Clark still shook his head in refusal. He felt that if he lowered himself to accept Colin's offer of a drink, it would be as if he had conceded something intangible—an invisible loss of dignity.
Noticing his gesture, Colin smirked and said, "So what are you waiting for? Waiting for me to bribe you with cash?"
It was his way of dismissing him. And Clark, realizing he was being sent off, quickly disappeared into the night.
Watching him go, Colin leaned back in his rocking chair, eyes lifting toward the moon hanging high above. With his vision, he could easily make out every detail etched upon its surface. Yet sometimes, clarity wasn't a blessing. Tonight, the moon had lost all its beauty in his eyes.
At the same time…
Several shadowy figures were huddled in front of a jewelry shop, working furiously on its locked door.
"Damn—this door's a pain in the ass," one man muttered. He was swaddled in an oversized trench coat, his cheeks buried in its collar to shield himself from the night's chill. That tiny scrap of warmth gave him a fragile sense of safety.
Clutched in his hands was a crowbar, which he jammed and wrenched at the stubborn door with all his might.
Two other men worked alongside him. One was a bald fellow, his English laced with a heavy, awkward accent that marked him as an illegal stowaway. Dressed in a black hoodie and denim jeans, he reeked faintly of alcohol—no surprise, since drinking was his favorite pastime. Unfortunately, drunken rages often ended with him being beaten half to death and robbed of whatever he had left.
Once, he'd gotten so drunk he spent the whole night shouting in his room, keeping everyone awake until someone knocked him out cold and took his money for good measure.
"Hurry the hell up!!! Put your back into it!!" snarled the third man. He was a stocky brute, his muscles straining beneath his shirt, and rumor had it he used to box.
His hot temper made him unpleasant to be around, but in a fight, he was no joke.
As they struggled with the door, a figure emerged silently behind them.
Batman.
He approached without a sound, then tapped the trench coat man on the shoulder.
Feeling the touch, the man turned—and froze when he saw the dark knight's looming figure. Terror flashed across his face. Before he could react, Batman's fist slammed into his jaw, knocking him unconscious in a single blow.
The man collapsed against the metal door with a thunderous crash.
Startled, the bald drunk and the muscleman spun around.
"The hell are you doing?!" the bald man bellowed, swinging his crowbar at Batman.
Batman slipped past the strike with predatory grace, then countered with a brutal punch that crashed straight into the man's face. The drunk dropped instantly, crumpling to the ground.
That left only the muscleman. He stared at Batman with a wary respect. "So it's true. I've heard the stories about you. Thought you were just some urban legend… but you're real."
Flexing his arms, he squared his stance. He had trained in all kinds of fighting styles, and from Batman's earlier movements, he could tell this was no ordinary vigilante. This was a man who had honed his body into a weapon.
"Let's see how long this musclehead lasts," Colin murmured from his rooftop perch, tilting his bottle lazily as he watched.
The liquor was sweet on his tongue, more like juice than alcohol. He took another sip, amused by the drama unfolding below.