Chen Mo squatted in the leaking attic, a few sheets of yellowed old newspapers spread across the floor.
The attic was very empty, featuring a corrugated iron roof, a broken sofa, and a pile of scavenged junk stacked in the corner. The leaking spots were covered with plastic sheeting.
The wind poured in through the vent, causing the plastic sheeting to expand and deflate like some kind of half-dead breathing.
However, none of this could affect Chen Mo's wonderful mood at this very moment.
Right now, he was clutching a thick manila envelope in his hand.
He had retrieved it this morning from the back alley of that abandoned laundromat in the East District.
This was the drop-off point set by Agent White. The original manuscript went into a crack in the wall, and the manuscript fee went right back into the same crack, wrapped in a plastic bag and pressed under a loose red brick.
He had squatted in that alley, which was filled with moldy bedsheets and rusted washing machine drums. After confirming no one was around, he pulled out the brick, grabbed the envelope, and slipped back the way he came, sticking close to the base of the wall.
Once back in the attic, he blocked the vent completely with that loose wooden board before squatting next to the broken sofa to tear open the seal.
The whole process was carried out just like a secret agent meeting a contact.
Perhaps both sides were afraid of being bitten to death by a bat while walking at night.
Inside the envelope, two thousand dollars in cash were neatly stacked.
It was his manuscript fee! His legal income!
What remained after deducting taxes, handling fees, and protection fees consisted entirely of old bills in denominations of twenties and fifties. They were crumpled with curled edges, carrying a smell of gunpowder and mold unique to Gotham.
Chen Mo dumped the cash onto the sofa and counted the bills one by one. He counted them once, then counted them again.
Two thousand, not a penny short.
This was for the serialized comic he created under the pseudonym "Gotham Veteran Driver."
The manuscript fee for the first chapter of Fallen Hero: The Phantom of Gotham.
As for why he was afraid of retaliation from the bat, one could get a pretty good idea just from the title of this comic...
By the second day after his crossover, Chen Mo realized that with his current appearance, finding a job would definitely be difficult.
An underage illegal immigrant with no identity, no documents, and absolutely nothing to prove that the person named "Chen Mo" legally existed in this world. On top of that, he wasn't white.
The only craft he had that could be exchanged for money was his old trade from before the crossover.
That's right, he was an art student. He had mentioned that point before, hadn't he?
Chen Mo's professional class ranking had never dropped out of the top spot. He never needed guidelines to draw human proportions, and his sensitivity to perspective, light, shadow, and color was maxed out.
Since he had crossed over, not utilizing this pair of hands would be a disservice to himself.
And not becoming a plagiarist of culture would be even more of a disservice!
As for what to draw?
Drawing Marvel's Avengers and Spider-Man in DC?
No, no, no.
This was Gotham!
And what kind of superhero doujinshi could sell the most explosively in Gotham?
That would naturally be a doujinshi modding Batman.
A fallen hero, an idol falling into the mire.
He portrayed Batman as a tragic male lead who was rubbed into the mud by a villain on a rainy night, his mask half-shattered to reveal the young, pale face underneath, written all over with "Why am I still in this city?"
To put it simply, the more melodramatic, the better; the more fallen, the better.
He even arranged an extremely beautiful and miserable background for Batman. The male lead came standard with deceased parents, struggling alone in the darkness, misunderstood by all of Gotham, with only the Joker, the Penguin, Killer Croc, the Riddler, the Scarecrow... occasionally giving him a little warmth.
Of course, Chen Mo didn't draw Crime Alley. He was afraid of having his water meter checked by Wayne Enterprises, even though he never paid for water.
Batman was the guardian of Gotham City, a trinity of the Holy Father, the Holy Son, and the Holy Spirit. He was a widow dressed in black mourning clothes who married Gotham and martyred himself for the city. He was Sisyphus holding up Gotham so it would never fall, Prometheus bringing hope to the people, Gotham's eternal muse, and the permanent brand burned into Gotham.
Oh, Bat, so many people love you!
Who could resist babying him a little?
