91-95

Chapter 91: Batman's Spawning Patterns 

"I am not yours, little cat!" 

"Say that again, Ivy!" 

Catwoman chased Poison Ivy, batting at the tangled plant roots like an angry feline. At this point, Ivy had completely lost interest in figuring out what was happening with her parasitic plants; all she wanted now was to escape from the furious Catwoman. 

When Cody persuaded the third vine to leave— 

"Stop chasing me! Aren't you tired?" 

"You little witch! I'm not letting you off the hook tonight!" 

When Cody persuaded the sixth vine— 

"Catwoman, keep chasing and I'll fight back!" 

"Oh, I'd like to see you try!" 

When Cody pulled out the flowerpots to lure the other vines— 

"Selina, enough! Look what you've done to me!" 

"I'm gonna scratch your face raw today! Don't even think about showing it in public until it heals!" 

When Cody headed back home— 

Ivy, her plant-fiber clothes shredded, walked over to Catwoman. She gently scratched the other woman's cheek with a finger and giggled. 

Catwoman was completely immobilized, bound tightly by the soft roots of a giant green plant. Only her mouth could move. She heard Ivy, that promiscuous little brat, lean close to her ear. The scent of grass and wood on her breath tickled her cheek and smelled surprisingly good. 

"You can just hang there for three hours. After three hours, this plant will let you go automatically." 

Catwoman turned her head away, refusing to look at her, vowing internally to teach her a lesson next time. "I don't want to see you. Don't show up in my sight for three months!" 

Ivy didn't argue further. Instead, she lightly kissed the corner of her mouth and dissolved into a swirl of green leaves carried away by the wind. 

"Don't miss me too much, little cat." 

... 

Cody had been dreaming peacefully, but as he slept, something suddenly felt off. 

Strange. Why did it feel so cold in his dream, and a bit constricted? 

Was his blanket wrapped too tightly? 

He jolted awake, only to find himself no longer in his warm bed. Instead, he was bound tightly by soft plant branches and leaves, suspended beside the bed. A green female figure sat smiling at him from a chair woven from lush plants. 

"Holy cow, my succulents turned into spirits!" 

"No, your little guys are just fine." 

Ivy casually picked up the small potted plant Cody had placed nearby and dangled it in front of him. "See? She likes me very much." 

"Alright, alright. Since my succulents are okay, and you are..." 

"Someone looking for answers. Remember the ten children you coaxed away just now?" 

"Most people wouldn't describe vines as 'children'—" 

"But you're not most people." 

Ivy abruptly cut Cody off. "My children never disobey my commands, but this time, all ten of them went with you and offered no resistance at all. What did you do?" 

Cody's mouth twitched. He had already put all ten vines into the garden on his way back, and Batman would have cleaned up the scene pretty thoroughly. But he hadn't expected Poison Ivy's ability to locate plants to be this ridiculous. 

That's Dave's Garden, for crying out loud! She can sense them even in there? 

Aren't you afraid of copyright strikes, Green Totality, crossing dimensions like that? 

So, he shook his head while hanging upside down. "Your way of asking is a bit rude, don't you think? And I'm only wearing my underwear right now; my butt is a little cold. How about you put me down first? We can do one question for one answer. Fair enough?" 

Ivy hesitated. She figured she had the absolute upper hand right now and didn't seem to need to exchange information with him... 

"Come on, I treated those ten kids with courtesy. Based on just that, you should at least respect my opinion a little, right?" 

That was hard to argue with, so Ivy directed the lush branches to gently lower Cody back onto his bed. 

"Thanks. Uh, could you maybe put some clothes on?" Cody asked while pulling on a shirt under the covers. "I'm not really used to talking to someone just in their underwear. I mean, I'm not very familiar with things here in America, but at least back where I'm from, we don't have that custom." 

"Sorry, no," Ivy replied simply. "This is my most comfortable state. It's good for my photosynthesis." 

"But it's night time... Okay, okay, I guess that counts as you answering one of my questions," Cody said. "I'll answer one of yours. You want to know how I got your children to go with me? I personally persuaded the first six." 

"Impossible," Ivy instinctively retorted. "Humans can't communicate with plants..." 

As she spoke, her voice trailed off because she had realized the information Cody's words implied. 

"Impossible, huh? First off, my name is Cody. You can call me Mr. Cody – it makes me sound a bit old, but I can live with it." 

