The night in Gotham was like an inverted pot, trapping all the light inside.
Chen Mo squatted on the roof of the abandoned apartment building across from the East End slums, watching the sky change from an ink-like black to a filthy, deathly gray--like a shroud that could never be washed clean.
A layer of frost had formed on the sheet-metal ventilation duct behind him; in Gotham, even the frost was gray.
Chen Mo zipped the thrift-store work jacket up to his chin. The fabric of the collar, worn shiny from use, pressed against his neck, as icy as the skin of a dead snake.
The broken sofa in the attic was still waiting for him. One of its popped springs poked right where his lower back rested; lying down, he could hear his vertebrae grinding against the iron frame, link by link.
But today, he didn't want to go back.
The moment he closed his eyes, that shantytown would appear--tin roofs crowded together in layers like fish scales, each piece pressing down on a few people who weren't quite dead yet.
He had seen too much.
In his half-month in Gotham, he had seen a dock worker who had offended the mob, strung up on an iron rack with his skin burned entirely away.
He had seen a homeless man whose leg bone was shattered by a convenience store owner with a shotgun.
He had seen three fourteen-year-old children squatting in a back alley, calmly dividing their spoils like sharing a bag of potato chips, splitting a pair of limited-edition sneakers they had stripped off another fourteen-year-old child.
Chen Mo pulled the red-and-blue mask made of cheap fabric over his face and flipped out from the ventilation duct.
He had no real purpose.
He just didn't want to stay anywhere that had a ceiling.
Gotham by day and Gotham by night were two completely different cities.
Nighttime Gotham belonged to the lunatics, the criminals, and that paranoid freak who liked to hang himself from the eaves of roofs.
Daytime Gotham belonged to everyone--it belonged to the elites in bespoke suits stepping out of Wayne Enterprises, it belonged to the homeless in the dark alleys cultivating themselves like maggot culture dishes, and it also belonged to the respectable gentlemen who priced antibiotics high out of the reach of the poor, then turned to the cameras and said, "We are committed to providing equal healthcare services to all patients."
The ranchers were fencing off their land, and the farmers were increasing the yield of their crops.
Chen Mo squatted on the edge of the apartment rooftop, looking at the street below. A highly absurd question revolved in his mind: in Gotham, what exactly does it mean to be a good person?
Did this word mean the same thing here as it did everywhere else?
Before he could figure it out, gunfire rang out.
From the bank on the street corner came three consecutive, muffled bangs, like someone driving nails through a thick quilt.
Then came the screams.
The citizens of Gotham sounded weary even when they screamed, carrying a sense of "here we go again."
Robbing banks had practically become a daily check-in activity in Gotham.
Chen Mo flipped down from the rooftop.
Inside the bank lobby, there were four robbers, two pistols, a shotgun, and a submachine gun.
The hostages had been driven into a corner, squatting in several rows like frozen meat neatly arranged in a supermarket freezer.
A young woman in a gray hoodie buried her head in her knees, her shoulders trembling, but she didn't make a sound.
Next to her was a middle-aged man wearing gold-rimmed glasses, his hands cradling his head. His glasses were askew, with a fresh crack running through one of the lenses.
He was muttering under his breath, "I still have a wife and kids, I still have a wife and kids, I still have a wife and kids," chanting it like a mantra.
At the very edge was an old man in a gas station uniform, his hair streaked with white and his back hunched, his posture so practiced it made one uncomfortable to watch.
One robber was swinging a short-handled sledgehammer at the counter glass. He swung three times without breaking it and cursed under his breath.
Another was stuffing cash into a large canvas bag with rough movements, like cramming scrap paper into a trash can.
The third was holding the shotgun pointed at the hostages, the muzzle moving from left to right, then right to left, as if hesitating over which disobedient person to kill first.
The fourth, the one holding the submachine gun, stood in the center of the lobby, directing the operation. "Faster! Faster! Faster!" His voice was as shrill as a chicken being strangled by the neck.
Chen Mo slipped in through the ceiling ventilation duct, hanging upside down directly above the lobby.
No quips.
No self-righteous speeches.
The little spider really wasn't in the mood today.
Chen Mo released his web-line, dropping down like a heavy plumb bob.
