Jude walked aimlessly through Gotham's streets, hands shoved in his pockets, trying to look purposeful despite having nowhere to go.
Twenty minutes. He'd been wandering for twenty minutes, and miraculously, nobody had tried to rob him.
Did I get dropped into the wrong Gotham? he wondered. Is there a nice Gotham somewhere? Gotham Heights? Gotham Springs?
"Hey. Friend."
Jude stopped.
A man stood in front of him, blocking the sidewalk. Sunglasses—at night. Black mask covering his nose and mouth. Hood pulled up over a grey sweatshirt. The whole getup screamed "I am about to commit a crime."
Finally.
Jude's first thought wasn't fear. It was opportunity. If he played this right, maybe he could guilt the guy into sparing a few dollars. It wasn't "getting rich through hard work," exactly, but begging wasn't technically illegal, and three dollars wouldn't last until morning.
The man reached into his pocket.
And pulled out a gun.
"Stop talking," the robber said, voice high and tight. "Take out everything you have. Now!"
His shout echoed down the street. Several pedestrians turned, saw the gun, and immediately walked faster in the opposite direction. One woman broke into a jog.
Jude stared at the black muzzle of the pistol.
Oh.
His plan to ask for charity evaporated. Gotham criminals didn't start with intimidation or knives or stern words. They started with guns. Of course they did.
Even a machete would've given him room to talk. A gun was a conversation-ender.
Jude's eyes flicked to the corner of his vision. The system interface glowed faintly, visible only to him. Fast Life Recovery ready. Save Point active, twenty reads remaining.
And most importantly: Safe Time Remaining: 9 minutes, 47 seconds.
The knowledge settled over him like a cold blanket. He was safe. Technically. For the next ten minutes, nothing could kill him.
That didn't make the gun less terrifying.
"I said—" The robber's voice cracked, climbing toward hysteria. "Take out everything you have!"
He shoved the pistol forward. The barrel came within inches of Jude's face.
Jude stumbled back, hands raised. "Okay! Okay, I'm—I'm getting it—"
His hands shook as he reached into his jacket pockets. Not entirely an act. Safe time or not, staring down a gun barrel triggered every survival instinct he had.
He pulled both pockets inside out.
Empty. Cleaner than his face.
Actually, less clean than his face, because he was pretty sure he was starting to grow stubble. But the pockets were definitely empty.
The robber stared.
"Are you fucking kidding me?"
Jude could feel the man's rage building, a pressure in the air like a gathering storm. Fear spiked through him despite the safe time. People did stupid things when they were angry.
"Look," Jude said, voice trembling, "you can't blame me for being broke. You think I want to be poor?"
"Who the hell are you calling poor?"
The fury in those words was visceral. Like Jude had struck a nerve.
Interesting, some detached part of his brain noted. Someone's got issues with that word.
"I'm just saying—" Jude reached for his pants pockets, moving slowly. "I literally have nothing. See? Pants are empty too."
The robber's eyes followed Jude's hand. He reached up with his free hand and pushed his sunglasses up—because of course he couldn't see properly in the dark—and leaned forward.
"I'm watching you," he said. "Don't try anything."
Jude, who had never tried anything in his life, pulled his pants pockets inside out.
Also empty.
The robber made a sound like a wounded animal.
"You're—you're hiding it!" His voice had tears in it now. Actual tears. "Take off your clothes! I need to search you!"
Jude didn't argue. He shrugged off his jacket and raised his hands.
Go ahead, he thought. You find a single penny, I'll call you the God of Wealth on the spot.
The robber patted him down with increasingly frantic movements. Jacket, shirt, pants, even his shoes. Nothing. Not a wallet, not a phone, not loose change.
Nothing.
The man stopped. Stood there for a moment, swaying slightly.
Then he sat down on the wet pavement, staring at nothing.
Jude waited. The robber didn't move. Didn't threaten him. Just sat there, gun hanging loose in one hand, and after a long moment, put his face in his hands.
And started crying.
Not quiet tears. Actual sobbing. Shoulders shaking, broken sounds escaping through his mask.
Jude put his jacket back on and sat down next to him.
"Hey," he said quietly. "It's okay. Everyone has bad luck sometimes."
The sobbing continued.
"Look, if you really don't want to go home empty-handed, you can have my jacket."
"Who the fuck wants your jacket?"
The robber swung the pistol at him. The barrel cracked against Jude's arm—hard enough to hurt, not hard enough to break anything. He raised the gun again, pointing it at Jude's face.
"What do you know, you broke bastard? You won't even survive tonight!"
Jude rubbed his arm. The safe time was still active—he could see the timer counting down—but that didn't make getting pistol-whipped pleasant.
"I know this is your first time," Jude said.
The gun wavered.
"I've been walking around for the last half hour, and every other criminal in this city took one look at me and kept walking. They could tell I'm broke. Pockets cleaner than my face, remember? But you didn't see it."
The robber's hand trembled.
"You're wearing sunglasses at night," Jude continued, ticking points off on his fingers. "Mask, hoodie, but no gloves. The safety on your pistol isn't even on—or wait, is that gun even real?"
The man's face flushed red beneath his mask.
"You didn't pull me into an alley immediately. You made way too much noise during the robbery—half the block heard you. You kept shoving the gun too close to me, losing distance and leverage. And when I reached for my pockets, you completely took your eyes off my hands. Anyone with actual training could've grabbed that gun."
"Shut up—"
"You're not emotionally stable enough for this. You didn't search thoroughly—could've taken my jacket, my shoes, anything. And after the robbery failed, you should've run. Instead you sat down and started crying."
The man swung the pistol again. This time Jude ducked.
They sat there in silence. Rain pattered on concrete. Somewhere distant, glass shattered.
"I know you're desperate," Jude said finally. "But most people don't rob strangers without a reason. So what's the problem? Maybe I can help."
The robber laughed bitterly. Wiped his face. When he pulled off his sunglasses, Jude saw bloodshot eyes, dark circles deep enough to be bruises, the hollow look of someone running on empty.
"There are already enough crazy people in Gotham," the man muttered.
He started to stand.
"You're robbing people, which means you need money," Jude said. "You're using a fake gun, which means you have a conscience. Educated, probably. The dark circles mean you've been dealing with this for a while. Whatever you need money for, it's a lot."
The man paused.
"You can't rob a bank. You'll die. And trying your luck on the street is exactly as stupid as trying to rob me. You got lucky I'm not a cop. Or worse."
Jude stood up, brushing off his pants.
"Talk to me. Maybe I can actually help."
The robber turned slowly. His voice came out hoarse and raw.
"Why would you help me?"
"I don't help people for free." Jude met his eyes. "I'm new to Gotham. I don't know anyone. I need a job—reliable, legal, ideally something that won't get me killed. And I need a place to sleep tonight."
He gestured between them.
"Here's the deal. If I can't help you, we go our separate ways. You go home, I sleep on the street, we forget this happened. But if I can help? You let me crash at your place temporarily, help me find work, and I'll do whatever I can to solve your problem."
He paused.
"Well. Legal work. I'm not going to kill anyone."
The robber stood there for a long time, silent. Rain dripped from his hood. His jaw worked like he was chewing over the words.
Finally, he walked back and sat down next to Jude.
He stared up at Gotham's dark sky, rain falling into his bloodshot eyes.
"You're not from Gotham," he said quietly. "I'll trust you this time."
A bitter laugh.
"Anyway, I don't have any other choice."