"Ivy, Poison Ivy. I mentioned that just now." 

"Alright, Ivy, how did you track me here? Logically, their current location should be very well hidden." 

"They are indeed very hidden. In fact, I can't sense their exact location right now, but the pollen trails my children left behind led me all the way here." 

"...Why didn't they say anything?" 

"Do you specifically remind your friends when you're breathing?" 

Cody sighed and completely relaxed. 

"Alright, next, the last four children – I persuaded them too, but I used a little trick with a bribe." 

Cody casually produced a flowerpot from behind him. Ivy didn't even see where he pulled it from, but in that instant, she definitely sensed that vine again. 

"You took it from... Wait, this soil, this fertilizer, these nutrients!" 

Ivy immediately reached out and took the flowerpot from Cody's hand. Cody didn't stop her, watching as she buried her face in the soil, her actions and expression carrying a sense of sacred solemnity, like performing an important ritual. 

"As you can see, the ten children really liked the living environment I provided. But they're your plants, so I don't mind returning them to their original owner." 

"Where did you find this soil? Where did the fertilizer come from? Where did you hide them?" 

"Ta-da! Time's up. Question time is over." Cody lightly tapped a nearby alarm clock. Five full minutes had passed since he was woken up. 

"I know you've been waiting for me to ask about the recent events, but I figure with your interrogation experience, you can find out without my help." 

Ivy looked confused, about to ask a question, when she heard someone's footsteps in the darkness. 

"You knew I was coming." 

"I guessed. Just happened to be right. Speaking of which, when did you get here?" 

"Been here the whole time." 

Chapter 92: The Roman Gets Ready 

Ivy's face instantly darkened. She whipped her head around, glaring at Cody. 

"Even if I'd let you go just now, you still wouldn't have left, so you can't blame me for this – but you can give me the pots. When I have some free time, you can come back and pick them up. I promise I'll take good care of them." 

Cody held out his hand. Batman remained silent beside them. Ivy looked back and forth, sighed deeply, and finally gave up on the idea of fighting here. She handed the vine back to Cody. 

"If it weren't for these children," she said, standing up and laying down a threat, "you'd be feeling the wrath of nature right about now." 

"I do have a decent amount of respect for nature," Cody replied. "For the sake of that, I hope nature doesn't get too mad at me – feel free to drop by again sometime!" 

You can't really hit a smiling face, and Cody's demeanor made it genuinely hard for Ivy to stay too angry. In the end, she just scoffed, following Batman out the door. 

"Remember to hit him hard for me! He's absolutely shameless, utterly despicable!" 

Bang! Cody slammed the door shut. 

Ugh, I can't take it anymore. Batman is a total manipulative jerk. 

Cody thought this to himself as he burrowed under the covers. Batman knew Poison Ivy could sense her plants being removed from people. He also knew she'd come looking for him because of it – he'd planned on using that as bait all along. 

Luckily, I was wearing underwear to bed tonight. If I were one of those guys who likes to sleep naked, I'd probably be wanting to die right now. 

Thinking that, he wrapped himself up like a caterpillar in the blanket before finally drifting off to sleep. 

Days later, in Arkham Asylum, Poison Ivy sat at a square table. Another person sat opposite her, their face hidden in the dim light. 

"Everyone was against this idea." 

A large hand with a gold watch suddenly reached into the light, pushing stacks of bundled green bills across the table. "We have certain... rules. We don't cooperate with people like you." 

"If it hadn't been for Batman's unexpected interference..." Poison Ivy sighed. "Imagine how much more we could have accomplished." 

"Miss Ivy, if there's one thing I've learned from business—" 

The face of The Roman, marked with three claw scars, suddenly appeared in the light. There was no hint of regret or disappointment on his features. 

"—It's that there's always something unexpected." 

Gotham Prison, a midnight battered by wind and rain. 

The iron prison gate creaked open with a metal key. Rusted hinges groaned, making a harsh, scraping sound. 

A large, imposing figure was surrounded by several guards holding shotguns as she slowly walked out of the cell block. Even with handcuffs, her mountain-like physique was enough to inspire dread. 

Yes, it was "she." This was a female inmate with a build comparable to a strong man. 

The warden unlocked her handcuffs, sneering dismissively. "You've been paroled early... Heh, you'll be back." 

The provocation received no reply. The mountain-like figure remained as silent as a mountain. 

BOOM! 

