Day Two in Gotham: Nothing happened.
That was Jude's summary, lying on Drake's couch at 10 PM, eyes closed in something resembling peace.
They'd bought groceries on the way home. Camilla had been delighted, cooking a proper dinner for the first time in months. Everyone ate well. Drake talked about the future—leaving Gotham, going home to Metropolis, starting over somewhere the sky wasn't perpetually grey.
Their bedroom was quiet tonight. No desperate celebration, no making up for lost time. Just the soft sounds of two people holding each other, grateful to still have tomorrow.
Jude's ears appreciated the silence.
Outside, sporadic gunfire punctuated the rain. Distant sirens rose and fell. Neon signs flickered through the mist, painting the darkness in chemical colors. Otherwise, the night was still.
I'm getting tamed by this city, Jude thought. Considering this a good night because I can sleep.
But maybe—maybe—Gotham wasn't as insane as he'd imagined. Not every day was a catastrophe. Not every night ended in blood.
He let the thought settle. Let his eyes close.
Somewhere across the city, another criminal dangled from a gargoyle, left there by a bat-shaped vigilante. Hopefully they wouldn't be too traumatized when someone cut them down.
Seven AM.
Jude woke naturally, which was unusual. The rain had been hypnotic last night. He'd slept hard and deep, the kind of sleep that left you more awake than when you'd gone to bed.
He couldn't fall back asleep, so he got up.
In the kitchen, he assembled breakfast from yesterday's groceries. Eggs, cheap ham, bread, milk. Nothing fancy, but he could cook well enough. The pan sizzled. Fat popped and hissed.
Drake and Camilla emerged within minutes.
They'd slept well too. Camilla looked better than yesterday—no longer skeletal, no longer dying, but also no longer carrying that weight. For the first time in a year, she'd had a full night's rest without pain or fear.
After breakfast, Jude said his goodbyes.
"Be careful," Camilla said.
"Always am."
"No you're not," Drake called from the kitchen. "But good luck anyway."
Jude headed out.
He'd left the bicycle at home. Just the Beretta on his hip, visible under his jacket. The streets were already populated—people with haunted expressions hurrying to wherever they needed to be, giving wide berth to anyone with gang tattoos or the twitchy, pale look of addiction.
These are the real Gotham, Jude thought, watching them pass. Not black, not white. Just grey. Struggling. Walking dead.
Even Drake, with his education, his savings, his one year of survival instinct—barely stayed afloat here. These people had nothing. No education, no savings, no margin for error.
A father agrees to transport drugs for gang money to buy his daughter a birthday cake.
A single mother walks the streets to afford baby formula.
What a shithole, Jude thought bitterly. The entire criminal empire is built on their suffering.
Even if Batman arrested every criminal in the city, would these people's lives change? Would the system that crushed them finally release its grip?
He didn't know.
The morning felt heavier now. The brief peace of last night evaporated.
Bad morning, Gotham.
He flagged a taxi.
When the cab pulled over, Jude made sure his jacket shifted enough to show the Beretta before getting in. The driver's eyes flicked to the weapon in the rearview mirror. His posture relaxed slightly.
Good. They understood each other.
Jude had less than two hundred dollars in cash on him—enough for the ride, not enough to be worth robbing. He'd carry tips home tonight, but for now, traveling light was smarter.
If today's tips were good enough, maybe he'd buy that wheelchair tonight. Find a quiet alley, let the system modify it. Wheelchair driving skill was only $100 in asset points. Plus $100 for modification. Total: $200.
Cost-effective madness. His favorite kind.
He settled into the backseat and opened the system shop.
The taxi driver could see the gun. That bought civility. Without it, the fare would mysteriously double. With it, they'd arrive safely and at a reasonable price.
Jude scrolled through shop options.
Basic Car Driving Proficiency - $500
Not bad. Almost affordable.
Intermediate Car Driving - $2,000
Getting aggressive.
Advanced Car Driving - $10,000
What the hell? Are you teaching me to drive a Formula One car?
Bicycle Proficiency - $50
Why would I—
He paused at another listing.
System Assistant (Custom Q&A) - $1 per query
Oh. An AI help desk. Built right into my transmigration cheat.
He almost laughed. Even his supernatural advantage had microtransactions.
"Sir, we've arrived."
Jude looked up. 7:40 AM. The Red Dragon's street, already busy with early risers.
Old Jack would've gotten him here in forty minutes for free. Well. For the cost of potential death.
"Fifty-seven dollars," the driver said.
Jude handed over the cash without comment. With the visible gun, this was probably fair. Without it, the quote would've been a hundred easy.
He stepped out into the morning.
Jude spent the next twenty minutes walking the neighborhood. Learning the blocks around the Red Dragon, marking escape routes and safe corners. Memorizing which alleys dead-ended and which ones connected through.
At 8 AM, he entered through the back.
The restaurant was nearly empty. A few security guards. The night shift waiters finishing their rotation. The receptionist at the front desk, fresh and alert.
Jude nodded to his new colleagues. Found the supervisor.
Handed back the training manual.
The supervisor blinked. "Already?"
"One day was enough." Jude shrugged. "I used to cram before exams. Memorization's easy."
The supervisor opened the book, flipped to a random page. "Table six requests an off-menu item. What do you do?"
"Confirm what they want, check with the kitchen if we have ingredients, offer closest alternative if we don't, escalate to you if they insist."
"Guest from the Maroni family asks for a private room. What do you do?"
"Smile, say of course, seat them in the back room, inform you immediately, don't make them wait."
The supervisor studied him for a moment.