Gotham didn't sleep at night. It just shifted forms.
By day, the sidewalks belonged to workers in steel-toed boots and white-collar strivers clutching coffee. But once the sun dipped below the jagged skyline and the neon signs bled to life, the alleys began to whisper. And from the cracks of this urban corpse, women emerged like specters.
They wore loud makeup and louder outfits—glittery dresses clinging to their skin. Their eyes were hollow, fingers stiff around cheap cigarettes, gazes prowling every man that passed by, hunting.
Adam strolled through it all with a cigarette between his lips and boredom wrapped around his shoulders like a second coat. To avoid being mistaken for someone shopping for flesh, he ducked beside a modest shoe stall and sat down.
The boy who manned it couldn't have been older than eight, but his hands moved with the grace of someone twice his age. As the child polished away at Adam's boots, the detective leaned back, eyes scanning the city like a bored hawk.
Gotham had once implemented a citywide initiative—free-use shoe stalls for low-income earners. Just a plastic seat, a locked toolbox, and a corner of shade. It was meant to bring dignity to the struggling. But, this being Gotham, things fell apart fast. The stalls became gangster territory. Protection rackets popped up like weeds. And now, most stalls were either vandalized or turned into makeshift beds for the homeless.
This one, oddly, was pristine. No garbage. No spit. No blood. Someone had even laid out a neat pile of folded newspapers on the seat. Read while you polish—two birds, one Gotham stone.
Adam flicked ash from his smoke, muttering to himself, "Damn machine Nygma built... too efficient. Burned so much content that the video store's choked with unprocessed discs. Now we're backed up on inspection. How long's that gonna take?"
He reached for a paper, flipped through headlines filled with excessive praise for Commander-in-Chief Loeb. It was state-sponsored worship, not journalism.
He turned to the gossip section. Bruce Wayne was apparently dating a supermodel half his age. Again. Adam sighed, crumpled the page, and tossed it aside.
He looked down at the kid working his shoes and asked casually, "So… what's the word on the street lately?"
In Gotham, the truth never came from newsprint. It lived in whispers—bartenders, cab drivers, the homeless with scarred eyes and silver tongues. Kids shoe-shiner were the city's most accurate news anchors.
"Heard a new Chinese detective is workin' the Arkham District," the kid said without hesitation. His voice was high-pitched, babyish, but full of confidence. "Got a thing down there that's, like, real powerful, y'know? Real thirsty dude. They say he locked up over a dozen street girls last night. Didn't ask for bail—just kept 'em overnight in the garage. Said if they wanted out, they'd have to 'entertain' him."
Adam's eyelid twitched.
"What could those girls do?" the kid went on, unbothered. "They agreed, of course. Next morning, they stumbled out like zombies. Hair all messed up. Some couldn't even walk straight. That new cop—he's a beast, man."
The men sitting nearby, also getting their shoes polished, leaned in like pigeons to breadcrumbs.
"Disgusting bastard…" one muttered, shaking his head.
Adam's face paled. Sweat pooled at his temples.
"…I swear to God, I'm gonna kill Nygma."
This was beyond bad PR. This was legendary slander. Garage harem? No bail, just bedtime? His "pure and innocent" image—already hanging by a thread—was now being dragged through Gotham's sewer system.
"Hey—uh, little man," Adam cleared his throat awkwardly, "M-Maybe we… talk about something else? Yeah?"
In male-dominated circles, once the subject turned to sex, it was like tossing a match in gasoline. Things got unhinged fast.
Thankfully, the boy was sharp. Noticing Adam's Asian skin and discomfort, he figured this guy probably didn't want to hear sordid stories about someone who looked like him. And he didn't seem gay either. So, with a shrug, the kid pivoted.
"Wanna hear something darker?" he asked, eyes gleaming.
Adam raised an eyebrow. "Sure. Surprise me."
"Alright," the boy whispered, dropping his voice. "Yesterday, a stock guy went bankrupt. Wanted to disappear, lay low. That's normal, right?"
"Normal?" said a nearby customer, frowning. "This is Gotham. Happens hourly."
The boy smiled with eerie innocence.
"Right. But this dude owed money to Black Mask. Not much—maybe 7 or 8 grand. But you know how he rolls. If you don't pay up, it's not about money anymore. It's about sending a message."
He leaned in like a campfire storyteller. Thɪs chapter is updatᴇd by ɴovel(ꜰ)ɪre.nᴇt
"They say Black Mask went to Metropolis to find this guy. Snatched him up, stuffed him into a gasoline barrel, poured cement in, and dropped the whole thing into the harbor."
"Alive?" someone asked.
"Alive," the boy nodded, matter-of-fact. "Didn't even scream. That's how scared he was."
"…Why you gotta go and bring up Black Mask?"
He was sweating again. Because he, too, owed Black Mask. A few grand—nothing huge. But in Gotham, that didn't matter.
Four days until the deadline. Four days until he might end up cemented in a can at the bottom of the Gotham River.
"Wait—Black Mask's got reach in Metropolis now?" Adam whispered in horror. "What's next, Central City? National expansion?"
This kid… this little devil had just reminded him that in Gotham, it wasn't the bullet you saw that killed you. It was the whisper you ignored.