Amidst the crackling thunder, pale streaks of lightning occasionally flashed across the sky, briefly illuminating the dark prison against the night and the warning sign above the main gate that read "GOTHAM PRISON." 

The newly released large inmate stepped out the door and into the heavy rain, lashed about by the wild wind. 

Two blinding headlights cut through the downpour. A black luxury car stopped abruptly at the prison gate. The car door was slightly ajar. 

"Get in. He's waiting for you." 

The Roman's apartment was also enveloped in this night of raging rain and thunder. But the interior of the high-rise apartment was warm and bright. Falcone stood in his room, calmly observing the rainy night outside his window. 

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. 

"Come in." 

He turned his head slightly, asking over his shoulder, "Any news?" 

"They're on their way, Mr. Falcone." 

After the brief exchange, Falcone said nothing more. After some time, the door to the room was knocked on again. 

Falcone opened the door. Standing outside was the imposing figure, her coat and hat still heavily marked with damp streaks. 

"Everything go smoothly?" 

"Yes, sir." 

A smile spread across Falcone's face. He opened his arms wide, completely disregarding the expensive custom-made suit he was wearing, and tightly embraced the large figure. 

"You've been away too long, my daughter. The family needs you now. I need you, my Sofia." 

"I missed you, Dad." 

"Bang! Bang! Bang!" 

Rapid gunshots echoed in the basement, tearing the target to shreds. 

"Morte!" (Death!) 

The blonde, heavy-set woman, a cigarette dangling from her lips, held a drink in one hand and a gun in the other. She used a single hand to empty a magazine from a light .22 caliber pistol aimed at the target in the basement. Even after that, the gloom and rage in her heart refused to subside. 

Since the loss of her son, Carla Viti had been like this – filled with fury, resentment, and loneliness. 

Suddenly, a large hand rested on her shoulder. 

"I rang the doorbell. You didn't answer." 

Carla Viti turned to look. A woman with sharp, defined features appeared before her – fiery red curly hair, a high nose. If you ignored her excessively massive body, her face might have been considered in the style of a Greek beauty rather than a bodybuilder. 

"I hope I wasn't interrupting anything?" 

Carla didn't even lower the gun in her hand before taking two steps forward and embracing her niece, whom she hadn't seen in years and who had been in prison for a long time. 

"Aunt Carla?" 

Sophia was a little surprised but still bent down and hugged her aunt back. 

"Sophia, baby – your father didn't tell me you were coming home." 

"I swear, sometimes I just want to kill that Carmine." 

Carla released Sophia and showed her niece the gun in her hand, her eyes flashing with dark, bitter anger. "You see this gun? It's a .22. When your brother Alberto was killed on New Year's Eve, I forgot to turn it over to the police." 

"The one used to kill my son Johnny on Halloween... it was the same kind of gun as this one. I'm going to use this gun, Sophia. I'm going to use this gun to take care of that 'Holiday Killer' scumbag." 

Sophia wasn't surprised by her aunt's anger. Alberto had already told her everything that had happened recently, and she herself was no stranger to blood and death. 

She asked calmly, "Does Father know about this?" 

All she got was Carla's dismissive reply. 

"Heh, he knows now, doesn't he, Sophia?" 

Chapter 93: The Wait Was About Powering Up, Not a Failed Buff 

There was no doubt, Carla was mocking Sofia for spilling every single detail of the basement conversation to Falcone. If Sofia knew it, you could bet Falcone knew it. 

And that's exactly how it was. 

"Aunt Carla, I was sent here out of respect." 

Sofia watched her aunt, who had turned back to keep shooting at the target, and said, "We're hitting Maroni on the morning of St. Patrick's Day. Dad thinks Maroni is either the Holiday Killer himself or knows who the Holiday Killer is—will you stand against us?" 

Carla didn't answer directly. Instead, she kept shooting and replied coolly, "Carmine's got the banks under control now. Money's flowing again. Things are getting back on track." 

So, Sofia leaned down and, with respect, kissed the back of her hand. 

"Thank you..." 

... 

A few days later. 

St. Patrick's Day, 5:03 AM, Sal Maroni's hideout. 

Dense, scattered gunfire erupted outside the door. Bullets tore through the glass panes, punching through the bodies of the family members waiting in the lobby, specifically there to protect Maroni. 

Some still had enough fight left, but the killer outside was careful. After emptying a clip, even with no return fire from inside, they still used spray-and-pray through the door, showering the large and small chandeliers above the lobby with bullets. 

