The Upper East Side of Gotham.
The lights at the Wayne Enterprises gala were so bright they felt borderline artificial.
Crystal chandeliers hung from the domed ceiling, and champagne towers refracted golden specks of light. Expensive perfume, cigars, tailored suits, and hypocritical laughter mixed together, creating the standard atmospheric formula for Gotham's high society.
Bruce Wayne stood in the center of the crowd.
He held a glass of champagne in his hand.
He hadn't taken a single sip.
He wore a perfectly tailored black suit with his bowtie loosened just the right amount, sporting the exact kind of smile the media loved.
Frivolous.
Languid.
Wealthy.
And looking absolutely nothing like someone who would snap a smuggler's ribs at three in the morning.
Celebrities surrounded him.
Reporters surrounded him too.
Some talked about art, some talked about charity, and others talked about investments in the new district.
No one talked about the homeless people freezing to death in the East Side sewers.
After all, that didn't pair well with champagne.
A reporter wearing gold-rimmed glasses stood on the outer edge of the crowd, finally catching an opening.
"Mr. Wayne."
The voice wasn't loud, but it was sharp enough.
The surrounding chatter gradually died down.
Bruce turned his head, his smile remaining unchanged.
"Please, go ahead."
The reporter adjusted his glasses.
"I heard you are funding the East Side Homeless Children's Shelter again. It costs millions every year, yet we never see any promotional marketing, nor is there a clear return-on-investment report."
He paused for a moment.
"Is this truly charity, or is it just another, more covert way for Wayne Enterprises to avoid taxes?"
The surroundings instantly fell silent.
This kind of question was highly improper.
But everyone loved to hear it.
Because the more improper it was, the higher its entertainment value.
Bruce looked at the reporter.
The champagne glass twirled gently between his fingers.
He wasn't angry.
He even smiled.
"Do you believe a child shouldn't be supported unless their existence can add a beautiful line of figures to a financial report?"
The reporter's face stiffened slightly.
Bruce picked up his champagne and raised his glass to him.
"Honestly, that line of thinking is very Gotham."
A few people in the hall chuckled softly.
Bruce continued.
"I fund the East Side shelter not because it brings in a profit. Quite the contrary, it only burns money."
He looked around at the crowd.
"It burns money, but what it buys back is a chance for some children to not have to grow up between the docks and the gangs."
No one spoke.
"I know this doesn't sound much like business."
Bruce's smile faded slightly.
"But some things were never meant to be treated as a business in the first place."
He set his glass down.
"Since everyone is so concerned about the Wayne Foundation's charitable initiatives tonight, I might as well announce something."
A slight commotion stirred in the crowd.
The reporters raised their recording pens almost in unison.
Bruce's voice was steady.
"Next quarter, the Wayne Foundation will launch a new children's education initiative."
"It will specifically target homeless children who lack legal identity, lack stable guardians, and have long drifted outside the education system."
"We will be partnering with Gotham public schools, community shelters, and several legal aid organizations."
"The goal is simple."
He paused for a moment.
"To let them sit in a classroom, rather than being forced to learn how to survive tonight on the streets."
As soon as this plan was laid out, at least three entrepreneurs present simultaneously showed expressions of agony.
If Chen Mo were here, he would have translated that expression perfectly:
He's going to burn money again.
A massive amount of money.
The kind of amount that makes the board of directors want to jump off a building together.
Someone whispered, "The scale of this is too large."
Another said, "Illegal identity? That's going to invite a lot of trouble."
Bruce heard them.
But he didn't care.
He picked up his champagne and finally took a sip.
Just a tiny sip.
Merely a formality.
"The trouble is already there," he said. "We've just decided to stop pretending we can't see it."
Scattered applause began to ring out.
Then it grew enthusiastic.
High society was incredibly adept at this.
They would applaud whenever they heard an expensive yet morally correct decision.
Applause didn't cost a dime.
The one spending the money was Bruce Wayne.
After the gala ended.
The wind outside the terrace was very cold.
Bruce stood by the railing, finally setting that glass of champagne aside.
He didn't like champagne.
Too sweet.
And the laughter tonight was even sweeter than the champagne.
Nauseatingly sweet.
Alfred walked over carrying a tray.
On the tray was a cup of coffee.
Beside it lay a thin briefing document with a label stuck to the cover:
[Dock District Aftermath]
"Master Bruce," Alfred passed the coffee over. "You just gave at least seven shareholders mild angina."
Bruce took the coffee. "They'll get used to it."
"I'm sure they will. After all, one of the Wayne family traditions is making the board of directors relearn the definition of social responsibility every single quarter."
Bruce looked down and opened the briefing.
The very first page detailed the ownership change of the Iceberg Lounge.
Falcone.
Acquisition.
Authorization documents.
Core area cleanup.
Remaining personnel swearing allegiance.
Bruce's eyes darkened. "He moves fast."
Alfred stood to the side. "Within two days of the dock brawl ending, Falcone cleared all of the Penguin's remaining forces out of the core area. The operational rights to the Iceberg Lounge have also been transferred under the Falcone family name."
Bruce turned the page. "And the Penguin?"
"Alive," Alfred said. "But his losses are catastrophic. His core men have been absorbed, his ledger books have been taken, and his office has been cleared out. Strictly speaking, the only assets he currently possesses are likely that umbrella and a few crows of questionable tax status."
Holding his coffee, Bruce gazed into the distant, murky night sky.
"Falcone never trusted him."
