Father's Day had come and gone without a single system notification.
Jude wasn't complaining. His current asset points generated stable income—enough to keep the children's shelter running, enough to buy an old TV that only worked if you hit it at the right angle, enough for furniture, blackboards, paper, pens, and all the other small necessities that turned an abandoned building into something resembling a home.
The kids were thriving. That was what mattered.
What he hadn't expected was how quickly they'd accepted Solomon Grundy.
Jude had been prepared for fear. Screaming. Children hiding under beds while a seven-foot-tall zombie shambled around their living space. He'd even started planning contingencies—maybe build Grundy a wooden cabin in the woods, somewhere isolated where the big guy could exist without terrifying anyone.
With intermediate physical fitness enhancement, Jude could probably knock out a decent structure in a week. Two weeks if he wanted it weatherproof.
But the street children of Gotham City were built different.
They'd taken one look at Grundy's bluish-white skin, his sunken eyes, his face that looked like something from a nightmare—and immediately started trying to communicate with him using an elaborate system of hand gestures and drawings.
Grundy, for his part, seemed delighted.
"Solomon Grundy, born on Monday," he'd rumble, watching the kids play.
The children had learned it meant everything and nothing. Agreement. Observation. Sometimes just I am here, and you are here, and that is good.
Body language worked where words failed. The kids would point at things, and Grundy would nod. They'd draw pictures, and he'd study them with the solemn concentration of an art critic. One of the smaller girls had started braiding wildflowers into his hair.
Jude watched it all with something approaching wonder.
Gotham's street children were fearless in ways that broke your heart. Growing up alone in this city did that—taught you that monsters were just people with worse skin conditions, that appearance meant nothing compared to whether someone would hurt you or help you.
And Grundy helped.
More importantly, Grundy protected.
With Solomon around, Jude didn't have to worry about the children's safety. Anyone with ulterior motives who wandered into the shelter would be dealt with. Permanently.
Jude wasn't Batman. He didn't lose sleep over whether Grundy's methods were "too harsh." In fact, according to his simple moral calculation, anyone who attacked children deserved whatever they got.
You want to hurt kids? Meet the zombie. Enjoy your last few seconds of consciousness.
It was a system that worked.
This month's salary had also arrived in full.
But the news about the Father's Day shooting had spread through Gotham's underworld like wildfire, and people were starting to suspect that maybe there was nothing special about Jude at all.
Maybe Maroni was just being targeted.
Maybe the curse was on the crime family, not him.
According to Philip, his supervisor at the Red Dragon restaurant, the higher-ups had denied the budget for continuing Jude's paid leave arrangement.
"If you want to make money next month," Philip had told him over the phone, sounding genuinely apologetic, "you'll need to personally bring evidence of substantial damage to the Maroni family. Prove the curse is real. Otherwise..." He'd trailed off meaningfully.
Going back to actual work was impossible, of course. Jude was on the Falcone family's blacklist now. Every Falcone-owned business in Gotham would reject his application on sight.
"They're so stingy they won't even give me the biweekly six thousand dollars in paid vacation," Jude muttered to himself, sitting in the shelter's makeshift office. "Are my days as a salary thief finally over?"
It was a legitimate concern.
On the other hand, if he counted his savings—$30,000 accumulated through various schemes, system rewards, and legitimate employment—he was actually in decent shape. Minus the money needed for the children's expenses, he still had enough to support himself for a while.
Plus $12,000 in asset points.
Honestly, he could probably open a small restaurant. With his cooking skills—enhanced by Dave's Kitchen supplies and Alfred Pennyworth's personal tutoring—he could make a legitimate living.
Of course, opening a business in Gotham came with risks. Armed robbery. Protection rackets. Arson. The usual.
But Jude was equipped to handle such risks now. He had a glowing wheelchair that could hit 200 km/h, a dimensional storage space, and a seven-foot-tall zombie bodyguard.
