Drake might've looked like a total amateur when he was robbing people, but hearing gunfire over the phone didn't even make him flinch. He held the phone casually to his ear and asked, "Donald, you busy right now?"
The gruff voice on the other end didn't sound rushed. In fact, he seemed almost patient—too patient for someone clearly in the middle of something violent.
"Not busy. Just wrapping up."
BANG.
Another gunshot rang out.
Drake kept going like it was small talk. "I've got a friend here—just arrived in Gotham. Only knows normal people skills. Useless in this city, basically."
"You want me to give him work?"
"You've got that restaurant, don't you? He's got the kind of face that brings women in the door. He's not a fighter, but he's not a coward either. Just a regular guy—talks well, doesn't choke under pressure."
"Talks well? Means he's loose-lipped."
BANG!
"Please—!"
BANG!
"I swear, he's tight. Tight as it gets. He's just a normal guy. He wouldn't brag to save his life."
BANG! BANG!
More shots. Then a beat of silence.
Finally, the voice returned, gravelly and calm: "Drake, we're square now."
"Of course."
"That kid with you?"
Ren leaned in and snatched the phone. "Yeah, I'm here."
"Be at work tomorrow. 9 a.m. sharp."
Click.
Dial tone.
Ren slowly lowered the phone and turned to Drake, utterly stunned.
"…What?"
Drake shrugged. "Why are you looking at me like that? He said you've got the job."
"Where? What's the dress code? What do I even do?!"
"I'll take you there in the morning, just memorize the route. The uniform's provided by the restaurant. As for your duties—basic server work. Seating customers, taking orders, bringing food, wiping tables. That's it."
"Oh, and you'll need to carry a gun. Doesn't matter if you know how to use it. You still need to have one. I'll leave mine with you."
Ren stared at him and laughed—bitterly.
Of course.
Welcome to Gotham, where job requirements include "owning a sidearm."
Drake continued, as casually as if he were giving wardrobe advice. "By the way, you have a wallet?"
"No, I… I usually just take my phone when I go out. Oh wait—screw me—I don't even have a phone here!"
"My wallet you can borrow. Not my phone. But Camila rarely makes calls or goes online. I'll ask her to lend you hers. You got a SIM card?"
"Yeah, the system gave me one."
Ren accepted everything without complaint. A phone, a wallet, a gun—at this point, these weren't favors. They were reparations.
He'd already burned through his Rapid Regeneration skill for these two. One literal miracle spent. That alone was worth a full damn resettlement package.
Ten grand, he thought. "All that for a burner phone, some ID, a pistol, and a table-waiting gig in a mafia-run restaurant. Definitely not a fair trade."
Still… thanks, system.
The SIM card and debit cards the system provided were all standard U.S. banks. It saved him a whole lot of paperwork.
A while later, Drake came out of the bedroom—finally—with Camila's compact phone in hand and passed it over.
That night, the apartment was silent.
No whispering. No sounds from the bedroom. No strange creaks or crying.
Just quiet.
And Ren? He slept like a log on the couch.
---
The Next Morning
Drake was up early and shook Ren awake while it was still dark out.
"Let's go. Time to get you to work."
Ren groaned, half-awake, and blinked at the wall clock. The hour and minute hands both pointed to seven.
"Dude… it's only seven a.m. Why the hell so early?"
"We don't have a car."
"...What?"
Ten minutes later, Ren was dressed, barely conscious, and being half-dragged through the freezing Gotham streets. They jogged a few blocks until they reached a bent, bullet-riddled metal pole near a battered bus stop.
"Drake," Ren panted, "look—I get that you don't want me to be late, but shouldn't we eat something first?"
"No time. We'll grab something on the way. If we miss the transfer, we're screwed."
As he spoke, Drake wrapped a scarf around Ren's neck like a protective mother, then pulled a knit cap over his head.
"…How far is this place exactly?"
"Otisburg. Not close from the East Side, but the bus line's direct. If we're lucky, we'll make it in half an hour."
Ren squinted. "What do you mean if we're lucky—"
SCREECH.
The bus rolled to a stop.
Door opened.
Drake grabbed his arm and pulled him on board.
They found seats, and Ren dropped into one with a tired sigh—until his face was slapped by an icy blast of wind.
He jerked to the side. "What the hell?!"
Every window on the bus was missing.
Every. Single. One.
Arctic air howled through the bus, entering through the open windshield like a jetstream. Everyone on board was bundled in layers, heads wrapped tight like they were bracing for a blizzard.
"What is this?!"
Before Ren could finish the thought, he saw Drake reach into his coat—and casually pull out his pistol.
"…Dude. What are you doing?"
Drake didn't answer. Instead, he stood up and walked to the driver's seat, chatting with the bus driver like they were old drinking buddies.
Ren was about to yell at him to stop, but something caught his eye.
His seat.
More specifically, the holes in it.
He looked again.
The outside of the bus, the welded patches, the dozens of metal plates bolted on like duct-taped armor.
"Oh my god… are those bullet holes?"
He thought this was going to be a sketchy ride, sure—but he hadn't expected to be in a damn combat zone on the way to work.
He was expecting addicts. Gang members. Maybe some thugs. Not literal gunfights on public transit.
Maybe I should walk to work, Ren thought grimly. Might actually be safer.
Just then, Drake handed the driver a few brightly colored bills. In response, the driver grinned wide, reached under the seat, and handed over…
A pistol.
And two magazines.
"…What."
Drake returned like nothing had happened, holding the gear like he'd just picked up a bagel and a coffee.
Ren stared at him in horror.
Drake looked concerned. "You okay? You look pale."
Ren opened his mouth to respond.
Then closed it.