*Chapter 22: Is Helping People in Gotham a Mistake?*

It wasn't just that guy who was surprised.

Residents of the East End slums rarely got a truly good night's sleep. Generally, they'd hear gunshots every night, and if there was a gang war or something, it might pop and crackle for half the night.

People often gripped their guns when they heard gunshots, cautiously checking their doorways and windows, and wouldn't dare go out after dark because of it. But everyone also knew that as long as you minded your own business and stayed home, it was always safer.

So they'd basically made peace with the sound of gunshots at night in the East End. Some older residents were even used to falling asleep to it. Although everyone knew that the injured could be gangsters, drug dealers, or prostitutes, or maybe even their own neighbors or just random people passing by.

But no matter who the victim was, nobody wanted to interfere. That's because people surviving in the East End had to worry about their own lives, and their lives rarely had any room for error.

Besides, there was always Batman or Catwoman. There was a chance some guy in spandex might come to save them. There was no need for a regular person to step up, right?

Until today, when a strange middle-aged woman's yell echoed through the Gotham night.

"You son of bitch! Where are you?!"

"Bang!"

Everyone looked in the direction of the sound, startled. Even in Gotham's East End, people found this kind of behavior hard to understand. Because over the years, facts had proven one thing to everyone: ordinary people who tried to play hero in Gotham never ended well.

Only those guys in tights, operating outside the law, were the exception. Just like those dangerous supervillains, they treated this city like their own turf.

They were incredibly powerful, they never showed their faces, they did whatever they wanted, and they never had to hustle for a living like normal people. A significant part of Gothamites' dislike for them stemmed from the unknown, fear, and jealousy.

But the truth was, these heroes usually didn't have families, or if they did, they didn't last long. Most people in Gotham didn't know that.

Regardless, the image of this group definitely did not include a foul-mouthed, neurotic, short-tempered, middle-aged Black lady.

And she was holding a shotgun.

The man, whose blood had just boiled, awkwardly pulled his pants back up, furious. He grabbed his handgun, wanting to teach that busybody fat lady a lesson for ruining his fun.

"Boom!"

The roar of a shotgun blast sounded like thunder, suddenly scaring the hot blood right back down. He then remembered that all he had was a little handgun.

Should he teach that crazy woman a lesson? Risking his life with a handgun against a shotgun just for pride?

"Boom!"

Buckshot sprayed stone fragments off the wall in the dark alley. One of the fragments hit him in the face, making him even more clear-headed.

"You damn bitch! Don't let me ever see you again!"

After throwing out a few threats, the man panicked, fired wildly into the darkness, and then fled in a torrent of curses.

Cody hid around the corner, watching bullet after bullet hit the wall beside him, feeling lucky he was such a chicken.

He didn't show himself either. He just turned around and went straight back upstairs. As for that woman, he couldn't really help her anyway, so she should just go home early.

Helping someone once only cost him ten asset points for a disposable voice changer. You couldn't really say it was a loss, but saying it was a profit would be a total fairy tale.

Sigh, I was still scared of leaving a trace or an impression, otherwise I could have at least shown my face and asked the woman for a little compensation.

He carefully calculated. He wouldn't bother recovering the bullet casings from the wall. Anyway, nobody died this time, so the Gotham P.D. wouldn't be called, and he wouldn't have to worry about ballistics identifying his gun.

Wait, he got this gun from Clinton. If it's traced, it'll be traced back to him.

The only uncertainty in this rescue plan was whether his single shot would hit the wall. Cody aimed at the wall anyway. If it happened to hit the person, well, there was nothing he could do about it.

...

Meanwhile, the man had already run outside the block.

"Goddamn crazy bitch!" He cursed under his breath as he ran. "I'm gonna find out who that motherf***er is. That bitch is gonna die!"

At this moment, a slender black shadow leaped nimbly like a cat between the buildings, following behind him.

Among the many impressions people had of Gothamites, one thing was true: superheroes did indeed carve out territories just like criminals. They would take down criminals they saw in their areas, but they wouldn't kill them. In other words, they would use every means of violence except killing to achieve their goal of stopping crime.

And the East End was precisely Catwoman's usual stomping ground.

...

"Where did you go?"

Cody tiptoed back into the room. Drake had indeed been woken up by now and was watching the situation from the window with a gun. Seeing him push the door open and come back, Drake looked a little surprised.

He locked the door behind him, then sat back down on the sofa and replied, "Watching the show. There was a shootout downstairs."

"Didn't you get enough of that with Old Jack?"

"Wasn't that your fault that time?"

Mrs. Camila interrupted their argument. "Gentlemen, it is three fifteen in the morning. If there weren't two psychos having a gunfight nearby, we'd have been fast asleep hours ago. Now that the psychos are gone, please go back to bed."

Cody shrugged and flopped onto the sofa. Drake looked at his wife's murderous gaze, gave up the desire to argue, and obediently went back into the room.

"Di, always remember, at night in Gotham, try to avoid getting involved."

Mrs. Camila carefully instructed Cody. After confirming he had heard clearly, she turned and went back into the bedroom.

Cody agreed with her. Until he bought the Handgun Proficiency skill, even daily life wasn't safe enough, let alone having the ability to save people.

There was only one priority right now, and that was to acquire enough Gotham survival skills. So, after finishing his show, he went back into vehicle driving training.

The moon rose and set, the stars shifted.

The next day, 8 AM.

Cody woke up from his simulated driving training, saw the bright daylight, stretched, and walked into the kitchen humming a little tune to make breakfast. Outside his window was the same alley where just last night, a woman had been crying and sobbing, and a man had been cursing and shooting.

The morning cooking smoke drifted out the window, intertwining with that from other homes. The smell of everyday life made the morning sun appear somewhat hazy and beautiful. It was as if the instant daylight appeared, it washed away all sin and filth, turning last night's events into a dream.

But in reality, someone's mood was indeed sparkling this morning.

"Bad morning, Gotham."