To be honest, Zhaodi could understand, at least a little, why his colleagues were so terrified of this particular guest.
Like he'd heard before, Gotham had a Dark Knight—often thought of as a freak in tights or some kind of urban legend. But there was also a White Knight in this city. And he wasn't a rumor or a ghost. He was real. And relentless.
Harvey Dent, Gotham's District Attorney. If you had to count the people left in this city who were still genuinely fighting for justice, you'd probably only get three: the Bat, the Commissioner, and this White Knight standing right in front of him.
It was a holy trinity, in a way. One hunted criminals in the shadows, one dragged them into the station under the public eye, and the last—Harvey—put them behind bars for good.
Because of Harvey's sheer tenacity and iron will, every gang in Gotham knew his name. He was the kind of DA who couldn't be bribed, bullied, or bought. He had dirt on everyone and had already sent more than a few gangsters packing to Blackgate. And while there was plenty of bad blood, there was also a strange undercurrent of respect.
Plenty of people in Gotham wanted to be the good guy. But the number who could stay the good guy when reality came swinging? That list was short.
That said—Zhaodi was scared of him too, okay?
The thing about White Knights was, when they were on your side, they were the brightest light in the dark. But once they fell… they became the most twisted, broken thing you could imagine.
You're afraid of Harvey Dent? Buddy, what about me? I've seen what Two-Face can do! Am I not your colleague too?
"Mr. Dent, good evening. Please follow me."
Harvey nodded, his eyes like scalpels as they studied Zhaodi's face. After a few seconds of unnerving silence, he suddenly asked, "You seem a bit stiff when you smile. Are you feeling unwell? Or just nervous?"
"N-no, not at all! I'm in great spirits! I just… really love my job, so I guess I'm a little excited, that's all. Hahaha…"
Zhaodi forced his smile to soften, trying not to leave any lasting impression on a man who might someday become one of Gotham's most dangerous split-personality criminals.
"Oh? Is that so?" Harvey gave him a loaded smile. "I always thought you people didn't like me very much."
"What? No, of course not! The Red Dragon welcomes every guest with sincerity! It's an honor to serve you, sir. Hahaha…"
God, I'm an idiot. I mean, yeah, most superheroes are broke, and the rich ones sure as hell don't come slumming it in places like this. I didn't know Harvey Dent had a habit of showing up and throwing shade.
If he's not here tonight to mock the Falcone family while fishing for information, then I'll write my name backward from now on.
Zhaodi glanced uneasily at those razor-sharp eyes. A chill ran down his spine.
Please let Two-Face forget me when he turns, or one coin flip later, I'm the flavor of the week. Heads today's Superman. Tails tomorrow's Superman. Either way, I'm dead.
Are things going to blow up tonight? They shouldn't… right?
"Bring me the menu, will you?" Harvey said casually. "Some scum got hauled into the station yesterday. I'm in a good mood today—and my appetite's not bad either. Thinking about how many years I'll push for in court tomorrow."
"Ah, right away."
Zhaodi handed over the menu and snuck a quick glance back at the crowd. Several faces were turning visibly red.
That couldn't be good.
Please don't drag me into this, man…
"They're like rats, those punks," Harvey said, flipping through the menu with almost gleeful curiosity. "You ever seen a swarm of rats? I've seen plenty. The big ones are clever. They hide during the day, never come out. Only dare to bite when the lights are out."
Now nearly half the room was flushed red.
Please stop. Please stop talking, Zhaodi silently begged. Any more of this and it'll be a full house.
"But sewer rats don't have loyalty. No sense of family either. And the little ones are dumb as bricks. Grab a few, and the whole nest comes spilling out."
Full red now. Ha. Ha. Ha.
Zhaodi desperately scanned the room for anything that might serve as cover. Then subtly checked the Beretta holstered under his jacket.
If a shootout starts, please let the blood not be mine.
Fortunately, once Harvey had placed his order, he didn't push Zhaodi further. He just made some small talk about the food and wine—questions that were all clearly listed in the handbook.
This kind of place sold more than wine—it sold stories. Each vintage bottle, each brand, had a tale to tell: the region, the grapes, the weather that year, the estate's history, the unique notes in the flavor profile. It was all written out in a massive reference tome, turning fancy storytelling into an excuse to inflate prices.
With dozens of bottles came dozens of tales. Remembering them all and presenting them smoothly? That was what made a veteran server.
As for reading guests and responding appropriately, Zhaodi had hoped to bluff his way through with a confident demeanor. But with Harvey Dent around, he didn't need to. Most of the time, Harvey used their casual chat as cover to toss jabs at the other gang members in the room.
Zhaodi served each course with trembling hands, several times watching his colleagues instinctively reach for their waistbands—only to be stopped by someone else.
Ding ding ding—
A sudden ring cut through the tension like a whip crack. Harvey's pleasant mood evaporated as he answered, muttered a few words, and then got up to leave—paying his bill on the way out.
Zhaodi was left blinking in confusion, unsure what had just happened. But hey—his first tip, plus a boost to his rep score, was in the bag. He couldn't help but feel a bit giddy.
Everyone else in the restaurant seemed to breathe a collective sigh of relief too. If Harvey had stuck around any longer, someone might've actually snapped.
No one knew how he always picked the perfect moment. He'd made the reservation days ago. Maroni's guys had just landed in jail yesterday.
If that was a coincidence, then Zhaodi had just struck gold.
Luckily, the next wave of customers were all relatively normal. And his supervisor's judgment hadn't been wrong—Zhaodi's looks and demeanor helped mask the rough edges of a rookie.
People from all walks of high society passed through the Red Dragon: sharp-eyed elites, hot-tempered socialites, pretentious clowns, and full-blown jackasses. Yet his coworkers—all mobsters moonlighting as servers—handled them like seasoned pros. The sheer professionalism impressed even Zhaodi.
Not that he didn't contribute. He was the one who handled that temperamental woman going through menopause. Just showing his face had somehow calmed her right down.
Maybe… maybe he was made for this job after all.