Chen Mo had almost moved himself to tears while drawing this part.
Unsurprisingly, this thing sold like crazy among the lower class of Gotham.
The youths in the slums each had a copy, and even Maroni's thugs would flip through a couple of pages while squatting in the convenience store restroom, sighing with emotion as they read.
So hot, so erotic... ahem, no.
Agent White said that the first chapter was snatched up as soon as it hit the street newsstands, and the underground comic circle was already asking when the second chapter would come out.
While counting the money, Chen Mo made a completely insincere sign of the cross in his heart.
"Sorry, Bruce. I didn't want to exploit your reputation either. But who told you to be so famous? Besides, you really do have that potential to be broken."
Chen Mo pressed the bills against his face and rubbed them. The smell of ink, mold, and gunpowder--the smell of two thousand dollars.
"So fragrant."
Chen Mo sincerely prayed that Batman would never trace his way back along the distribution line.
After all, the current Bruce Wayne was only in his twenties and hadn't yet evolved into that omniscient bat monster sitting on the Mobius Chair.
The young Master shouldn't have such a strong control over Gotham's print media, right?
Right?
Right now, he couldn't even keep an eye on Falcone and the Penguin, so how could he have time to flip through the underground comic circle?
Probably.
After getting the money, Chen Mo had only one thought: the suit!
He had had enough of that set of pajamas.
No one was allowed to call him a pajama boy anymore!
Chen Mo pulled the hood of his old coat low and rushed into an underground materials shop in the East District under the cover of night.
This shop was located in the basement of an abandoned laundromat, its entrance hidden behind a dumpster in the back alley.
The shop was filled with a mixture of engine oil and rust. The owner was a one-eyed man with an unlit cigar clamped in his mouth, staring blankly at a television screen covered in static.
Chen Mo maneuvered between the shelves, his movements as swift as someone grabbing discounted eggs at a supermarket.
"Polymer fiber, two rolls. Lightweight titanium alloy patches, one box. Bulletproof fabric--this one is the most expensive, but I must have a roll. And give me the cheapest second-hand sewing machine."
The one-eyed owner squinted at him, his single eye filled with suspicion. "Kid, what are you buying this junk for? Planning to make a coffin for yourself?"
Chen Mo revealed an extremely bright and innocent smile. "Purchasing on behalf of the school's handicraft club. We're hosting a superhero cosplay competition, and I'm the president."
The one-eyed man snorted coldly, clearly not believing a single word.
But in Gotham, as long as you gave enough money, even if you said you wanted to buy an atomic bomb to blow up the moon, the owner would only ask if you needed free shipping.
Chen Mo paid in cash and carried his large and small bags back to the attic before the curfew.
He spread out the materials.
Ballistic nylon fabric, five yards, cost him sixty-six dollars. The sewing machine, the cheapest handheld model, thirty-five dollars. The titanium alloy patches, only enough to protect his chest and shoulders, sixty dollars. Polymer fiber and other accessories took another small two hundred.
Just for the material costs, three hundred and sixty dollars were gone.
Chen Mo counted the remaining money, over sixteen hundred, rolled it up carefully, and stuffed it into the crack of the sofa.
Then he sat in front of that sewing machine of unknown ownership history and began to work.
As everyone knew, every Spider-Man was a good tailor.
He didn't know how this rule came to be, but since Peter Parker could hand-craft his own suit, he should be able to do it too.
The clacking sound of the sewing machine echoed throughout the sealed attic for the entire night.
Polymer fibers were sewn into the joints to increase mobility.
Titanium alloy patches were cleverly concealed in the chest and back, which could at least block close-range shots from small-caliber handguns. The mask was re-stitched with an added lining to fit the contours of his face, no longer looking like a red sock pulled over his head.
The originally loose red and blue pajamas were completely dismantled, tailored, and reassembled.
Three hours later, Chen Mo stood before that cracked full-length mirror.
The red and blue base colors carried a matte texture in the dim light. The tight fit perfectly outlined his physique, and the titanium alloy patches formed minimalist geometric lines at his chest and shoulders.