The tips of his toes slammed onto the shoulders of the robber holding the submachine gun. His entire body sunk down, his knees clamping around the man's neck, and with a twist of his waist, he hurled the man entirely across the room.
The submachine gun slipped from the man's grip, sliding far across the floor until it struck the edge of the counter, spinning three times.
The remaining three robbers spun around at the same time.
Chen Mo gave them no time to react.
A web-line from his left hand snagged the wrist of the one wielding the sledgehammer and yanked upward. The sledgehammer slipped from his grip and smashed onto his own foot; before the scream could escape his throat, the man was already pulled to the ground.
A web-line from his right hand entangled the ankle of the one stuffing cash and pulled backward. The man fell flat on his back onto the tiled floor, his skull hitting with a dull, thudding crack as the bills in the bag scattered all over the ground.
The one holding the shotgun finally reacted, raising his muzzle.
Chen Mo sidestepped with a minimal shift in posture. The buckshot grazed his ear and blasted into the ceiling, blowing a hole in the plasterboard as debris showered down like snow.
He grabbed the gun barrel, shoved it upward, and slammed the stock back into the robber's own face. The sound of the nasal bone shattering was as crisp as snapping a stalk of celery.
Four men, twelve seconds.
Chen Mo dragged them to the bank entrance, using his webbing to bind them one by one to the stone pillars.
In various postures, neat and orderly.
Like four packages waiting to be signed for.
One of them was still groaning, blood bubbles hanging from the corner of his mouth, his nose twisted to one side.
Chen Mo squatted in front of him, looking into his eyes. "Your nasal bone is broken. Go to the hospital to get it reset. Go to the emergency room, not the outpatient clinic. By the time you finish waiting in line at the outpatient clinic, the bone will have already grown back crooked."
The robber didn't speak. His eyes held no fear, only confusion. He couldn't understand what this person in pajamas was doing, or what kind of nonsense he was talking about--who the hell could afford a hospital?
Did he look like an elite middle-class worker from Wayne Enterprises?
Those few bags of cash were piled next to the counter, bulging, with the green edges of banknotes peeking through the openings.
One-hundred-dollar bills, no loose change.
Well, that statement was redundant.
Who likes to stuff coins into their bags when robbing a bank?
Siren wails were rushing this way from a few blocks away, the sound traveling from far to near, like an approaching stray dog with a low growl rolling in its throat.
The hostages had mostly fled by now, leaving the lobby empty.
The young woman in the gray hoodie had looked back as she ran out, her lips moving, though it was unclear what she said. The middle-aged man in the gold-rimmed glasses ran the fastest, not even picking up his glasses when they fell. The old man was the last to leave; as he passed by Chen Mo, he paused, pulled a half-melted hard candy from his pocket, placed it on the counter, and then left.
Perhaps it was because Chen Mo's build really made him look like a child.
Chen Mo stood before those few bags of cash.
According to the script he had been acting out for the past half-month, he should shoot a web-line now, swing out the back door of the bank, and vanish before the sirens drew close.
Clean, efficient, perfectly matching the persona of a friendly neighbor.
Chen Mo reached out and gripped the opening of one of the bags.
Buzz.
The system chimed. It was a low, continuous drone, like a fine needle pressing against the back of his head.
It didn't pierce through, but it let him know it was there. It was waiting for him to draw his hand back.
Chen Mo did not draw back. He lifted the bag of money. The droning sound grew slightly louder.
There were no images in his mind.
No twelve-year-old girl clutching dirty money, no "only he was willing to give money," no price list for antibiotics and painkillers.
Nothing at all.
He merely held that bag of money, standing in the empty bank lobby, listening to the sirens drawing closer and closer, listening to the low, continuous drone of the system in his mind.
Then he spoke.
His voice wasn't loud. He wasn't speaking to the system; he was speaking to himself.
"Stop fucking buzzing."
The drone paused for a moment.
"I know what I'm doing is right."
The system went quiet, as if someone had suddenly choked it by the throat.
Chen Mo stacked the bags of cash one by one, using his webbing to bind them into a massive bundle, and hoisted it onto his shoulder.
With four tons of strength, carrying these few bags of US dollars was more than easy. He walked out the back door of the bank, climbed up the wall, and vanished into the gray morning light of Gotham.