He'd be fine.
Probably.
Just as Jude was mentally calculating startup costs for "Jude's Kitchen, the system notification chimed.
[You have a new part-time job available. Please check it out.]
Jude straightened in his chair.
[MISSION: The Local Procuratorate with Leaks on All Sides]
Mission Introduction: Every failure makes you wiser. After realizing that Vernon Wells was Maroni's man and hearing about Dr. Thomas Wayne's past, Harvey Dent has decided to further monitor his bribed colleague and the seemingly cooperative gang leader. After all, in this leaky prosecutor's office, good guys have to be more cunning than bad guys.
Note: Harvey Dent knows nothing about hacking technology. But the first thing he thought of was the reliable friend who deleted hospital surveillance footage and blocked telephone monitoring.
Status: To be completed (0/2)
Reward: If not detected, gain Advanced Computer Proficiency. Each time a target detects you, your proficiency level decreases by one.
Jude read it twice, making sure he understood the parameters.
Monitor Vernon. Monitor Maroni. Don't get caught.
"Sounds like a good idea," he said aloud, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Besides, there's no real danger in monitoring Maroni. We're just listening. And if we hear something explosive..." He grinned. "Maybe I can continue working as a salary thief for Falcone after all. Just need to prove the curse is real."
The universe, apparently sensing an opportunity for comedic timing, made his phone ring.
"Never gonna give you up, never gonna let you down—"
Rick Astley blasted from the speakers. Jude had set that ringtone as a joke and kept forgetting to change it.
He checked the caller ID.
Harvey Dent - DA's Office
"Ha," Jude said to the empty room. "Speak of the devil, and here he comes."
He answered. "Hello? Prosecutor Harvey?"
"Kidou Yuuto." Harvey's voice was professional but warm. The code name Jude decided to use. "I have something I want to ask you. How about coming to my house for dinner after I get off work?"
"No problem," Jude replied. "Just call me when you're ready."
"I will. Thanks."
The call ended.
Jude set down the phone and smiled at nothing in particular.
Harvey Dent needed help with something illegal. Jude was about to get paid in computer skills for doing crimes.
Gotham really was a magical place.
A few days after Jude met with Harvey—after the hacking equipment was delivered, after the surveillance protocols were established, after Jude had spent an entertaining evening teaching Harvey basic operational security—Sal Maroni was suddenly thrown into a well-maintained solitary cell in Blackgate Prison.
The cell was clean. Climate-controlled. Better than most Gotham apartments.
And Maroni had announced, through his lawyer, that he intended to testify against Carmine Falcone in open court. Every crime. Every murder. Every bribery. The whole empire, laid bare for the jury.
The Romans, predictably, had not responded.
Radio silence from Falcone's side. No threats. No bribes. No assassins sent to Blackgate.
Which meant Falcone was either planning something subtle, or he was confident enough in his control of the justice system that he didn't need to bother with crude intimidation.
Harvey Dent suspected the latter.
Which was why, one afternoon, he paid a visit to Blackgate.
The guard led him through the warren of corridors to the solitary wing. Maximum security. Reinforced doors. Cameras at every junction.
Maroni's cell was at the end of the hall.
Harvey waited while the guard unlocked the door, then stepped inside. The cell was spacious by prison standards—bed, desk, private bathroom. Almost comfortable.
Sal Maroni sat on the bed in a tailored suit, looking more like a businessman taking a break than a prisoner awaiting trial.
He smiled when Harvey entered. It wasn't a friendly smile.
"Mr. Maroni," Harvey said politely, standing just inside the doorway. "Accusing Falcone is a very dangerous thing to do. I didn't expect you'd be willing to do it yourself."
"Aren't you glad about that, Mr. Harvey?"
Maroni's voice dripped with sarcasm. He leaned back against the wall, utterly relaxed.
