The late night in Gotham's East End always carried a scent that mixed rotten oranges with expired gunpowder.
Chen Mo crouched on top of a water tower across from an electronics store, his body curled into an angle that looked incredibly painful for his lower back.
He pulled off his red-and-blue mask and casually stuffed it into the inner lining of his suit's chest, exposing a teenage face frozen stiff by the night wind.
The docks had been quite a lively battlefield yesterday, and even after a full day, his body was still aching all over.
But right now, there was only one thing on Chen Mo's mind: sleep.
That out-of-body kind of exhaustion made his cerebral cortex dance wildly, as if it were trying to break through his skull just to grab a meal with the God of Dreams.
What choice did he have?
He was already this exhausted. Could he really expect Batman, a regular human being, to handle his workload too while out on patrol?
The fact that Bruce could even stand up and walk today was a testament to his immense willpower.
He would just have to make do with this patrol.
Chen Mo stared at the dozen or so television sets inside the storefront window.
Some of the old CRT TVs were still flickering with static, while others had distorted colors that made them look like they were broadcasting a horror movie. However, at this moment, they were all uniformly tuned to Gotham Channel 4's late-night news.
The female anchor, whose blonde hair was frozen solid by hairspray like a helmet, was reporting in a heavy tone that sounded as if her family had just held a funeral.
"At one o'clock early this morning, a large-scale armed gang conflict broke out in the dock district, resulting in structural damage to multiple warehouses. Today, the police released details of the conflict and a list of the personnel involved."
The screen cut to aerial footage.
Chen Mo narrowed his eyes.
In the scorched alleyway, a row of shipping containers lay neatly collapsed like massive, knocked-over dominoes.
On screen, Commissioner Gordon stood behind the police tape with a dark expression, directing the forensics team. The bullet casings on the ground were so densely packed that a scrap metal collector could strike it rich on the spot.
Rubbing his wrist, which was still sticky with web-fluid, Chen Mo muttered to himself, "Who's supposed to foot the bill for this cleanup?"
The camera cut away, and a GCPD media spokesperson appeared at the entrance of the police station. The man looked nearly suffocated by the cluster of microphones shoved in his face.
"Does this conflict mean that Gotham's public safety has completely spiraled out of control?" a reporter shouted at the top of his lungs. "Has Batman overstepped his legal authority once again? And what is the police department's stance on the newly emerged red-and-blue vigilante?"
The spokesperson wiped a handful of sweat from his forehead and spoke right into the camera with righteous severity: "The GCPD does not encourage citizens to interfere with law enforcement through any illegal means. For the casualties and property damage in the dock district, a portion of the responsibility must be borne by those masked individuals who refused to cooperate and acted without authorization."
Crouching on the water tower, Chen Mo couldn't help but let out a loud snort.
This logic was uniquely Gotham. So, even though he had tied up those submachine-gun-wielding thugs into silkworm cocoons yesterday, he was somehow supposed to pay for the paint job of the damaged shipping containers on the side?
"Keep dreaming," he muttered quietly to the TV screen. A pigeon was perched on the water tower next to him, tilting its head to look at him with a soft coo.
Chen Mo pointed at the screen and told the pigeon, "See? This is the city you live in. Do you agree with what they're saying?" The pigeon flew away.
The news feed cut back to the studio.
A commentator wearing black-rimmed glasses--who looked highly punchable--sat across from the anchor. The scrolling ticker at the bottom of the screen was incredibly provocative: Protector or Threat?
"We need to be clear about one thing." The commentator tapped the table, spit flying everywhere. "What right does a man dressed in a skintight suit, disguising himself as a bat, have to use violence in our city without any legal authorization? The safety of Gotham's citizens cannot depend on a masked thug who likewise walks on the edge of the law."
The television displayed a profile photo of Batman perched on a gargoyle, so blurry that he looked like a giant black moth.
"I gotta admit, this photo actually has some decent atmosphere," he said to the empty spot left by the departed pigeon. "The angle is just a bit off, though. It should have been shot from the bottom up to make his legs look longer."
But right after that, the scene shifted again.
A screenshot from a convenience store's surveillance footage appeared on the big screen. It showed Chen Mo hanging upside down from a streetlamp, holding a submachine gun he had just snatched from a robber.
Although the pixels were so low it looked pixelated, that red-and-blue skintight suit was indeed very eye-catching.
"As for this self-proclaimed 'Friendly Neighbor' Spider-Man," the commentator sneered, "whether it's a bat or a spider, wearing a mask is itself a sign of distrust in the law. We remind the general public to maintain your distance, call the police immediately, and do not engage in any interaction if you encounter non-law enforcement personnel in similar attire at night."
Chen Mo watched his frozen "armed production still" on the screen, his eyelids twitching.
"That was confiscated! Confiscated! If I didn't hold onto it, was I supposed to let it drop to the ground, misfire, and blow off my toes?! Have you ever seen an illegal vigilante who helps a convenience store tie up the robbers and hang them from the signboard while waiting for the police to collect them?!"
He bit into an energy bar indignantly, making his teeth ache.
The people in this place really had no conscience.
The news continued to broadcast, cutting to a mugshot from Blackgate Penitentiary.
Waylon Jones, known as "Killer Croc," was baring his teeth at the camera--teeth that looked capable of biting right through rebar.
However, a live capture photo was thoughtfully placed in the bottom right corner of the mugshot. It showed Killer Croc wrapped into a massive white silkworm cocoon by webbing, leaving only a section of his tail twitching powerlessly outside.
