At five o'clock in the morning in Gotham, the air carried a lingering scent of gunpowder smoke that hadn't fully dissipated, mixed with the musty stench wafting up from the sewers.
Chen Mo stood in the back kitchen of Gary's Sunshine Bakery. In front of him was a massive lump of raw dough, large enough to send an ordinary person to the hospital if it hit them.
He skillfully dusted it with flour, kneading and pressing it. The entire sequence of movements flowed like water, moving so fast that it left only afterimages.
If an outsider saw this, they would definitely think this kid was a kitchen monk who had escaped from some Shaolin Temple.
In reality, Chen Mo had only been working here for three days.
On the first day, Boss Gary wanted to teach him hands-on how to "inject soul" into the dough. However, Chen Mo took one look at that greasy attempt, and with a flip of his hand, he kneaded the dough to perfect elasticity, cracking the cutting board in the process.
On the outside, he smiled, but in his heart, he cursed the American's kneading technique for a long time.
He had thought the sandwich the boss's wife gave him last time was just stale. As it turned out, that was just how it tasted fresh out of the oven.
It was an absolute waste of food.
Boss Gary shut his mouth right then and there. Looking at Chen Mo's sunny, harmless face, he thought this kid might just be a natural-born laborer.
This kid is great, capable and hardworking.
While kneading the dough, Chen Mo replayed his highlight moments in his mind.
The image of those sacks of cash being scattered from the top of the water tower yesterday was still spinning in his head.
Green hundred-dollar bills whirled through the gray morning light, landing on tin roofs, on clotheslines, and in front of the doors of shacks that hadn't lit up yet.
Exhilarating.
Although the work at this bakery was a bit tiring, its saving grace was that it provided two meals a day.
In Gotham, when you are an underage illegal immigrant and unwilling to join a gang, a place that lets you eat your fill without anyone pointing a gun at the back of your head--and even gives you a little money--is practically heaven on earth.
Chen Mo looked back at the bread slowly rising in the oven. The aroma drifted into his nostrils, giving him a brief, unrealistic illusion.
Perhaps Gotham had a ray of sunshine too.
Perhaps people like Boss Gary and his wife, who diligently ran their shop, were the conscience of this city.
It's just that the pay is a bit too low, so it's not a long-term solution.
That damn manuscript has been under review for so long. If they want to approve it, approve it; if not, don't. But not publishing it and not releasing the draft fee is truly crossing the line.
Despite this, Chen Mo hummed a few notes, "Spider-Man, Spider-Man..."
His mood was still beautiful.
Overall.
The back kitchen door was pushed open.
Boss Gary's round body, looking like a freshly baked, oversized European loaf, shuffled in slowly.
Behind him followed his wife. She was dressed exceptionally loud today; that tight dress squeezed her like a red sausage about to burst at any moment, and her nails were dyed redder than blood.
Chen Mo stopped what he was doing and flashed a standard, countless-times-practiced sunny smile.
"Morning, Boss. Morning, ma'am. This batch of baguettes will be out of the oven in ten minutes."
Boss Gary didn't speak. He just stared at Chen Mo, a light flickering in his eyes that made the hairs on Chen Mo's back stand up.
He had seen that kind of look before. Back in the slums, that was how drug dealers looked at their product.
Except the drug dealers were looking at white powder, and Boss Gary was looking at him.
Don't be like this, I just praised you guys...
Boss Gary walked to Chen Mo's right side, and a fat, greasy, sweat-stained hand rested on his shoulder.
At the same time, the boss's wife sidled over to his left. Her body, carrying a pungent scent of cheap perfume, leaned closer to Chen Mo, and her hand with the red-dyed nails also rested on his other shoulder.
Chen Mo was sandwiched in the middle, like a meat patty being seared on both sides.
He could feel the heat radiating from Boss Gary's mass of fat through his overalls. It felt like being wrapped in a wet rag soaked in oil--sticky, with a hint of overnight garlic.
The boss's wife reached out her fingers, slowly hooking the strap of Chen Mo's apron.
She tilted her head, her lips coated in thick lipstick parting to reveal a gold tooth flashing with a cold glint.
"Little Chen Mo, are you tired?" Her voice sounded like a piece of iron scraping against sandpaper, making Chen Mo's ears ache.
Attempting to keep his first proper job, the smile on Chen Mo's face stiffened for a split second but recovered instantly. "Not tired. For the future of Sunshine Bakery, I can knead another hundred lumps of dough."
Boss Gary chuckled, squeezing his body forward a bit more, the smell of garlic blowing right into Chen Mo's neck. "You certainly do good work, and you really look... endearing."
His hand squeezed Chen Mo's shoulder with an abnormal amount of force. It wasn't an elder encouraging a youngster; it was a buyer weighing the mass of a product.
The boss's wife took over the conversation, her fingers crawling up the apron strap bit by bit, finally stopping on Chen Mo's collarbone.
Her fingernails lightly scraped across his skin, bringing a wave of nauseating chill. "Sis wants to ask you, do you want to make some extra money?"
Chen Mo looked down at the dough on the cutting board.
In his heart, that beautiful dream about "Gotham's sunshine" shattered with a pop, leaving not even a shred behind.
I hate this America, I hate this Gotham.
"Sure, I remember the contract says five dollars an hour," Chen Mo's tone was still light, as if discussing how well-done the bread should be baked today.
The boss's wife cackled, the red sausage on her chest shaking violently. "Five dollars is what outsiders earn. As long as you're obedient, you won't have to do this rough work of kneading dough and baking in the future."
She leaned close to Chen Mo's ear, lowering her voice to a disgusting, slimy whisper, "Just accompany the two of us, only the two of us. Whatever you want to buy, Sis will buy it for you."
Boss Gary also nodded along, his fat trembling. "It's much better than washing dishes or carrying bricks outside, isn't it? This is Gotham; it's an opportunity so many people couldn't even beg for."
Chen Mo kept his head down, looking at his hands covered in flour.
These hands had lifted a flipped car yesterday, knocked a drug dealer's teeth together, and scattered hundred-dollar bills into the slums.
Now, these hands were covered in flour, with dried dough still stuck in the crevices of his fingers from not being washed thoroughly.
He was wondering if those sacks of American dollars he threw out had been thrown to dogs.
He was wondering why he had wasted three days of his youth in this hellhole learning how to knead dough.
He was wondering why he had been humming "Spider-Man, Spider-Man" so happily just a moment ago.
He actually fucking thought there were good people in this miserable place.
Chen Mo originally wanted to say something decent. For instance, "I'm actually a respectable person," or "I have a seriously ill grandmother to take care of at home," or even "I'm allergic to garlic." But in the end, he said nothing.
Chen Mo just smiled resignedly.
The smile was still sunny.
As expected.
In Gotham, a place teeming with outstanding talent, it was impossible for there to be good people.
He was the naive one, insisting on finding a clean pearl in a cesspool.
Chen Mo gently patted the flour off his hands.
He looked up, first at the boss's wife on his left, then at Boss Gary on his right.
His gaze lingered on each of their faces for a second, as if confirming something.
Then he spoke, his voice incredibly calm, as calm as if he were discussing how much yeast to add today.
"Fine. You two brought this on yourselves."