Drake had been a complete amateur during the robbery—fumbling, emotional, clearly out of his depth.
But hearing gunshots through the phone? He didn't even flinch.
"Donald," Drake said calmly into the phone. "You busy?"
The rough voice on the other end sounded patient. Almost amused.
"Not right now. Just finishing up some business."
Bang.
Another gunshot. Louder this time.
"Look," Drake continued, like he was calling about a job referral at a tech company, not a mob-run restaurant during what sounded like an active murder, "I have a friend who just got to Gotham. He's got normal skills—completely useless here, honestly."
A pause. The sound of something heavy hitting the floor.
"You want me to hire him?"
"You own that restaurant, right? His face is perfect for bringing in female customers. He's not into violence, but he's not afraid of it either. Just an ordinary guy. But he's got good people skills, brave, doesn't freeze up under pressure."
"If he's good at talking," the voice said slowly, "his mouth won't be tight."
"Please, Donald, don't—"
"I'm just saying, loose lips get people killed."
Drake's voice quickened. "I guarantee you, he's tight-lipped. He's ordinary, like I said. He's not going to risk his life just to brag about mob business."
More gunshots. Three in rapid succession. Then silence.
When the voice came back, it was final.
"Drake. We're even."
A beat.
"Is the kid with you?"
Jude leaned toward the phone. "I'm here."
"Be at work tomorrow. Nine AM."
Click.
The line went dead.
Jude stared at the phone, then at Drake.
"What am I supposed to do with that? He didn't give me an address. Or dress code. Or literally any other information."
Drake waved a hand. "If he said come to work, that means you're hired. I'll take you there tomorrow, show you the route. The uniform's at the restaurant. As for what you'll be doing—it's what waiters do. Greet customers, take orders, serve food, wipe tables. Standard stuff."
He paused.
"Oh, and you need to bring a gun."
Jude blinked. "I'm sorry, what?"
"A gun. Doesn't matter if you can use it. You just need to have one." Drake pulled his pistol from the drawer—the same one from the robbery. "Here. You can have mine."
Jude stared at the weapon.
In Gotham, he thought distantly, the standard equipment for employment is a firearm. Everything else is optional.
"By the way," Drake said, "do you have a wallet?"
"No. I usually just carry my phone when I—" Jude stopped. "Wait. I don't even have a phone."
"I can give you my wallet. The phone's trickier—I need mine. But Camilla doesn't go out much, doesn't really call anyone. I'll talk to her, see if she'll let you use hers."
"I've got a SIM card," Jude said. The system had provided one. "That should work."
Drake nodded. "Perfect. I'll be right back."
He disappeared into the bedroom.
Jude sat on the couch, processing.
A wallet. A phone. A gun. And a job waiting tables at a mob-run restaurant.
All in exchange for one Fast Life Recovery.
Worth $9,999 according to the system, Jude thought. And I traded it for maybe two hundred dollars' worth of secondhand goods and a minimum-wage job in the most dangerous city in America.
Then again, Drake and Camilla had been desperate. Dying. And now Camilla was alive and healthy.
Put that way, it was probably worth it.
The system really is thorough, he mused, checking his inventory. Bank cards from several major US banks. SIM card. Basic identity documents. Everything he needed to function in America, all neatly packaged.
Better than spawning with nothing.
Drake emerged from the bedroom holding a small flip phone. "Here. Camilla says it's yours."
"Thanks."
That night, Drake and Camilla's bedroom was surprisingly quiet. No voices, no movement. Jude slept on the couch, wrapped in a thin blanket, and managed to get several solid hours of rest.
For Gotham, that counted as a miracle.
"Wake up. Time for work."
Jude cracked one eye open. Drake stood over him, already dressed.
He checked the clock on the wall. Both hands pointed at seven.
"Why are we leaving this early?" Jude mumbled. "Work's not until nine."
"We don't have a car."
That woke him up.
"Wait, how far is this place?"
"Otisburg. It's not super close to where we are, but the bus route is decent. If we're lucky, we can make it in about half an hour."
If we're lucky.
Jude didn't like the sound of that.
Ten minutes later, he was dressed and being dragged out the door by Drake, who was moving with the urgency of someone who knew exactly how bad Gotham traffic could get.
They jogged to a bus stop—a battered metal pole with a faded sign.
"Drake," Jude panted, "I appreciate you not wanting me to be late, but shouldn't we at least grab breakfast?"
"No time. We'll eat on the way. If we're any later, we'll miss the window."
Drake wrapped a scarf around Jude's neck.
"Window? What window?"
Drake pulled out a hat and shoved it on Jude's head.
"How far away is this restaurant, exactly?"
"I told you. Otisburg. It's—"
A bus rumbled up to the stop. The doors hissed open.
Drake grabbed Jude's arm and hauled him aboard.
They found seats near the middle. Jude sat down, ready to ask what "the window" meant, when he felt it.
Wind. Cold air. On his face.
He turned.
The windows were gone.
Not broken. Not cracked. Just... gone. Every single window on the bus was missing, leaving gaping holes in the metal frame. Cold morning air rushed through the bus like a wind tunnel. The other passengers had their heads wrapped in scarves, hats pulled low, like they were used to this.
Jude looked forward.
The windshield was also missing.
"What the—"
Drake stood up, gun in hand, and walked toward the driver.
What is he doing?
Jude started to get up, ready to pull Drake back before he did something stupid, when he glanced at Drake's seat.
There was a hole in it.
A small, round hole.
Punched through the metal frame.
Jude looked around the bus with new eyes. The welded patches he'd noticed when boarding—dozens of them, maybe hundreds, covering the walls and ceiling like a patchwork quilt made of scrap metal.
Those aren't repairs.
Those are bullet holes.
His brain caught up with reality.
There was a gunfight. On this bus. Recently enough that they haven't replaced the windows yet.
Up front, Drake was chatting with the driver like they were old friends. He pulled out his wallet, handed over some bills. The driver grinned and reached under his seat.
He pulled out a pistol. And several magazines.
Oh my god.
He's renting a gun.
From the bus driver.
This is normal.
Drake walked back, looking pleased with himself, and sat down next to Jude. He must have noticed Jude's expression, because his face shifted to concern.
"What's wrong? You feeling sick?"
Jude stared at him.
Then at the bullet holes.
Then at the gun in Drake's hand.
Then back at Drake's genuinely worried face.
"I—" Jude started.
Words failed him.