"We messed up, man. Let us go, please!"
The night wind carried the salty tang of seawater through the empty street, streetlights casting pale halos on the damp pavement.
A guy sat slumped in a dumpster at the end of the street, his cracked helmet revealing one rolled-back eye.
Closer by…
Motorcycles lay scattered and mangled on the roadside, one front wheel still spinning lazily, as if silently protesting what had just gone down.
The punks who'd been all bravado minutes ago were now on their knees, beaten down.
The cockiness on their faces was long gone, replaced by raw fear.
"Big… big bro, we're sorry! Let us go!"
The leader's voice shook, cold sweat dripping down his forehead.
Leaning against his Harley, Dio's expression was hidden behind a black helmet, only his eyes faintly visible through the visor, coldly sizing up the punks.
He didn't say a word, just tilted his head slightly, fingers tapping lightly on the bike's gas tank, each tap echoing dully.
The punks exchanged glances, none daring to move.
Until…
A green-haired punk had a sudden epiphany, frantically pulling out his wallet. "B-big bro! I get it! Here's a little something for you! We'll cover your gas!"
Clink!
A coin hit the ground, its sharp sound piercing the quiet night.
The other two snapped out of it, scrambling to dig out crumpled bills and toss them on the ground.
Soon, a small pile of cash formed.
"It's… it's all there!"
The green-haired punk swallowed hard, cautiously placing his now-empty wallet on the pile.
Dio's gaze swept over the scattered bills, seeming satisfied at last.
He bent down leisurely, picking up the cash one bill at a time, his movements so graceful you'd think he was at a fancy gala.
He even flicked a speck of dust off a twenty before slipping it into his pocket.
"Big cities are something else," came a low chuckle from under the helmet. "City folks are so generous—you can just pick up money off the street."
"?!"
The punks froze, watching this menace climb back onto his Harley.
The engine roared to life.
Only when the bike's taillight vanished down the street did they collapse in relief, sprawling on the ground.
"Damn…"
The green-haired punk wiped his face, his hands still shaking uncontrollably. "Did you see where he went?"
"I-Iceberg Lounge?"
Another punk stammered, forcing a smile uglier than a sob. "We just kicked a steel plate, didn't we?"
All three turned to look at their passed-out buddy, Oliver, then at the loose change scattered on the ground—their entire "haul" for the night.
Silence hung for a good ten seconds.
"Jimmy?"
The green-haired punk nudged his quiet friend. "What's up? Scared stiff?"
Jimmy stared blankly in the direction Dio had gone, until the taillight faded over the horizon. Slowly, he turned, eyes dazed. "I was thinking… compared to that guy, our petty pickpocketing feels…" He paused. "Kinda pathetic, doesn't it?"
"…"
The green-haired punk and the other exchanged a look.
The sea breeze swept a few crumpled newspapers past their feet.
"So…" He licked his dry lips, voice low. "Wanna go for something big?"
Jimmy took a deep breath, slapped his knees, and stood.
No words needed.
---
Gotham's night.
Never a time for rest.
A cacophony of sounds blended into the city's background track.
Dio rode with one hand loosely on the handlebars, his posture relaxed, like he was sightseeing.
His other hand rested on his knee, letting the salty sea breeze slip through his fingers, cool and sharp.
The Harley's engine growled clearly along the empty coastal highway, tires rolling over wet asphalt, occasionally kicking up small splashes.
The view was nice…
Not Gotham, of course.
He glanced to his right, past the inky black sea that seemed to swallow light, toward the opposite shore.
Metropolis's skyline sparkled like scattered stars, its glass skyscrapers glinting under the moonlight, dreamy and polished from afar.
"Sister cities, huh?"
A mocking smirk curled under Dio's helmet.
Riding through, he'd felt the stark contrast firsthand.
These two cities, separated by water, were like light and shadow in extreme opposition.
One was drenched in the scent of luxury perfume, a dazzlingly fake "City of Tomorrow."
And the other…
His gaze flicked to the rusted guardrails and the faint outline of abandoned factories in the distance.
Dio turned away, not even wanting to breathe the air here.
It always carried a mix of motor oil, briny seawater, and some vague, rusty metallic tang.
The moon's rounder in Metropolis.
The air's cleaner in Metropolis.
Uncle Jonathan had mentioned those lines offhand once.
After seeing it for himself, Dio could only shrug.
Vroom!
The Harley tore through a curve.
And there it was—the landmark building, fully in view.
The Iceberg Lounge.
True to its name.
It rose like a massive iceberg forcibly emerging from Gotham's murky waters.
The base was heavy, dark concrete.
Higher up, the glass curtain walls expanded dramatically.
At the top, it was almost entirely sleek, mirror-like blue tempered glass.
Powerful spotlights shot from different angles, crisscrossing the night sky, projecting a cartoonish penguin in glasses onto the low clouds.
Like a giant billboard staking its claim.
Dio squinted, noticing the lights occasionally lingered in a specific direction, as if…
Sending some kind of subtle signal?
None of his business. He was here for one thing: a part-time job to make some cash.
That's it.
The Harley slowed.