The report mentioned that a brief disturbance had occurred inside the prison yesterday, which the prison authorities denied had any connection to the gang conflict, claiming "the situation has been brought under control."
Looking at the capture photo, Chen Mo felt a little better.
At least this guy's prison entrance look was personally designed by him, full of postmodern, chaotic beauty.
"This shot is better than the one from earlier," Chen Mo nodded to the pigeon, which had just flown back and landed on the edge of the water tower. "Don't you think? The lighting and composition are both better than the streetlamp one."
The pigeon offered no opinion.
Just as he was about to stand up, the news suddenly broke in with a report from Metropolis.
The footage was incredibly shaky, looking like it was taken by a pedestrian with a cell phone.
On a sun-drenched street in Metropolis, a runaway school bus was barreling toward a crowd of people like crazy. Then, a figure dressed in a blue skintight suit and a red cape descended from the sky. He didn't use webbing, nor did he use batarangs; he just simply and plainly held out his two hands, catching the multi-ton school bus directly like a rubber ball and lifting it right up.
The sunlight reflected off the massive "S" logo on his chest, making Chen Mo's eyes ache from the glare.
"Superman..."
Chen Mo stared at the screen, lowered his head to look at the crookedly wrapped bandages on his own wrists, and then looked back at the man on the screen lifting a school bus with his bare hands. He fell silent for a moment.
That guy was running on an overpowered autopilot, while he himself was, at best, operating a manual transmission--his four-ton limit still required the assistance of his webbing. The guy lifting the school bus probably didn't even need to warm up.
System, I'm calling you out, System. Give me some buffs.
The face of a Metropolis police spokesperson appeared in the corner of the screen, his tone carrying a lingering sense of bewilderment: "We are currently assessing the danger level of this vigilante, and we do not encourage citizens to approach him without authorization at this time."
Hearing this, Chen Mo raised an eyebrow. "Did you hear that?"
He started talking to the pigeon again. "Other cities don't encourage interaction either. Looks like it's not just a Gotham specialty." The pigeon tilted its head.
Chen Mo nodded. "You're right. At least he doesn't have to worry about getting sued."
The news concluded with a report regarding Wayne Enterprises. Bruce Wayne, in partnership with Gotham Public Hospital, had established a special medical fund to provide free medical assistance to civilians injured in the conflict. The hospital stated that seven civilians had already successfully undergone surgery.
Chen Mo tapped the iron railing of the water tower.
The images of fighting side-by-side with Batman at the docks yesterday were still fresh in his mind. Seeing this news now, he felt his perception of Bruce Wayne as a person had been refreshed once again.
The passenger seat of that Batmobile was still digging into his spine.
Chen Mo grabbed the crossbar, pulled his mask back on, and flipped down like a nimble cat.
There was only one last street left for his night patrol.
Five minutes later, Chen Mo walked out of a dark alleyway.
He had already shed that conspicuous suit, changing into a faded hoodie and a pair of heavily wrinkled jeans.
The mask and suit were stuffed inside a battered canvas bag, making him look exactly like an unemployed vagrant who had just spent the entire night at an internet cafe.
He patted his pocket, where a crumpled five-dollar bill and a few cold coins were resting.
Poor. This word was like a massive mountain, weighing heavily on the spine of this transmigrator.
At the entrance of the alley sat a twenty-four-hour convenience store, its fluorescent lights buzzing with an electric hum.
Chen Mo walked inside. A young Black man was sitting behind the cash register with earbuds in, his head nodding along to the rhythm.
Familiar with the layout, Chen Mo walked straight to the freezer, grabbed a ham and cheese sandwich with the simplest packaging, placed it on the counter, and fished out that crumpled five-dollar bill. "Heat it up, please."
The cashier lifted his eyelids to glance at him, his gaze lingering on his face for an extra two seconds.
Only then did Chen Mo realize he had forgotten to pull his hood up just now. He quickly shifted his gaze away, pretending to study the ingredient list on the packaging of the gum displayed next to the register.
The cashier didn't say anything, taking the sandwich, tearing open a small slit, and tossing it into the microwave.
The whirring sound of the microwave turning felt exceptionally loud in the dead of night.
Chen Mo leaned against the counter, his eyes fixed on the dimly lit spinning glass turntable as his brain began calculating his expenses.
The dog food was almost running out. Though the rescued puppy, Bruce, wasn't very big, his appetite was ridiculously massive.
A part on the sewing machine had broken the last time he repaired his suit. He needed to go to a flea market to find a replacement, or keep an eye out during his night patrols to see if he could scavenge a suitable one.
Most critical of all, the drafts for the next chapter hadn't been submitted yet. No drafts meant no manuscript fees, and no manuscript fees meant going hungry.
Living like this...
Who exactly was getting the poverty assistance funds in this terrible place?
With a beep, the microwave finished. The cashier pushed the piping hot sandwich over, and Chen Mo took it, feeling that long-absent warmth against his palm.
He walked out of the convenience store, standing on the steps by the entrance as he tore open the packaging and took a bite.
The cheese had melted. Even though it tasted distinctly like cheap plastic, on a Gotham street at this hour of the morning, it was an absolute delicacy.
As he chewed, he looked out at the dark silhouettes of the buildings in the distance.
Chen Mo crumpled the wrapper into a ball and threw it in a perfect arc, landing it precisely into the roadside trash can.
He had to get back and draw his drafts quickly, otherwise he wouldn't even be able to afford this plastic-tasting sandwich tomorrow.
He tightened the strap of the canvas bag on his back, looked down at his jeans stained with flour and machine oil, and vanished into the layered shadows.