As the light fixtures crashed to the floor and shattered, the room was instantly plunged into the absolute darkness of the night outside the windows. At this point, the people inside had no chance to fight back. They could only be picked off, bullet by bullet, by the killer with the gun, or watch as they bled, weakened, and then faded completely into the darkness. 

The door creaked open slightly, the killer's footsteps were almost silent. He slipped quietly into that darkness, and soon, the groans from inside stopped. The pop-pop of the .22-caliber gun fell silent too. 

... 

St. Patrick's Day, 5:00 AM, Sal Maroni's hideout. 

The golden minute hand pointed to thirteen minutes past the hour. Sofia pulled back her hand, confirmed the time, and began issuing orders. 

"Stop the car." 

The black luxury sedan stopped by the door as ordered, but Sofia's face was grim, filled with startled uncertainty as she looked at the wide-open hideout entrance. The dark interior, the heavy smell of blood, the shattered glass, the bullet-riddled door – everything about it sent a bad premonition through her heart. 

"...Someone got here ahead of us. This... this changes things." 

She pulled out her pistol and flashlight, opened the car door, stepped through the pouring rain, and walked inside the hideout. 

Shattered ornate chandeliers, bodies and blood scattered from the lobby floor to the stairs and up to the second floor. Red and black mingled and splattered throughout the villa, brewing an aura of death and fear. 

But what drew the most attention was the .22-caliber pistol placed by the door, its grip wrapped, its serial number filed off. Beside it lay a damaged baby pacifier and a green Irish magic elf figurine holding a wand. 

The square base was stamped with the shamrock, symbolizing St. Patrick's Day (this small plant common in Ireland is also the Irish national flower), and the words "Erin go bragh" (Ireland Forever) were written on it. 

She walked back outside the door. The original attack plan was now meaningless. The Holiday Killer had gone on a rampage in Maroni's hideout. This act was more than enough to clear Maroni himself of suspicion—this wasn't some small-time car bombing like last time, where only four people died. This was a real attack that completely wiped out the core members of a hideout. 

A man might sacrifice a pound of flesh or two, maybe even an arm, for a feigned injury, but a mob boss with any pride would never sacrifice his face, his dignity, and his core family members for such a ploy—especially when it did the Maroni family no good whatsoever. 

Maroni was reckless, but he wasn't stupid. 

Sofia got back into the car. She looked up at the upper floors of the hideout building. Through the broken windows, a faint flicker of fire and smoke drifted out. The man leaning out into the darkness was Maroni, his eyes wide with terror, his face pale. 

"Th-the Holiday Killer..." 

The mob heavyweight, his voice trembling slightly, took a deep drag from his cigarette, using the rush of nicotine to his lungs to suppress the fear churning inside him. In just a few minutes, the entire hideout's elite bodyguards and core members were annihilated. This was the first time in the decades since he took over the Maroni family that he had felt the Grim Reaper closing in, step by chilling step. 

He couldn't resist, couldn't fight back. That person's marksmanship was terrifyingly accurate, their strategic thinking astonishingly sharp. They cut through the entire building. If he hadn't specifically built a hidden panic room in the hideout, he wouldn't have escaped death today. 

He watched the black luxury car and the others disappear into the rain. He knew perfectly well those were Falcone's people. Visiting at a time like this, they certainly weren't looking to chat about life and dreams. 

But he had no mind to spare for that. The terrifying Holiday Butcher had completely consumed his thoughts. Forget anger, the fact that he could even still think showed Maroni deserved his reputation as Gotham's second-largest gang leader. 

Just then, a figure wearing a yellow raincoat, riding a small motorcycle with a delivery box on the back, appeared on the street and stopped in front of the hideout door. 

He casually pulled out a bagged pizza delivery, turned, and then froze, staring at the entrance of a building that clearly had major problems. 

"Uh... is anyone still here to sign for this pizza?" 

Just as he said that, the system prompt popped up. 

[Gotham City Private Pizza Order] 

[Mission Briefing: Your supervisor has gotten to know you a bit, so they gave you paid time off. But hey, gotta make ends meet, right? Why not pick up another gig while you're at it?] 

[Note: A gang member in the restaurant kitchen once tasted your cooking and couldn't stop praising you. If not for certain incidents, you might have already been recommended to Maroni—but either way, he still wanted to taste your pizza again.] 