A line of luxury cars crawled along the circular driveway out front—Dio, no car buff, could still spot a few limited-edition Rolls-Royces and Lamborghinis.
Uniformed valets darted between them, opening doors for guests.
Flash!
Camera flashes popped off now and then.
Clearly, some of Gotham's elite were getting paparazzi attention.
"Quite the show," Dio muttered.
He slowed further, scanning the crowd.
Men in tailored suits, women dripping in jewelry worth entire plots of land, all wearing practiced smiles.
At the entrance, a short, stocky man in a garish purple tuxedo and cane greeted guests, his exaggerated grin reminding Dio of a circus act.
No surprise for a high-end club—even the greeter was a professional clown.
Maybe he'd catch the guy's performance inside?
Wonder if they'd charge staff for it.
As his thoughts wandered, Dio steered the Harley into the "VIP ONLY" parking lot.
A uniformed valet stepped forward to stop him but froze mid-step.
Steel plate, huh?
Despite Dio's plain leather jacket, his natural arrogance and the obviously customized Harley screamed trouble.
In Gotham, curiosity was a luxury.
The valet's throat tightened.
Surviving here meant knowing who to mess with and who to avoid.
Too much curiosity—or judging too harshly—could land you in deep trouble.
Like that coworker who got both legs broken by the boss for looking down on the wrong guy.
"All guests are welcome."
"There's joy in friends coming from afar."
The boss's favorite sayings.
With that in mind, the valet's stiff expression melted into hesitation, then he stepped aside, gesturing toward the club's side door with a crisp "Please, go in."
Dio gave a slight nod, impressed.
High-end club, alright—even the security was polite.
He smirked, eyes catching the red glow of cameras tucked into ornate pillars and ceiling corners.
Well-camouflaged, but their purpose was clear.
"Some setup," Dio said, pulling off his helmet and shaking out his tousled blonde hair. "No way they're scamming here."
"Time to see what this 'king' is all about."
He hung the heavy helmet on the Harley's handlebars, smoothed his jacket collar, and strode toward the side door.
But just as he reached for the sturdy door—
A vibration buzzed in his inner pocket.
"Tch."
Dio's brow twitched almost imperceptibly.
He paused, stepping aside naturally to let a bejeweled woman in a pearl necklace pass, giving her a polite "After you" gesture.
The woman blinked, clearly not expecting such a gentlemanly move from a biker-looking guy.
Under the side door's light, she studied the blonde teen—sculpted features, tall frame, and an effortless elegance in his movements.
Not your average street punk.
"Oh, thank you, dear," she said, her voice softening, lingering as she passed, her perfume wafting faintly by Dio.
She wondered if this handsome young man might strike up a conversation.
No such luck.
As she took a few steps, Dio pulled out his still-buzzing phone, focusing on the screen like his gesture was just a reflex, already forgotten.
Sighing with a hint of regret, the woman sashayed through the glowing doorway.
Dio, ignoring her, frowned at his phone's screen, which showed two unread messages.
From Clark:
Dio! Where are you? Get back here! Big stuff's going down at home!
From Dad:
Kid, come home quick. Got a surprise for you.
"Surprise?"
Dio's brow furrowed, but his fingers tapped a quick reply:
Home by midnight. Don't bug me.
He glanced at the Iceberg Lounge's flashing neon sign.
It was only 6:30 PM—plenty of time to nail this job interview.
As for the "surprise" at home, it was probably Clark overreacting again. Maybe Sarafiel dragged home another weird animal, or Uncle Jonathan got some wild idea for a family event.
With that, Dio switched his phone to silent, stuffed it back in his pocket, and straightened his collar again.
He pushed open the side door and stepped into the Iceberg Lounge.
The valet at the entrance straightened up the moment he saw Dio, flashing a professional smile, though his eyes held Gotham's trademark wariness, lingering briefly on Dio's belt.
In a place like this, you learned fast: the younger, better-looking, and more harmless someone seemed, the more likely they were packing something deadly.
"Good evening, sir," the valet said, keeping his smile. "Which area are you heading to? I can guide you."
"Blackgate Penguin," Dio said flatly.
Those four words worked like magic. The valet's smile froze, his eyes flashing with shock and a touch of disbelief.
He quickly tapped his earpiece, turning slightly to mutter a confirmation.
Seconds later, he lowered his hand, his expression a mix of pity and relief. "Understood. Please take the elevator to the third-floor VIP area. The manager's waiting for you."
Dio didn't even blink, let alone ask questions.
He gave a casual nod and strode forward, his boots clicking rhythmically on the polished marble floor, heading straight for the elevator.
Behind him, the valet watched his tall figure vanish around the corner. "Man, these days, you gotta be good-looking to get by."
---
[Do Not Disturb]
Lock and Clark exchanged looks.
"What's he up to?"
"No clue. I asked at lunch, and he just said he was busy. I had to pick up Sarafiel," Clark said.
Lock scratched his head, puzzled.
Dio rarely stayed out late.
Was he tinkering with that Harley parked at the Cerebro again?
"Sorry, Lex," Lock said to the bald guy chowing down at the dinner table. "Dio might be back late."
"No worries, Uncle Lock," Lex mumbled through a mouthful of food.
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