The shop assistant froze at the door when she saw him. One minute she'd been smiling at a wealthy customer getting into his luxury car, the next—bam!—he appeared. Shirtless. From behind the car.
"What the hell?!"
She slapped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide in shock as the half-naked man grinned at her like a wolf spotting prey.
She didn't wait. She bolted inside, slammed the door, and locked it with trembling fingers.
Outside, Derek strolled up to the glass like he had all the time in the world. He rapped on it once with his knuckles, eyes cool and amused.
"Come on, love," he said with a smirk. "Customer needs service."
"I'm not—! W-w-wooahhh!"
The poor girl burst into tears. It wasn't that she didn't want to deal with him—she couldn't. People don't just appear from behind cars like ghosts. No sound, no warning. He wasn't a man, he was something else.
A monster. A demon.
Her brain offered up a half-buried memory from childhood—an old Gotham nursery rhyme her mother used to whisper when the lights flickered out during storms:
Beware the Court of Owls, that watches all the time,They lurk behind the brickwork, and in the attic grime.They follow you to bed, they never let you be—Speak their name aloud, and claws will come for thee.
A ridiculous rhyme, but right now, every line felt real. Every breath filled with dread.
Derek, of course, had no idea she was spiraling through childhood trauma. He just leaned casually on the door, eyes flicking down at her stockinged legs.
Not in a creepy way—well, not too creepy. It wasn't like he was going to pounce on a woman who'd just pissed herself. Literally.
Yeah. She'd wet herself. That's how terrified she was.
Derek rolled his eyes. He reached for the pistol tucked into his waistband and gently tapped the barrel against the glass.
"Alright. Different approach."
He raised his voice just enough to carry through the door.
"This is a robbery. Open the door or I start shooting."
Her reaction wasn't what he expected.
Instead of panicking more, the girl let out a shaky sigh of relief.
Oh thank God, she thought. He's not a demon. Just a robber. A plain ol' Gotham robber. That, she could handle.
"Don't shoot! This door's expensive!"
She unlocked it and stepped back, sniffling but composed enough to gesture inside.
"The boss isn't here, my coworker's out with her boyfriend… it's just me today. The till's behind the bar. Please don't hurt me. Please..."
She started crying again, the mix of shame and adrenaline boiling over.
Derek gave a half-shrug and pointed toward the bar with his gun.
"Go change your clothes. You stink."
"I…"
"No 'I.' Go."
When she hesitated, he gave her a gentle tap on the head with the butt of his pistol. Not hard. Just enough to show he wasn't in the mood.
She scurried off, but not before opening the register. A crisp ding rang out as the drawer slid open, revealing a modest spread of small bills and a few coins.
Derek didn't even glance at the money. First things first—clothes. He grabbed a simple black suit off a hanger and ducked into the fitting room.
When he stepped out, dressed sharp and dangerous, the girl was already mopping the floor at the entrance. At the sound of his boots, she flinched, then doubled down on her scrubbing.
"Someone called the police," she blurted. "Not me! I swear—I didn't press the alarm. But someone outside saw you with the gun."
Derek laughed quietly.
"Well, cheers for the heads up. If this were any other time, I'd offer you a drink for your loyalty."
He glanced up at the shop's CCTV system, then casually walked over and blasted each of the three visible cameras with a single shot.
The girl yelped and clenched her thighs again, ready for round two of terror.
"Any others?"
"Uh… there's one in the staff lounge…"
"Got it."
He moved back to the register, scooped up a random wad of small bills, and shoved them down the front of the salesgirl's top.
Her figure was generous enough to hold the cash neatly in place.
"The place has already been hit. Who cares who has the money? Just say I took it."
With that, he spun, raised his pistol, and fired a few rounds into the ceiling—pure theatre—then slid in a fresh magazine and pushed open the door.
The moment he stepped outside, the gathering crowd scattered like pigeons.
Well—almost everyone.
Two middle-aged men didn't run. They stepped forward with guns drawn, faces tense, ready to shoot.
Derek raised both eyebrows, amused.
"Really? I didn't even hurt anyone. Borrowed a few quid and a suit, that's all."
He held his gun up, barrel pointed skyward in a show of peace.
The men exchanged a look, then rushed past him into the store.
Seeing the salesgirl unharmed—albeit tear-streaked—they holstered their weapons. One of them, bald and winded, checked on her like she was family.
The younger one stayed behind, eyeing Derek.
"If you're planning on running," he said, "go north. Cops usually hang out at the bars two blocks south."
He gave a small, almost apologetic shrug. "You hijack a car and take off that way, they'll never catch you."
Derek chuckled.
"Good to know. Appreciate the local insight."
"Yeah, well… everyone has a bad day. Good luck, man."
"Right back at you."
Derek turned and scanned the street. He spotted a decent-looking sedan parked by the curb and made his way toward it.
Just as he raised the butt of his pistol to smash the window—
"Oi! Don't you dare! That's my car!"
Derek jerked back, hand in the air. "Jesus, mate! Say something sooner!"
He turned to the man with mock offence. "We almost had friendly fire!"
(End of Chapter 5)