Chapter 4 Chapter 4 Have you killed anyone?
But what did this have to do with the boss? The job he offered didn't require any ID, and the daily pay of a few Franklins was enough for most people in downtown Gotham to live a decent life. All they had to pay was a tiny bit of personal safety!
This is much better than those rubbish jobs hired by black gangs. You never know if you'll be able to go home when the sun rises, or which part of your body will be able to go home.
Just like this new guy. The boss glanced at the surveillance camera again. The young man, about twenty years old, looked a little blurry on the screen, but that didn't affect his appearance at all.
“…Working here is not bad,” the bartender Tom said to the newcomer, “as long as you talk less. Even though others are shouting all the time, if they say something wrong, no one will know…” He swallowed his words and just gave a look.
The newcomer nodded in understanding and turned around to pull out a bottle of whiskey for him. "I know. Graham told me so."
"Just keep it in mind." Tom took the whiskey. He didn't need a measuring cup; the feel of it would tell him the amount. "By the way, what's your name?"
"My name is E..."
Just then a customer came by and asked for a vodka martini.
"Shake well, don't stir. Do you understand?" the half-drunk guest insisted.
There was laughter all around, "He hasn't given up his 007 dream yet!"
Tom looked over. He hadn't yet been taught how to mix the drink, but the newcomer said nothing, simply rolled up his sleeves. Vodka and dry vermouth were poured into the cocktail shaker, ice cubes added with a crisp clatter as they were shaken; the shaken liquor trickled down the strainer and slowly poured into the martini glass. A final drop of lemon juice dripped down the rim, and the guest lifted the glass and whistled at him in appreciation.
"…Oliver Walker," the newcomer continued his previously interrupted brief introduction amid the chorus of whistles, heckling, and boasting. "Just call me Oliver."
"Oliver Walker", the new bartender, was unanimously considered to be a taciturn and somewhat clumsy young man - at least that was what Tom thought at the beginning - he really didn't like to talk much, and he spent most of his time in the bar with his head buried in making cocktails, with his fluffy black curly hair hanging on both sides of his cheeks, just enough to block his view.
Perhaps it was Graham's fault that no one picked on him. After all, Graham was a member of Liam "Lucky" Quinn's Black Gang, and he was doing pretty well. Even though the gang had only been around for less than five years and wasn't as well-known as the likes of □□ Ricoso, Anthony Rotelli, or Carl Greenson, who knew what things would be like in five, ten, or even thirty years?
Perhaps those overly famous gang bosses were killed by the Bat one night and thrown into Blackgate Prison. Or perhaps they were captured by a madman who escaped from Arkham and became victims of Batman's game.
No one could have predicted this, and no one really cared. Gotham was full of gangs, with major gangs competing against each other, smaller gangs annexing each other, and the power dynamics constantly shifting. The only constant was Batman, hovering overhead. Before his iron fist descended from the sky, Gothamites cared only about where they could earn dinner today; as for tomorrow, they rarely thought that far ahead.
Live one day at a time.
"'Oliver Walker'? Seriously?" Graham asked, sitting at the dining table. "You got my last name?"
"What's wrong?" Elio brought out cream of mushroom soup from the kitchen. "You can just take whatever you want anyway."
Graham was about to say something, but the smell of dinner reached his nose and successfully silenced his half-hearted protest.
"When did you learn to make this?" Graham scooped a spoonful of soup and carefully brought it to his nose to smell it. "It actually smells like something edible."
Elio endured it because Graham took him in at such a critical moment. After all, not everyone would dare to take in an old friend who suddenly became a wanted criminal.
"I learned it in the last few years," he said in the kitchen. "I worked all sorts of part-time jobs while I was in school at Blüdhaven. I was short of money, after all."
"Oh my god, you can even mix a salad!"
"I have hands, Graham, in case you didn't see."
"I just can't forget the time you poisoned our entire hospital when we were little," Graham said. "Do you remember? That time it even shocked..."
"It even alerted investigators from the Martha Foundation." Elio placed the plates and forks in front of him. "They thought someone was deliberately poisoning the food to take revenge on society, but they found out that wasn't the case at all."
Graham didn't touch his cutlery, but stared at him inscrutable, seemingly skeptical. Elio stared back, his tone stern. "I promise I won't send you to the hospital this time, my dear 'brother.'"
Graham finally broke out in laughter. Elio looked at him and laughed too.
They hadn't seen each other in ages. While texts and emails could keep each other updated, they couldn't replace the warmth of a real person, nor could they accurately depict the true story. After leaving the orphanage, Elio managed to secure a Wayne Scholarship and applied to college in the nearby town of Blüdhaven. Graham, on the other hand, hadn't pursued academic studies at all, instead finding a job nearby and seemingly doing well.