"If that bastard Falcone hadn't gone too far," Maroni continued, "I wouldn't have personally challenged him. But then again, Attorney Harvey—" His smile sharpened. "If, after I've completed my prosecution of Falcone, I find you still want to use it to investigate and prosecute me? Then I advise you to put aside those petty thoughts."
He gestured around the comfortable cell.
"Your power alone isn't enough to bring down the Maroni family," he said. "You should understand that by now."
Harvey's expression didn't change. He simply smiled back—pleasant, professional, the same smile he used in courtrooms when opposing counsel made a point they thought was devastating.
"Mr. Maroni," Harvey said mildly, "you may still dare to say reckless things to me now. But you need to be more careful in the future."
He nodded toward the corner of the cell.
"This room is monitored by surveillance cameras," Harvey continued. "They'll start operating tomorrow. After all, the trial is about to begin, and there can't be no surveillance here. This is for your safety, of course. We wouldn't want anything to happen to our star witness."
His smile widened slightly.
"So, Mr. Maroni—see you next time."
Harvey turned and walked out. The door clanged shut behind him. The lock engaged with a heavy thunk.
Through the small window in the door, Harvey saw Maroni lie back down on the bed, looking supremely unconcerned.
Good.
Harvey walked away, footsteps echoing down the corridor.
Everything was proceeding exactly as planned.
About half an hour later, the prison gate opened again.
This time, the visitor was younger. Blond. Expensive suit that screamed "lawyer" or "politician" or possibly "both."
Vernon Wells walked through Blackgate like he owned it. The guards nodded respectfully as he passed. One even held a door open for him.
He reached Maroni's cell and stopped at the iron bars.
"Mr. Maroni," Vernon said respectfully, "do you have any instructions today?"
Maroni opened his eyes. Turned his head. Saw Vernon's face—earnest, loyal, perfectly obedient—and smiled with deep satisfaction.
What local procuratorate? What prosecutor Harvey Dent?
They were nothing.
From the beginning to the end, Harvey had always been alone. A lonely man running wildly down the one-way street called justice, convinced he could change Gotham through sheer determination and moral rectitude.
How naive.
How beautifully naive.
"Vernon," Maroni said warmly, sitting up, "I'm very touched that you've always remembered to visit me these past few days. But there's one thing that's been bothering me."
Vernon's expression shifted immediately to attentive concern. "Mr. Maroni, you only need to give instructions. I'll do my best to help you solve any problem."
"Very good, Vernon. Very good." Maroni gestured toward the corner of the cell. "Do you see that camera up there? Harvey Dent told me today it would be activated tomorrow. But I don't believe him."
He leaned forward slightly.
"Go and find out for me," Maroni said, voice low and conspiratorial. "Who's responsible for monitoring this room? Who checks the footage? And see if that camera has already been activated."
Vernon nodded slowly, understanding immediately.
"I think the supervisors will be able to become friends with me," Maroni continued, his smile widening. "Just like you and I are friends. Do you understand?"
"Leave it all to me, Mr. Maroni."
Maroni pulled out a cigarette. Vernon immediately produced a lighter and lit it with practiced efficiency.
Maroni took a long drag, studying the lighter.
"Nice," he commented. "Where'd you get it?"
Vernon's smile was faintly embarrassed. "Harvey Dent gave it to me. Said I worked hard. Wanted to show his appreciation."
Maroni laughed. Actually laughed, smoke curling from his lips.
"That idiot thinks he's smart," he said, shaking his head with genuine amusement. "But he still doesn't know your background. Doesn't suspect a thing."
He took another drag, eyes gleaming with triumph.
Vernon stood there, dutiful and patient, waiting for further instructions.
Maroni looked at him—his spy, his mole, his perfect inside man sitting in Harvey Dent's office every single day, hearing every strategy, seeing every piece of evidence, knowing every move before it happened.
"Even the people around him are mine," Maroni said softly, savoring the words like fine wine. "What can he use to fight me?"