"Of course," Alfred said. "Trusting the Penguin is a dangerous delusion, right up there with believing Gotham City Hall will run efficiently tomorrow."
Bruce didn't smile.
"The Penguin won't be making any waves for a while."
"For a while," Alfred reminded him.
Bruce nodded.
"He's nursing his wounds alone inside the Iceberg Lounge. Someone might still come knocking on his door."
He looked toward the East Side.
Beneath the gray fog, the city resembled a monster that refused to ever close its eyes.
Bruce thought of that red-and-blue youth perched on top of the water tower feeding pigeons.
He thought of him hanging criminals up like silkworm cocoons.
He thought of him holding a puppy in his arms and naming it Bruce.
Bruce's temple throbbed ever so slightly.
Alfred saw it.
But he kept his dignity and didn't laugh.
The lights of the Iceberg Lounge were still on.
Only they no longer belonged to the Penguin.
Oswald Cobblepot leaned on his custom umbrella, standing at the entrance of the lounge.
His overcoat still carried the dampness left over from the dock brawl.
His shoulder was wrapped in bandages.
His face was pale.
But his top hat was worn perfectly straight.
His shoes were also polished to a bright shine.
Dignity.
This was the Penguin's final piece of stubbornness.
He pushed open the main doors.
The waiters inside had changed.
The manager behind the bar had changed too.
Even the smell in the air had changed.
In the past, this place smelled of cigars, strong liquor, seawater, and a certain damp basement odor.
Now, only a cold cleanliness remained, sharp enough to sting the nose.
The signature coldness of the Falcone family.
Behind the bar, a man in a dark gray suit stood up.
Gold-rimmed glasses.
Silver cufflinks.
A polite smile.
He looked like a lawyer.
In fact, he was a lawyer.
"Mr. Cobblepot." The man bowed slightly. "Welcome back."
The Penguin looked at him. "You are sitting behind my bar."
The lawyer's smile didn't waver. "Strictly speaking, as of 2:13 AM early this morning, this is no longer your bar."
The Penguin's fingers tightened slowly around the handle of his umbrella.
The lawyer pulled a contract out of his folder.
"The operational rights of the Iceberg Lounge have been acquired by the Falcone family. The legal procedures are complete, and the paperwork is fully processed."
He pushed up his glasses.
"All authorizations are based on several documents you personally signed previously."
The Penguin stared at those few pages of paper.
He recognized his own signature.
Of course he did.
Back then, to earn Falcone's trust, when he signed those authorization documents, he had even felt it was a necessary price to pay.
He thought he was paving a path for his future.
Only now did he realize.
It was a noose.
The lawyer continued. "Your office has been cleared out. The supplies at the underground stronghold have also been handed over. As for your close associates..."
He paused elegantly.
"...they have already sworn their allegiance to Mr. Falcone."
Silence.
The Iceberg Lounge was incredibly quiet.
Quiet enough to hear the faint hum of the ice machine running.
There was no anger on the Penguin's face.
At least, he didn't let it show.
The corner of his mouth even twitched slightly, as if attempting to smile.
"Mr. Carmine is truly considerate," he said. "Knowing how busy I've been lately, helping me handle so many matters."
The lawyer smiled. "Mr. Falcone has always appreciated efficient arrangements."
The Penguin nodded.
He turned around.
His steps were still steady.
Leaning on his umbrella.
Like a dignified gentleman who had just finished attending a private gala and was preparing to leave.
He didn't smash any glasses.
He didn't roar.
He didn't draw a gun.
Because he knew that people were stationed in every single corner here.
Behind every door, there could be a gun.
Falcone did things flawlessly.
He wouldn't leave an injured penguin any chance to go mad.
The Penguin stepped out of the Iceberg Lounge.
The night wind blew in.
It felt cold, like a slap to the face.
The corner of his mouth finally twitched.
But only once.
The underground level.
This was the place that truly felt like it belonged to the Penguin.
Damp.
Chilly.
The moisture of a Gotham winter night poured in through the ventilation ducts.
Two lights in the corner were broken, and the remaining few cast a dim, yellow glow.
The basement that used to be packed with weapons, liquor, cash, and intelligence files was now as bare as picked-clean bones.
Only a few crows sat on the bird stand.
Seeing the Penguin return, they tilted their heads.
Their bead-like black eyes reflected light in the darkness.
The Penguin walked up to the bird stand.
He fumbled around in his pocket for the last handful of bird food.
He scattered it slowly.
The grains hit the wooden stand, making soft clicking sounds.
A few crows lowered their heads to peck at the food.
Only the bald crow didn't move.
It tilted its head, looking at the Penguin.
As if it were looking at a man who had lost a game of chess but still refused to admit defeat.
The Penguin let out a low laugh.
"Don't look at me like that," he said. "I'm not dead yet."
The crow blinked.
The Penguin looked up at the empty basement.
Falcone had never trusted him.
Never.
During the dock brawl, he had pushed all his chips onto the table.
Men.
Connections.
Intelligence.
The future.
He thought he was gambling.
But Falcone hadn't even sat down at the table.
The man known as "The Roman" had simply sat on the shore, quietly watching him push his chips one by one into the deep water.
Waiting for him to lose everything.
Before reaching out to carry the table away too.
The Penguin gripped the handle of his umbrella.
His knuckles turned white.
After a long time, he slowly let go.
Anger was useless.
Anger was a luxury for those who still had capital left to squander.
The current him had to save even his anger.