[Status: 21 completed (Mission Ended)] 

[Reward: Fifty dollars in asset points for each pizza sold; One level of Motorcycle Driving Proficiency for every ten pizzas. No upper limit.] 

Cody looked at the bullet holes covering the door, sniffing the scent of blood wafting from inside. His scalp prickled. With just a quick look, he could tell there were at least a dozen people's 'scents' in the building. Clearly, the gang member who usually signed for his pizzas was finished. 

He looked up at the window on the upper floor. Maroni's eyes were wide, staring intently at him. His expression clearly showed he recognized him. 

Maybe, he wouldn't be hiring him as his employee anymore. 

Chapter 94: Burial 

For Maroni, this St. Patrick's Day was definitely bloody. 

Not just bloody, but black too. 

In that moment, he suddenly recognized the delivery guy who'd been bringing food to this secret hideout lately. It was the same waiter who'd been working at his restaurant the day Bruce Wayne was there. 

The guy had been delivering pizza to the people in this hideout all week, so he wasn't the Holiday Killer. After all, this hideout was somewhere Maroni had only decided to move into the day before yesterday, flipping a coin to pick the spot. 

But this guy had only appeared in his life, in his memory, two times total. And in those two days, Maroni had suffered more psychological trauma than in the past few years combined. Now, just seeing the guy's face brought back memories of his shattered restaurant and the blood-soaked hideout – even if the guy hadn't been the one who did it. 

So, when he saw the guy lift the pizza box as if to offer it, his reaction was purely instinctual. 

"Boss, pizza?" 

"Get lost!" 

Bang! 

Cody watched the bullet tear through the pizza box, shrugging helplessly. Seeing that the rain had stopped, he casually grabbed a slice of pizza, stuck it in his mouth, and rode his bike home. 

"Man, just my luck. No gig, didn't get to sleep in, and breakfast is bullet-riddled pizza... Hmm, gotta admit, my cooking's pretty good." 

... 

Gotham TV was efficient. By that morning, everyone knew from the news that the Holiday Killer had struck again. 

Before today, everyone knew the two major gangs were on the verge of war. They'd all more or less braced themselves for it. But now, all that preparation felt wasted. 

Falcone and Maroni probably wouldn't go to war anymore. The city wouldn't be littered with bodies after a massive shootout, but now there was already a pile of corpses being moved into the cemetery. Even though they were gang members, after seeing this St. Patrick's Day dyed red with blood firsthand, no one had the heart to care about a holiday that was supposed to be lively. 

The victims' families were heartbroken, Gordon and Harvey were swamped, Maroni was trying to recover from his mental scars, and the Godfather had lost the Holiday Killer's trail again, sinking into a long silence. Everyone in the city seemed to be more or less shrouded by the shadow called the "Holiday Killer," unsure whether they should even look forward to the next holiday. 

Three days later, Cody did receive a hundred thousand dollars from his supervisor, along with a message – no need to work that hard with the overtime; if you need rest, just stay home and rest. 

Overtime? What the hell, he was just looking for a side hustle – but Cody obviously wouldn't say that, especially since the pay was seriously good. 

[Ding] 

[You have a new odd job available, please check it out] 

[Green St. Patrick's Day 

Mission Description: St. Patrick's Day, traditionally green, is now red – perhaps even the legendary Saint Patrick himself couldn't have foreseen a day like this. 

Note: Before Arbor Day, there's Qingming. The former looks to new life, the latter commemorates the departed. The Spring Equinox is approaching, perhaps it's a good time to plant trees. 

Status: Pending (0%) 

Reward: Green St. Patrick's Day] 

A meaningless mission, bringing a meaningless reward. But odd jobs usually paid well, so no matter what the reward actually meant, Cody planned to get his hands on it first. 

... 

At noon, Jason, who was explaining car mechanics to his younger friends, saw Cody rush over and asked him curiously, "Is there something special today? Why are you here so early, and why did you call and tell me to heat water early?" 

"It's almost lunchtime anyway," Cody shook his head. "I came over early to make you guys some porridge. I have some things to do this afternoon, so I won't be able to make it – actually, so class is canceled for now." 

"What are you doing?" 

"Planting trees for dead people." 

Cody skillfully poured the pre-processed grains into the pot. Jason watched him make the porridge and simply gathered around with the other kids. 

"Sounds meaningful." 

