"Off. The. Car," Adam snapped, his tone sharp enough to cut steel. "This isn't a damn kindergarten shuttle."
He sat behind the wheel of his beat-up cruiser, cigarette flicking ash out the open window, irritation twitching at the corner of his mouth. You had to have rules—even in Gotham. Especially in Gotham. And one rule he swore by? No free rides for cheeky runaways pretending the world owed them.
Of course, there was also the matter of not being late for his "real" goal of the night—hunting down women who weren't old enough to know the theme song to Barney & Friends.
The girl in question didn't take that well.
She crossed her arms, pouting defiantly. "What's wrong with being a loli?! I may be small now, but I'll grow up—and then you'll wish you'd gotten the first taste!"
She paused, then smirked, eyes narrowing like she was about to plunge a knife into his pride.
"Assuming, you know… that thing even can grow anymore. Maybe you've got a needle-sized thingy down there. Guess I should be glad I didn't see it. I might've passed out from laughter."
Adam blinked, actually stunned. He'd grown up in the slums, surrounded by thieves and sharks, but this kid? Her mouth was legendary. One insult from him got a trilogy in return.
"Christ…" he muttered, dragging a hand down his face.
She threw one leg up on the dashboard, resting her sneaker on the window like she owned the place. "You're stuck with me now. Either cough up cash, or I'm not leaving."
He stared at her, caught between rage and reluctant amusement. If he kicked her out, he'd feel like a heartless bastard. But letting her stay? There was no thrill in joyriding with someone who probably still watched Sailor Moon reruns. No curves, no cleavage, no chaos. It was a hard pass. Follow current novᴇls on NovᴇlFɪre.ɴet
A strange thought slithered into his mind.
He'd been running low on content. The master discs were nearly gone. His side hustle—artistic video production—needed fresh material. He'd bought a visor cam, lights, and a janky editing rig from some shady tech guy off Blüdhaven Net. All he needed now… was talent.
"Alright, kid. No rides. No sex. But… you ever done a photo shoot?" Adam asked, trying to sound casual, as if he wasn't treading landmines with every word.
The girl blinked, surprised. "Photos?"
He nodded. "Yeah. I shoot art films. Nothing too dirty. Think Marilyn Monroe, not... whatever you're thinking. You'd just pose a little. Maybe some video. If not, no hard feelings. Just get out of the car so I can go back to finding real models."
She tilted her head, then lit up. "Wait—like real photo shoots? You trying to make me famous?"
Adam shrugged, pretending to be indifferent. "Could happen. If the camera likes you."
The girl grinned. "Fine. I'm in. But you're taking me back home after. And I want extra pay."
He sighed and started the engine, muttering under his breath. "What the hell am I getting myself into…"
Ten minutes later, Adam's car was a memory in the distance, and trouble arrived in its place.
A woman emerged from the shadows of the street, tall and sculpted like a weapon. She wore skintight leather and mirrored sunglasses, her heels clicking on the pavement like countdowns to violence. Her steps were fast, angry. Her fists clenched at her sides.
Her presence pulled eyes immediately. Even the seasoned prostitutes standing along the road turned to stare.
A scummy pimp lounging by a rusted mailbox perked up instantly, his gold chain glinting beneath the streetlight. He sniffed opportunity like a bloodhound.
"Well helloooo," he grinned, swaggering toward her like he owned the street. "You tryna be a star, baby? You're a ten—and I know people. Big people. Even Bruce Wayne signs autographs for girls like you."
She didn't respond. Her eyes scanned the area behind those wide glasses, calculating.
Pimps like him were used to rejection. They weren't used to indifference.
"Come on now," he pushed, sidling closer. "You don't wanna waste all that on nobodies. You got that look. I can put you in the big leagues, honey."
Still ignoring him, she turned to an elderly woman puffing a cigarette beside a phone booth.
"I'm looking for a girl. About fourteen. Freckles. Around 150 centimeters tall. You see her?"
The old woman froze, ash dangling from her lip.
The pimp laughed. "You into the little ones? Damn, didn't think you swung that way. Pier Four's where you wanna go. They got the baby-faced ones there, some even eight—if the price is right."
He leaned in closer, leering.
"Though with that body of yours? Why not play with a real man for a night? I'll remind you what it's like to crave something solid."
The woman's foot flashed like a whip—faster than anyone saw coming. She spun mid-air and slammed her heel into his jaw. The crack echoed down the block like a gunshot. Blood sprayed. He dropped like a marionette with cut strings, unconscious before he hit the ground.
Every streetwalker, every bystander, froze.
Pimps in these parts weren't small fish. They either had the cops on speed dial or fists that could break brick. For this guy to be taken out—just like that—meant one thing:
She wasn't someone to mess with.
The woman adjusted her gloves, eyes cold fire.
"I'm only gonna ask once more," she said. "Who saw the girl?"
This time, no one dared joke.
The old woman with the cigarette pointed a trembling finger. "Y-yeah. She was here. Just… standing around, not saying anything. Then this police car rolled up, and she—she actually got in."
The woman stiffened. "A police car?"
"I—I think so. It drove off with her in it. I even saw the license plate... 373346. I remember because I thought it looked weird..."
A pulse of dread throbbed in the woman's chest.
Her jaw clenched. Her hand slowly crushed the sunglasses she wore until they shattered in her palm.
"Holly Robinson…" she growled. "If anything happens to you, I swear—whoever's behind it won't live to regret it."