Although Elio didn't know exactly what he did.
After a fist bump with Graham, Elio sat down and picked up his fork.
"So what's going on?" Graham asked, his mouth full of pasta. "What happened in Blüdhaven?"
"I don't know," Elio sighed. "I still feel like this is all a dream, and a terrible nightmare."
"So, did you...?"
Have you ever killed anyone?
Elio froze. He understood the question Graham hadn't asked and looked over in disbelief. Graham was also looking at him, but seemed struck by his gaze and looked away awkwardly.
"What did you say?"
"Nothing." Graham shifted his salad on his plate nonchalantly. "Just a stupid question. Just pretend I didn't say anything."
Elio wanted him to finish, but he ended up saying nothing himself. He silently shoveled the remaining food from his plate into his mouth, the sticky noodles twisting and turning in his throat, then reluctantly squeezing into his stomach. Graham didn't say anything else. The occasional sound of a speeding engine could be heard outside the window, and the vague voices of the man and woman next door echoed inward.
The light flickered.
Elio collected the dishes and took them to the kitchen to wash. Graham turned off the power and stood on the living room table to change the lightbulb. He told Elio to just leave the dishes there and he'd wash them later, but Elio ignored him and used water in the dark. The noodles swelled and churned in Elio's stomach, and he suddenly doubled over, covering his mouth and retching.
The sound was suppressed by the water.
Elio scooped up a handful of water and splashed it on his face, hoping it would make him feel better.
"Hey. You okay?"
Graham came over at some point. He had already changed the lightbulb but didn't turn on the lights. He leaned against the closed cupboard, his arms folded, and looked at him.
Elio nodded without saying anything. He was a little worried that he would throw up if he started talking.
Graham remained silent. He glanced down at his toes, but since he was a head taller than Elio, he could still see his facial expression. There was a fleeting glimpse of biting his lip, as if he, too, was feeling a touch of regret.
"Don't worry," Graham reassured him after a moment's pause, "everything will be fine."
The sound of running water is still there.
"I hope so," Elio whispered.
"If you were wrongly accused..."
Elio interrupted him, "I 'am' wronged."
He looked up at Graham. The young man's tone was much more serious, "I didn't kill anyone," as if he was arguing his innocence.
Graham looked at him, frowning in pity. Elio leaned on the sink, his hands on his shoulders. His wet black hair tumbled messily over his forehead and cheeks, the curled ends brushing against his shoulders, leaving wet streaks. Drops of water dripped from his eyelashes, streaking under his eyes, then silently gathered at his jawline and dripped into the collar of his sweatshirt.
He also stared at Graham without blinking.
"I really didn't kill anyone." Elio repeated softly.
Graham reached out and patted him on the shoulder. "It's going to be all right," he said.
"Maybe."
"Definitely. Don't say maybe." Graham picked up the cloth beside him and wiped his face carelessly. "Also, wipe your face. Someone who doesn't know would think I'm abusing you."
Elio's features were almost smeared together. He ignored what had just happened and quickly held Graham's hand, sniffing the cloth suspiciously.
"Wait, this is the rag that just wiped the table!"
"Yeah?"
"I'll wipe your face and you'll know."
Graham took a cautious step back. Elio, rag raised, approached him, looking menacing.
"stop!"
"I'm not stupid!"
Unbeknownst to them, a feather-light sound of footsteps passed by on the top floor. The resident living on the top floor heard it and muttered indifferently, "It's those cats again." But he didn't dare say anything more.
In Gotham, cats are likely to be protected by someone.
The "cat" leaped across the gap between buildings, not even glancing at the sky below. He passed several robberies and gangs attempting to vandalize ATMs, leaving behind a trail of thugs struggling with broken bones. But they didn't catch a glimpse of anything, only the fragment of a torn windbreaker glimpsed in the air.
"Bat monster!" they shouted. "Get down from there if you can!"
A small ball rolled down, and smoke erupted the moment it hit the ground, trapping the escaped fish in a coma.
After everyone fell, he finally poked his head out from the roof. The hood covered the upper half of his face, but miraculously, it didn't affect his vision at all.
"Gotham remains the same," he sighed.
A gust of wind fell behind him. He seemed to sense something and turned around. There stood the real, pitch-black "bat monster."
"Assassin." Batman said in a deep voice.
"Long time no see, Bat." The assassin said, "We received your email."
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In Gotham, cats are protected, and assassins are protected too.
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