"Actually, it's just tiring. And, when someone's dead, they're dead. Funerals only comfort the living." 

"Can we plant too?" 

"Not today. If some hothead living guy pulls a gun and starts shooting, I can't protect you." 

Cody paused here suddenly. "However, if that group of people doesn't pull guns today, then tomorrow you can round up the other kids and come with me – this might have some meaning for you guys too." 

... 

Three days after St. Patrick's Day, Gotham City, a cemetery on the outskirts. 

Beneath the heavy, dark sky, messy, haphazard lines of rain connected heaven and earth, endless and vast. People in black suits holding black umbrellas stood in silent, long lines. No one spoke; they all faced the newly erected gravestones in silence. 

This was a lonely, cold cemetery. Besides the sound of the rain, there was only the silence of the gravestones and the people as silent as the gravestones. 

The burial process for the family members was complete. It's worth noting that both the Maroni and Falcone gangs are called "families." In other words, they value a sense of collective honor internally and encourage members to build relatively deep emotional connections. 

Called a "family," in reality, they were half "family members." 

After the moment of silence, everyone quietly walked out of the cemetery, but then suddenly stopped. 

A figure in a black cloak walked past the cemetery gate in the rain, and also past the line formed by black umbrellas. His steps were slow. He carried an iron shovel in one hand and a cypress tree sapling over his shoulder in the other. 

No one could see his face, they just noticed that he paid no attention to the Maroni family members by the roadside. He walked to the edge of the woods, set down the sapling, and began filling in a pre-dug hole with the tree. 

The atmosphere at this moment was unusually silent. Everyone watched him walk past in silence, then silently wield the shovel. And next to him, a row of small trees had already been planted. 

Who was he? Why was he at the cemetery? And why was he here planting trees? 

It wasn't until he finished planting that tree that one black umbrella in the crowd couldn't help but step forward two paces, wanting to question the figure. But at that moment, the figure straightened up, walked to the first tree, and gently patted it. 

"Richard Daniel," his voice sounded through the rain, like a sigh. "Died of a gunshot wound." 

"He used to say, 'Someday, I'm definitely going to marry her and have two kids, a boy and a girl.'" 

As soon as he finished speaking, a small green sprout emerged from the tiny cypress tree. An owl flew to the branch through the rain and hooted three times. 

The figure walked to the next tree. 

"Johnny Viti, died of a gunshot wound." 

"He used to say, 'I've thought more than once, if I had gone to court that day and reported my uncle Falcone, maybe I would have had a chance to be a good man.'" 

"Johnny, there's no 'if' in life." 

Three more hoots sounded. 

Chapter 95: For Whom the Bell Tolls 

"In Gotham, this is the only path for ordinary folks to become big shots. Sooner or later, we wouldn't be nobodies anymore, we'd make a name for ourselves—Mickey, Jimmy, Kevin, Willie, Donnie of the Irish Mob." 

"Died by gunshot." 

"My father loved me deeply, but he never let me touch his world. We were always a thousand miles apart—Alberto Falcone." 

"Died by gunshot." 

"My grandma was eighty, and together we couldn't afford the property tax. The house was taken, and she died. That's why I joined the Maroni family, I had to make a lot of money—Pavin Quick." 

Someone in the crowd finally couldn't hold back when they heard a familiar name. 

"You bastard, how do you know Quick—" 

However, a companion beside him reached out and stopped him. 

"Carlo, don't be impulsive." The companion shook his head slightly at him. "Don't interrupt him." 

"When I got into this line of work, I didn't think much, just wanted my wife and daughter to eat better. I didn't dare let them see me hungry—Tony Brown." 

"Died by gunshot." 

"My mom's forty now, she works two jobs, but she's still selling blood. I didn't want her doing that just to pay off her student loans—Mari Smith." 

"Died in a gang shootout." 

"I used to be a decent man, graduated from a good school, big future ahead. If I hadn't gotten sick and ended up in the hospital, and the insurance company hadn't screwed me over, I wouldn't have fallen into joining a gang in Gotham to pay off debts—Landon Duke." 

"Died in a gang shootout." 

"A lot of the time, I only ate once a day. Then one day, a friend told me if I joined the Maroni gang, I'd get fed. He didn't lie. I had the best pizza I ever tasted in my life, even got to eat three times a day—Beckham Wilson." 

"Died by gunshot." 

"I didn't really know what I was supposed to do, but I was born a Gothamite. Besides this, there didn't seem like much else to do—Camila Martin." 

