Cherry didn't hesitate this time. She blew through two red lights, weaving through traffic with a newfound, sharp focus. She had originally scouted a different location, but after witnessing John's cold efficiency and reflecting on her own moment of unprofessional action, she knew the plan had to change.
She steered the battered car toward the Grand Gotham, a premier hotel owned by the Wayne family. In a city where the law was a suggestion, Wayne enterprises offered a rare commodity, a genuine sanctuary. It was a high-class fortress where the elite paid for peace of mind, and even the most desperate street gangs knew that stepping onto Wayne property was a line you didn't cross if you valued your life.
For a man like John, Cherry realized, nowhere else would suffice.
The car, scarred and smoking, screeched to a halt under the pristine glow of the hotel's canopy. They had little luggage between them, but their arrival was enough to bring the bustling lobby to a dead standstill. The valet froze, eyes wide as they raked over the dented chassis.
The shock only deepened when Dog hopped out of the backseat, his fur matted and his muzzle still stained with fresh blood. The animal trotted faithfully behind John, who moved with a calm stride. Ignoring the gasps of the staff and the uneasy murmurs of those arround, John simply walked to the nearest plush lounge chair and sat.
His silence spoke volumes. By remaining seated, John made it clear that the logistics, the booking, the explanations, the "talk" were now Cherry's responsibility. It was a test of her competence. Proving she could handle the pressure, she navigated the check-in with professional grace, within minutes, the paperwork was finalized and the keys were secured.
One of the concierge staff approached the lounge area where John sat. The man kept a respectful distance but remained poised. "Mr. John, we understand your situation. If you don't mind, we would be happy to assist with cleaning up your companion."
John's hand remained on Dog's head, his fingers moving in a slow, rhythmic stroke through the matted fur. "Aren't you scared?" John asked, his eyes notleaving the staff member's face.
The man offered a polite, practiced smile as he squatted down to Dog's level. "A little, sir. But it is our job to ensure our guests are welcomed properly and he happens to be one of our guests."
John gave a singular, sharp nod of approval. "I appreciate the help, then." He stood, slinging his backpack over his shoulder, and followed Cherry toward the elevators.
The moment he entered his suite, the door clicking shut behind him, John headed straight for the shower. Ever since his first contact with the locals in the grime of the streets, he hadn't felt right, he felt as though the very air of Gotham had left a film on his skin. He stayed under the water for a long time, scrubbing away the salt and the tension.
When he finally emerged, a tray of hot food and a bottle of wine were waiting for him on the sideboard. He poured a glass and reached for the remote, settling onto the edge of the bed. He clicked the TV on, expecting the mindless drone of the nightly news, but he froze instantly at the image on the screen.
The flickering light reflected in his eyes, and his grip tightened on the glass a sit made cracking noises.
John stared at the screen, the wine glass frozen halfway to his lips. This was the Gotham Global News, the city's primary local station.
Across the bottom of the screen, a bold, crimson ticker scrolled relentlessly: "BLOODSHED AT MIDTOWN: MYSTERY VISITOR TURNS THE TABLES ON MUGGER MOB."
The footage was clear, likely pulled from a nearby storefront security camera or a bystander's high-definition phone. It caught everything. It showed the moment the window shattered, his wide-eyed, "terrified" plea for mercy, and then the sickeningly fast transition into violence.
The news anchor, a woman with tired eyes and a voice that had heard it all, spoke over a slow-motion replay of John snapping a man's wrist.
"GCPD has released no statement regarding the incident, though sources say the vehicle is linked to a high-profile arrival from earlier today," she said. "The footage, which has already garnered millions of views on social media, shows the unidentified young man dismantling a group of six armed assailants in under sixty seconds."
The screen split, showing a zoomed-in, grainy still-shot of John's face, not the terrified version, but the cold, stony expression he wore as he stepped over a groaning body.
"Public opinion is divided," the anchor continued. "Some call it a long-overdue stand against street crime, while others wonder who this newcomer is and what kind of training allows a rich kid to fight like a seasoned vigilante. One thing is certain, Gotham knows his face now."
John felt a cold weight settle in his stomach. The "low profile" he had intended to keep was gone just like that. He had wanted to move through the city like a ghost, observing from the periphery. Instead, he was now the lead story on the nightly news.
"Fuck... Fuck, fuck, fuck!"
The words hissed out of him as he barely suppressed a scream. He paced the length of the room, the luxury of the suite suddenly feeling like a gilded cage.
Forcing his breathing to steady, he reached for his phone on the nightstand as he dialed Cherry.
"My room. Now," he snapped into the receiver, hanging up before she could utter a word of protest.
A few minutes later, the door clicked open. Cherry walked in, wrapped in a plush hotel bathrobe, her hair damp and a faint scent of expensive soap trailing behind her. She looked relaxed for the first time since they had entered the city limits, but that ease vanished the moment she saw John's face. He didn't say a word, he simply pointed a finger at the television.
Cherry froze. Her eyes tracked the crimson ticker and the looping footage of the carnage they had just left behind. The steam from her skin seemed to chill instantly.
John turned his back to her, walking toward the floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked the glowing, jagged skyline of Gotham. He swirled the wine in his glass, watching the dark liquid catch the light of the neon signs outside.
"The plan has changed," he said, his voice lacking its previous anger. "Our stay in this hotel will be extended to a week. We don't move and we don't leave."
He took a slow sip of the wine, staring out at the city that had just claimed him as its newest celebrity. "It should be enough time for this to die down, for something more interesting or more violent to happen in this hellhole and take the spotlight. Once the city finds a new toy to play with, we can focus on the real reason we're here."
Cherry remained silent for a long moment, her eyes fixed on the television where the grainy image of John's face seemed to stare back at them both. She tightened the belt of her bathrobe, a thoughtful look on her face.
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