The overall texture leapt directly from "nine-dollars-and-ninety-cents with free shipping on a cheap app" to "a proper high-end custom version for an anime convention."
Chen Mo moved his arms, feeling the tightness of the fabric. "It's a bit handsome, but the defense still can't block large-caliber bullets."
He complained to himself, "But it doesn't matter. As long as I dodge fast enough, defense is just a decoration."
He struck a classic pose toward the mirror, and then Chen Mo leaned against the broken sofa, staring at the figure in the red and blue suit inside the mirror.
The system was strengthening his body. His strength, speed, and reflexes were all ticking upward bit by bit.
He would strive to become Peter Hulk one day! The four tons of strength was just a starting point, and he didn't know where the upper limit was.
But no one said he couldn't become Peter Hulk while also becoming Peter Stark, right? Nano-suits were very handsome, okay?
Thinking of the flowing metallic feel of a nano-suit, he looked back at the remaining sixteen hundred dollars stuffed in the sofa crack.
Not enough, far from it.
He had to keep drawing.
Chen Mo sat at the table and spread out the drawing paper.
He had already thought of the content for the next chapter: The Three Thousand Secrets That Batman and Maroni Had to Share.
He wouldn't overthink the specific plot details. Anyway, the lower class of Gotham loved to read it.
"For my nano-suit, Bruce, I'm sorry."
Chen Mo made another completely insincere sign of the cross in his heart.
"Once I've saved enough money, I'll stop. Probably."
...
At this very moment, in the suburbs of Gotham, beneath Wayne Manor.
The light inside the Batcave was dim and oppressive, with only the massive monitor screen emitting a faint blue glow.
Bruce Wayne sat in front of the main screen, the lines of his sexy jaw as cold and hard as a piece of marble.
He had just returned from the docks and hadn't changed out of his suit yet. His cape hung behind the back of the chair like a patch of coagulated black liquid.
Alfred was helping him treat the wound on his back, which had been scraped by a steel bar at the docks last night. It wasn't deep, but it was very long.
"Achoo!"
Bruce suddenly let out a loud sneeze, the force of it so great that he almost bounced out of his chair.
Alfred put down the medicine in his hand, looking completely unfazed.
"Master Bruce, it appears someone is passionately discussing your heroic posture behind your back. Or perhaps you stayed in the cold rain for too long last night and caught a cold. Shall I prepare some ginger tea for you?"
"I'm fine, Alfred." Bruce's gaze didn't leave the screen. "Falcone and the Penguin have been too quiet lately. This isn't normal. I need to keep a close eye on this lead."
"Rather than the mobs, I believe you should also pay some attention to this."
Alfred picked up a colorful booklet from the tray beside him. "This is something I bought from a roadside newsstand today. It's the number one bestseller."
Bruce glanced at the cover.
On the cover was a man in a black tight suit, bound by thick chains and half-kneeling in the mud. His mask was half-shattered, revealing the young, pale face underneath, written all over with agony.
Rainwater dripped down his chin, and the entire image was filled with a certain bizarre, uncomfortable aesthetic beauty. The title was written in bold characters: Fallen Hero: The Phantom of Gotham.
The veins on Bruce's temples throbbed twice. "Alfred, I told you not to bring this garbage into the Batcave."
"I merely feel that this author possesses a very rich imagination."
Alfred calmly slipped the booklet into his apron pocket. "He even arranged an extremely beautiful and miserable background for you. Frankly, this has much more depth than the playboy persona you usually portray at banquets. At least in this story, you have a soul."
The corner of Bruce's mouth twitched.
He wanted to object, but found himself at a loss for words.
As the guardian of Gotham, he didn't care about these boring fan creations.
Honestly, he really didn't care.
In a place like Gotham, people fabricated rumors about him, drew satirical comics of him, and wrote bizarre novels about him every single day.
As long as these things didn't actively dance in front of his eyes to blind him, it was fine.
Bruce turned his head and continued to stare at Falcone's dock activity data on the screen.