Zhaodi hadn't lied. Anyone who's ever crammed for exams knows how it goes—an entire semester's worth of material is stuffed into your brain just days before the test. You memorize, take the test, and then forget everything right after. Sure, the handbook he was studying from was thick—no highlights, no cheat sheet—but he managed to commit most of it to memory anyway.
Just to be safe, he spent one asset point on the system interface during the car ride, storing the entire handbook on the internal record board. With a flick of a thought, he could retrieve it anytime.
The manager tossed him a few casual questions. Once he confirmed that Zhaodi wasn't bluffing, he brought him straight into the changing room, handed over a well-fitted waitstaff uniform, and told him to suit up.
Truth be told, this was Zhaodi's first time wearing a suit.
"Hmm… not bad. Not bad at all."
The manager gave him a once-over. In the crisp, tailored outfit, Zhaodi cut a striking figure—tall, well-proportioned, with handsome, symmetrical features. Overall, he was just what they needed… aside from the trace of cold cunning and raw, untamed aggression still lingering in his eyes.
"You're on the day shift, not the night crowd," the manager commented. "This face of yours—it's a bit too fierce for daytime service."
At that, Zhaodi tried smiling. The result? Even more unnerving. It was as if a beast in a cage had been stuffed into a suit, now baring its teeth at prey. If you put him in a sharp Italian blazer, people would probably assume he was some big-shot mob boss.
"Ever consider joining a gang?" the manager joked. "That face of yours would fit right in."
As he chuckled and walked off, the manager returned a moment later holding a pair of gold-rimmed, non-prescription glasses.
"Here. Wear these. But don't let them fall into someone's soup or onto a customer, yeah?"
Zhaodi accepted the glasses and put them on. Immediately, the savage edge of his appearance softened, replaced by a subtle scholarly vibe.
"Much better," the manager nodded approvingly.
He then ran Zhaodi through a few rounds of mock service—greeting customers, taking orders, delivering dishes, cleaning up. Zhaodi's behavior and posture were nearly textbook. His manners had only a few rough spots, and when he did slip up, his composed presence and striking looks often covered for it.
"Nice. You learn fast," the manager said. "In that case, you're officially on the schedule. You start at ten."
Zhaodi watched the man yawn and vanish. Probably going back to sleep. Last night's night shift must've been rough. No way he'd stay up this long otherwise.
Having already eaten breakfast and not feeling particularly hungry, Zhaodi took off his glasses and strolled out to a nearby newsstand, buying a paper to see if anything major had happened in Gotham.
"Two armed robberies with fatalities. Tsk, Gotham never sleeps; a gang of bikers ran into a road-raging dump truck driver—tragic, but hard to sympathize; some poor pharma employees found frozen like ice sculptures—definitely Mr. Freeze's work; several members of the Maroni crime family had every bone in their bodies shattered and were dumped at GCPD along with incriminating evidence… classic Gotham."
Wait—every bone?
Zhaodi quickly flipped back to that page, narrowing his eyes at the horrific condition of the mobsters.
Limbs shattered. Ribs broken. And apparently, these were the same guys behind those robberies.
Good job, he thought silently. Sure, a psycho… but at least a useful one.
Still, the Maronis were practically vassals of the Falcone family—and Falcone was still Gotham's number one crime syndicate. No wonder the manager had pulled an all-nighter. He probably had some big names visiting the restaurant yesterday.
But what's any of that got to do with a humble waiter like me?
He shrugged and flipped through more pages. The rest was business as usual—some muggers got their jaws shattered and carted off to the ER, a few drug dealers tied up and dumped outside GCPD. All things considered, and excluding what didn't make it into print…
Yesterday was relatively peaceful for Gotham.
"Hm?"
Just as Zhaodi closed the paper, he noticed a few colleagues—also suited up—standing behind him, eyeing the headlines with barely concealed amusement.
"Hey there," he greeted.
"Hey. I'm Santos. Claude Santos."
"Lloyd Rick."
"I'm Bridgette Castro."
"Nice to meet you all," Zhaodi nodded. "Want to take a look at the paper?"
"Thanks."
Santos took the paper and scanned it, while Zhaodi stood and realized they were all focused on the same article—the one about the Maroni men who'd been hospitalized. That made things clearer.
It made sense, didn't it? Derek had once mentioned that Donald had powerful connections. Given the call Donald had made yesterday, there was no way his ties didn't reach into Gotham's top crime family—the Falcones.
Still, Zhaodi hadn't expected even the restaurant waitstaff to have family ties. The level of entanglement here ran much deeper than he'd imagined.
"Maroni scum," Santos muttered first, voice laced with sarcasm.
Rick shook his head. "Shameful. Dumped straight at GCPD, no less."
Castro added, "And we're just going to let it slide? What about the Don's reputation?"
"The Maronis don't speak for the Don," Santos replied flatly. "Besides, it's one thing to pull a gun on lions, tigers, or people. But how do you duel with ghosts, nightmares, or fear itself?"
He folded the paper with a shake of his head. "Not our problem. We're just humble waitstaff. Still, today's news was pretty entertaining."
Standing up, he gave Zhaodi a teasing grin. "But you, Ma Zhaodi—you really look like a mob boss. You sure you're not secretly with the Falcones?"
"No, no, not at all," Zhaodi waved it off quickly, slipping the gold-rimmed glasses back on. "I just have a slightly intense face, that's all. See? Much better."
Their expressions shifted ever so slightly. Santos laughed louder.
"Just messing with you, man. Don't take it personally."
Rick and Castro discreetly glanced at Zhaodi's wrists and neck, checking for any family tattoos—nothing there.
Donald could've at least warned the manager ahead of time, Santos thought. We almost mistook him for one of us.
What they didn't know was that things with the family had been way more hectic last night than the paper let on. Between the chaos and exhaustion, both the manager and Donald had completely forgotten this little hiccup.
"It's almost time for shift. Head chef's here too. Shall we get ready together?"
"Sure, I just got here—perfect chance to learn from you all."
They didn't have to wait long before a man in a sleek, tailored suit stepped into the restaurant.
Zhaodi didn't move, curious to observe how the veterans handled it. But the three others—and several coworkers—immediately froze for a second before shoving him forward.
"?"
"Good morning, sir. Do you have a reservation?"
"Table for one."
"Name, please?"
"Dent. Harvey Dent."