"Died by gunshot." 

"I was born loving to kill with a gun, and I'm good at it. Maybe someday, I could just casually take care of the parents who abandoned me—Throal Thomas." 

"Died by gunshot." 

... 

He read them out, one by one, his voice low, yet it mingled with the cry of the owls and carried far in the rain. Each sentence was a person who had lived, each passage recounted a messy life, every single word a silent accusation against some people present, and some not. 

Among those buried in the cemetery, some were killed by the Maroni family, while others had killed members of the Maroni family. But in this moment, in death, they revealed similar life stories, similar tragic circumstances. 

Gang members, hardened by living life on the edge and decisive in killing, had never so clearly and directly realized how fundamentally similar every person who died was. And these people, so alike, had died killing each other. 

Enemies or friends, everyone buried here beneath the earth mirrored their own likely future. 

And the greater tragedy was that the Gotham civilians harmed by these dead gang members were so much like who they themselves used to be. 

No one spoke anymore. In the grey and white curtain of rain, they mourned, from the bottom of their hearts, for everyone, living and dead, friend or foe. 

... 

News of the event spread throughout Gotham the next day, even reaching the Roman's ears. The Godfather of Gotham's underworld heard about it and showed neither anger nor sadness, only softly reciting the epitaphs the tree planter had given everyone. 

The next day, the Godfather's figure appeared in the rain beside the cemetery. 

Maroni stood in the rain under a black umbrella, looking at the Godfather beside him. The two stood in silent confrontation, neither arguing nor speaking, only turning their heads to watch the figure in the black cloak appear again at the edge of the woods. 

This time, he brought some children in black raincoats, but besides that, it was almost no different from the last time. 

As he had said, digging holes, planting trees, filling earth—it was tedious, exhausting work. But the two gangs stood silently to the side, from beginning to end, watching them plant the trees, listening to Cody's eulogy, seeing him scatter fertilizer with their own eyes, watching the cypresses sprout, and hearing the owls cry. 

Day after day passed, tree after tree was planted. The tree planter mourned more and more people, from gang members to civilians. More and more people participated in the silent tribute, from high officials and the wealthy to ordinary citizens. 

How long had it been since the people of Gotham had grieved so freely? Or perhaps, how long had it been since the people of Gotham had so personally felt the sorrow of others? No one knew the answer. 

Gotham's citizens still streamed in continuously, silently watching a small tree representing a deceased friend or family member, watching it slowly sprout branches and leaves. 

Only at this time were everyone so close. Only at this time did Gotham's civilians dare to stand before the Roman and Maroni, expressing their dissatisfaction with the current state of Gotham in silence. 

Perhaps, it wasn't just dissatisfaction with Gotham City. 

... 

"Lawson, quick, keep up! This is huge news!" 

"Albert, I still don't feel right about this..." 

"What kind of stupid talk is that? We're the first reporters brave enough to get close to the tree planter! We'll get the first-hand interview! This is a reward for the brave! Think about how big this exclusive interview will be!" 

"But... but Falcone..." 

"It's been days! Have you seen any gang members rough anyone up here? I guarantee you, it's completely safe!" 

"But this ceremony is very solemn, I don't really want to..." 

"Don't give me any more excuses! You do what I say! Understand?" 

Under Albert's stern insistence, Lawson, carrying the camera, quickly fell silent. 

It wasn't raining today. The two squeezed past the silent crowd, trying hard to get to the front. 

"Excuse me, friend, just need to get through, thanks." 

Albert, pushing and shoving his way forward, brushed past someone in front of him. The person turned around, revealing sharp blue eyes under blond hair. 

"Is there something you need?" 

"Oh, Commissioner Gordon, no, nothing, just trying to snap a couple of photos." 

"You'd do best not to do that," Gordon turned his head, seemingly unwilling to say more here, just gripping Barbara's hand tighter. 

Harvey, wearing a trench coat and arm-in-arm with Gilda, also turned back, giving him a warning look. 

But Albert paid them no mind. What he was doing wasn't illegal, and as an annoying news reporter, he was used to cold stares from the people involved and being called "cold-blooded and heartless." 

But compared to getting a first-hand scoop, what did those opinions matter? News only cared about ratings, and bosses only cared about profit. Honest journalists with a conscience had already starved to death on the path to finding truth. 

The ones who truly survived were exactly people like him.