Morning sucks, Gotham.
Zhaodi woke from his dream and instinctively greeted the city the only way it deserved.
It was mostly because he'd just had a nightmare—he dreamt he was strung up on the highest gargoyle of Gotham's cathedral by some creep in a bat costume... and tickled on the soles of his feet.
All night long. Relentlessly. It was hellish torture, brother—like some twisted horror level torment.
Sure, people say dreams reflect what's on your mind, but it's not like he's ever really met that guy. At most, he'd seen him hanging people upside down a couple of times last night. Why did he have to be the one getting tormented in the dream?
Must be Gotham's fault. So yeah—morning sucks, Gotham.
Zhaodi instinctively pulled on some clothes, then glanced out the window—and in the next second, climbed right back into bed.
The city was still drowned in darkness. He fished out his phone to check the time. It was 11:22 a.m.
He'd only been asleep for ten minutes.
And yet his mind was already so wired it was borderline manic. There was no way he could fall back asleep now, which made him sigh.
"The kickback's insane. Tongs' stuff is way too pure."
He opened the system shop, scrolling through it carefully to see how long this state of over-caffeinated alertness would last.
[Floral Tea Infused with Blue Petals
Price: $30 per serving
Note: I could do this all day!]
Great. He'd been feeling jittery this morning from withdrawal and had wanted a pick-me-up for the afternoon. So he'd bought this tea at 2 p.m. yesterday. Turns out the high was going to last all the way until 2 p.m. today.
"I didn't think this stuff would even override sleep... The original notes didn't mention anything like this. Even Steve needed a nap after his serum. You're telling me this tea outperforms Captain America?"
Swearing to himself not to make any more impulse purchases, Zhaodi kept browsing the shop. Sure enough, he found a pink version of the tea too.
Ha. Of course.
His nerves were way too overstimulated now—there was no hope of sleeping. So instead, he looked through the shop again and bought a $5 beginner's driving manual.
Asset points might be something he could earn again later, but it was still better to spend frugally. Driving wasn't an urgent issue anyway. Learning on his own could even save him the asset points needed for Beginner Car Driving Profiency.
The system shop was actually pretty consumer-friendly. You could pay a difference later to upgrade the skills you already owned. Since he already had Intermediate Wheelchair Driving Profiency, he only needed 200 more points to reach Advanced Wheelchair Driving Profiency. Similarly, if he could manage to learn enough on his own to qualify for Beginner Car Driving Profiency, he wouldn't have to spend 500 asset points buying it directly.
That's when he stumbled across another interesting service.
"Huh? Driving Sim Training?"
Curious, Zhaodi tapped in. It cost 5 asset dollars per session, and each session lasted two hours.
[Change terrain, scenery, weather, and vehicle types? Not bad! Cars only? Fair enough.]
But wait—do F1 racecars count as cars?
He flipped through the manual but didn't find anything about racing. Made sense—it was a beginner's driving manual, after all. Including F1 techniques would be hilarious overkill.
The simulator had racing modes too, of course—but he had no idea how to drive one, so there was no way to test it yet. Might as well stick with the basics and follow the manual.
He read through it carefully at first but found there were too many flashy, confusing terms. So he opened the video tutorial and spent half an hour getting familiar before starting his mental sim session.
Two hours later, Zhaodi returned to reality after gleefully crashing his heart out.
It's a simulator—no real danger—and the terrain could be changed at will. Obviously, a newbie would want to go wild and enjoy the chaos.
Who wouldn't want to ramp a car over the Grand Canyon and plow right into the DC film department's executive board to do the world a favor?
Shame the sim didn't include aircraft—his creativity was being stifled.
Once he finished, he didn't even bother checking the skill tab. He definitely wasn't at the Beginner Proficiency level yet. After all, two hours of practice only taught him how to accelerate, brake, and stop. The more advanced techniques? Still way out of reach.
The practice had gotten a bit dull, so he spent another $ asset renting a show he hadn't finished watching. Then he spent three more on skewers and a fizzy drink, and settled in for a binge session.
He decided to pull an all-nighter for once—yeah, a bit indulgent, but come on. Midnight snacks, soda, and binge-watching without worrying about work the next day? That's pure bliss for any working stiff.
At 3 a.m., a gunshot cracked through the night outside his window—close. Too close. Somewhere near Derek's place.
Zhaodi's body tensed up in an instant.
His hand instinctively went to his waist, brushing over the Beretta he still hadn't had the guts to take off.
Should he go downstairs? But he had no idea what the situation was down there. All he had was some basic firearms training from Derek—barely enough to shoot. Aiming? That was still a mystery.
But if he didn't go... what would happen to the one who got shot?
He was beginning to understand what separated superheroes—and supervillains—from everyone else.
Whether they were made of steel or flesh, whether they had powers or not, whether a bullet could kill them instantly—they all had one thing in common: they dared to face the gun barrel head-on.
"But I'm just a regular guy. The smaller the power, the smaller the responsibility," he muttered. He took another bite of grilled meat. When you don't have the power to save the world, the least you can do is look after yourself.
BANG!
Another gunshot.
"Tch." He figured whoever got hit twice was probably already dead. Too late to do anything now.
BANG!
"Oh, come the hell on—is this guy serious?"
He reopened the shop and began scrolling again.
Suddenly, from somewhere in the dark Gotham sky, a loud voice rang out—sharp, furious, and unmistakably that of an angry woman from the West Coast:
"You motherfer! Who the f** do you think you are, shootin' at three a.m.? You like waking people up, huh? Beach boy, I swear to God—stand still for one second and I'll put a bullet so far up your ass it'll come out your goddamn mouth!**"
In a shadowy alley, a woman whimpered in pain, pinned against a wall. Blood was pouring from bullet wounds in both her hands.
The man holding the gun had wild, bloodshot eyes and was ripping at her clothes, madness and greed flashing in his gaze. But the sudden shouting stunned him, and he froze mid-action.
Then, he heard footsteps approaching from a nearby alley.
BOOM!
A shotgun blast thundered across Gotham's East End.
"You bastard! Where the hell are you hiding?!"