Ma Zhaodi looked up. Nestled right in the middle of the street was a small, spotless restaurant. It didn't look like much from the outside, and that alone let him breathe a little easier.
In Gotham, the bigger the operation, the messier the complications. A smaller target usually meant fewer problems.
"I'll give you a heads-up," Derek said, his voice low. "Donald isn't someone you want to take lightly. The less you talk, the less likely you are to piss him off."
"That dangerous?"
"Let's just say—whoever's behind him definitely is."
The brief exchange didn't do much to ease Ma Zhaodi's nerves. His thoughts drifted to the little corner shops he used to pass on his way to and from school back home—places that barely stocked their shelves once a month, where the clerks were glued to their phones and could barely bother to lift their heads, where customers were a rare sight and sometimes even the lights stayed off all day. And yet, somehow, those places never shut down. A year passed, then two, and they were still right there after he graduated. Still open. Still inexplicably surviving.
If only this restaurant was that kind of shop—simple and forgettable.
But the moment he stepped inside, Ma Zhaodi's heart dropped like a stone.
Past the entrance, they turned down a gray hallway and were greeted by a stunning blonde receptionist. Clearly expecting them, she greeted them with a polite nod and a smile before leading them deeper into the building.
Ma Zhaodi wasn't exactly an expert in interior design, but even he could tell from the artistic wallpaper lining the hall that this place was anything but ordinary.
Then they stepped into the main dining area.
Elegant rows of wine racks. Soft, warm lighting. Chic, minimalistic wallpaper designs. Lush greenery brightening every corner. Guests dressed in tailored evening wear, composed and poised as they dined.
"High-class," Ma Zhaodi muttered under his breath, unable to hold back the curse that followed. "This is your idea of a small restaurant? Why the hell isn't this place in the Diamond District?"
"Otisburg has its share of rich folks," Derek replied with a smirk. "Places like this exist to serve the needs of... certain people. Don't worry about it. Just tell me—do you want to make money or not?"
"..."
At that moment, the receptionist turned to them and said, "Mr. Donald is expecting you. You can go straight upstairs to his office."
Whatever answer Ma Zhaodi had in mind didn't matter anymore. He was already here—might as well see what this Donald was about.
Derek gave him a reassuring look, the kind that said Relax. I got this, and led him toward the nearby staircase.
At the top, several burly men in black stood to the side, silently parting to make way. It was clear: if they hadn't been welcome, things would've gone very differently.
Ma Zhaodi's scalp tingled. He realized now just how terribly, unbelievably wrong his first impression had been. This place wasn't some unremarkable little hole-in-the-wall. This was the goddamn backdrop to a major Gotham event arc.
If it weren't for the fact that Donald himself posed a far more immediate threat than any plot twist, he would've turned tail and bolted.
It took him several seconds to wrestle his thoughts into some semblance of order before he followed Derek into Donald's office.
Inside sat a broad-shouldered, composed middle-aged man in a sleek suit. Even before he stood, the quiet smile that flickered across his face at the sight of Derek was enough to make the room feel heavier.
"Derek," he said as he stood, voice steady. "You look much better than the last time I saw you."
In truth, Derek had just endured several brutal months of anxiety and turmoil. But Donald wasn't wrong either. Since last night, the crushing weight on Derek's shoulders had finally lifted.
His dark circles and gaunt features wouldn't vanish overnight, but his entire demeanor had changed—like a man reborn.
"Yeah," Derek said with a faint smile. "Guess I got lucky. My wife's finally recovering. A little while longer and we'll be leaving the city—heading back to my hometown."
Ma Zhaodi wasn't sure if it was just his imagination, but he thought he caught the faintest flicker of envy and melancholy in Donald's eyes.
"To spend your life with someone you love… even in a place like Metropolis, that's rare. Congratulations, Derek."
"Come on," Derek said, waving it off. "I'm just a broke nobody. A guy like you, with all your money—you can go wherever you want. You've got the kind of happiness I can't even picture."
Donald chuckled quietly, lowering his head. "My old man was from Gotham. So, by blood and bone, I'm Gotham too. I'll stay here. Nowhere else to go."
The mood turned just a little too heavy.
Derek, sensing the shift, clapped a hand on Ma Zhaodi's shoulder and shoved him forward. "Anyway, this is that friend I told you about on the phone. Just got into Gotham. Doesn't know much about the city, and the stuff he studied ain't much help here. Figured I'd send him your way."
Donald looked up again. The warmth in his eyes vanished, replaced by the cool detachment of a true Gothamite. He stared Ma Zhaodi down, taking in every detail like he was scanning a file.
"What's your education?"
"College graduate. From... China."
"...?"
Even Derek did a double take. He had assumed Ma Zhaodi only had a high school diploma at most, maybe not even that.
Seeing the way they both stared at him, Ma Zhaodi's ears turned red.
"Don't look at me like that. The school's the school. I'm still me. Just 'cause the school's good doesn't mean I am."
Fair enough.
"What skills do you have?"
"I used to write 'Little Prince Uncle' stories to make ends meet back home. But... that kind of thing doesn't really fly in Gotham."
"...?"
Derek shot him another sidelong glance. You said you made a living writing, so I didn't dig deeper. Figured it was essays or fiction, maybe a few articles... but this?
What else are you hiding from me, man?
"Huh. Honest, at least."
"...?"
This time, both Ma Zhaodi and Derek stared at Donald.
Seriously?
He just said he used to write spicy pulp fiction and you're praising him?
"Do you know how to use a gun? Or a knife?"
"No... but I have them."
Ma Zhaodi started to reach for the gun at his waist—then abruptly remembered that might be a bad idea and slowly lowered his hand.
"Not bad. You're not stupid."
Donald gave a small nod. "How'd you get here today?"
"Took the bus."
Donald's face stayed expressionless, but his comments came fast.
"Got guts. Decent luck. But in Gotham, if you don't know how to use that gun, you won't last long."
Ma Zhaodi felt his resolve cracking as Donald continued to toss out one blunt compliment after another. He had come in ready to crash and burn—but now?
Jesus, he thought, no one who's doing well in Gotham acts like a normal person.