes. He'd seen too many such misfortunes already. Drowning in them accomplished nothing.
Better to stay silent. Stay safe. Stay alive.
"And your wallet! Quick! Take it out!"
But since coming to Gotham, Jude had discovered something uncomfortable about himself.
This place was full of sad things. Overflowing with them. Drowning in them.
And some of those things—he couldn't tolerate them. Not as easily as he'd thought.
He wasn't as desensitized as he'd believed.
Is it because I gained something? he wondered distantly. Enhanced body. Supernatural items. Just enough power to make a difference?
Or did I always care this much, and just never had the ability to do anything about it before?
"Sir, please don't—" The woman's voice cracked with desperation. "This is worthless. My mother made it for me—"
"Who cares?! Just give it to me!"
Jude was already moving.
Car door open. Feet hitting pavement. Three steps into the alley before conscious thought caught up with muscle memory.
CRACK. CRACK.
Two decisive punches to the man's head. The robber's eyes rolled back, consciousness flickering. Jude followed up with a sharp chop to the carotid—carefully controlled, just enough pressure—and the criminal crumpled.
"You're the one who's inhumane!" Jude spat at the unconscious gangster. "My silence doesn't mean I don't have opinions about you!"
The words felt good. Powerful. Right.
God, that line had sounded so cool in his head.
And now, standing over an unconscious criminal in a Gotham alley, it felt even better spoken aloud.
How foolish, part of him whispered. Just because you've gained some physical strength, you think you can play hero.
But another part—louder, more insistent—responded: But any normal person wouldn't be able to stand hearing something that outrageous, right?
Jude savored the sensation of those punches. The solid impact. The immediate effect. He'd been holding back for weeks, listening to crimes, watching injustice, doing nothing.
These few punches felt incredible.
He turned and walked away, secretly euphoric, leaving the astonished woman standing in the alley, staring between the unconscious robber and Jude's retreating back.
"Hello? Commissioner Gordon?" Jude pulled out his phone as he walked. "I want to report a crime. Yes, I knocked out a robber. Corner of 5th and Carpenter. Yes, he's unconscious. No, I'm fine. He's the scoundrel, not me."
In the following days, Jude's methods of—well, not crime exactly—methods of justice evolved rapidly.
The approach became simple, crude, but highly effective.
First purchase: Intermediate Blowdart Mastery - $3,000 asset points.
The skill downloaded into his muscle memory like software installing on a computer. Suddenly he knew how to calculate trajectory, compensate for wind, adjust for distance. His hands understood the weight distribution of a dart, the proper breathing technique for accuracy.
Second purchase: Assassin's Blowpipe - $2,000 asset points.
The weapon materialized from system inventory—sleek black composite, collapsible, with a set of specialty darts that could be loaded with various payloads. The system note read:
Silent weapons. Deadly weapons. Great weapons. Insidious weapons.
- Legendary pirate Edward James Kenway
Third purchase: Advanced Stealth Mastery (upgrade from Intermediate) - $30,000 asset points.
This one hurt his savings significantly. But the moment the skill activated, Jude understood why it cost so much.
He could move through Gotham like a ghost. Read shadow patterns. Predict security camera coverage. Understand optimal positions for ambush. His footsteps made no sound. His presence registered as background noise, beneath conscious notice.
Total investment: $35,000 asset points.
Total effect: Devastating.
"Hey, have you heard?" One of Jude's coworkers leaned across the break room table, voice pitched low with conspiratorial excitement. "Gotham City's never peaceful, but there's something new happening."
"What now?" Another server asked, not looking up from his phone.
"They're calling it the 'Evil Road.' Anyone who commits a crime near certain streets suddenly faints for no apparent reason."
"That's superstitious bullshit."
"No, I'm serious! I saw it with my own eyes." The first waiter's expression carried genuine unease. "Some fool with a gun walked up to a couple with a kid. He raised the weapon—I mean, he just raised it, hadn't even finished the motion—and then he collapsed. Just... dropped. I didn't even see how he fell."
"Wind knocked him over?" someone suggested sarcastically.
"Police car arrived two minutes later and took him away. The couple said they didn't see anyone else around. Just the criminal suddenly unconscious on the ground."
Silence around the table.
"We should be more careful," one of the servers said slowly.
"Yeah. Everyone watch yourselves when trying to make money through, uh, alternative means."
"Right. Because clearly that's the lesson here."
"Wait—" Someone sniffed the air. "Does anyone else smell something burning?"
"Yeah," Jude nodded, equally concerned. "I definitely smell smoke."
At that moment, Supervisor Philip's voice erupted from the dining room like a detonation.
"YOU USELESS BASTARDS! THE RESTAURANT IS ON FIRE! WHY AREN'T YOU PUTTING IT OUT?!"
"Oh shit—"
"Move, move, move!"
That night the Red Dragon staff managed to catch an arsonist.
Jude helped drag the man from the kitchen, where he'd been stuffing burning rags behind the industrial stoves. The arsonist's face looked... familiar. Something about the bone structure, the eyes, the way he held himself despite being restrained by three waiters and a very angry supervisor.
"Damn fool!" Philip's crutch came down hard on the floor, emphasizing each word. "You've only been in Gotham for a few days and you dare to torch our restaurant? Are you tired of living?!"
The arsonist didn't cringe. Didn't beg.
Instead, he smiled.
Not a friendly smile. Not a scared smile.
A smile that promised consequences.
His eyes tracked across the assembled staff, cataloging faces, and stopped on Jude.