BANG!
"YOU SON OF A BITCH! NOW YOU KNOW HOW TO TALK IN GOTHAM!"
BANG! BANG!
"You old bastard! You're not the only one with a gun in this city!"
Ren watched in horrified disbelief as the two bus drivers—yes, drivers—started casually firing handguns at each other across the street like this was some kind of damn duel.
Meanwhile, the passengers?
Leapt out of windows like it was routine.
They hit the ground rolling, found cover like pros, returned fire if they were involved, or just calmly sat and waited for the shooting to die down if they weren't.
It wasn't so much chaos as it was… choreographed madness.
Efficient. Familiar. Almost elegant.
Ren, crouched behind a cement barrier, was so stunned by the Gotham-brand "normalcy" of it all that he nearly shed tears. "Drake, you bastard. If you wanted me dead, you could've just said it. No need for this whole... dramatization."
Drake shrugged, unbothered by the whizzing bullets. "This is the safest and fastest bus you'll find through the East End."
"Says who?!"
"I've taken the others. You either get stuck in a traffic jam and carjacked at gunpoint, or someone rifles through your pockets—or worse. Every week, someone gets raped or just flat-out vanishes from the bus."
Ren opened his mouth to shout again—only for a stray bullet to slam into the concrete next to his head, spraying dust across his face.
"HOW IS THIS BETTER?!"
"Relax." Drake gave him a smug little smile. "This bus is... special. Most people on here? They're not just commuting. They've got beef."
"…What?"
"Gotham-style grudges," Drake said, almost fondly. "Maybe someone stole a client. Maybe someone sold a bad batch. Maybe someone just bumped a shoulder in the wrong alley. Doesn't matter. None of it's really about that. It's just the last straw."
He went on, calm as ever.
"When you've got nothing left—no home, no money, no future—but a heart full of rage? You come here. This bus is the battlefield. Cheap guns. No rules. Just blood and closure. One dies, one survives. The loser gets dumped in the river. The winner goes home to finish their miserable day in peace."
"Unless someone decides they hate your face, you're safe. Especially if you stay quiet and keep your head down."
Ren's mouth opened. Closed. Then opened again.
"…Are you insane?!"
Drake gestured toward their spot. "This is the best spot. Good line of sight. Hidden. Close to the exit. When things cool down, we can slip back toward the bus and get moving again. I've been riding this route for half a year."
"You're kidding."
"The worst I've ever suffered was a sprained ankle."
Ren stared at him, dumbfounded.
He'd always thought of Drake as this grounded, world-weary Gothamite—someone who had figured out how to survive in this godforsaken city. But now? He realized something crucial.
Drake wasn't just a survivor.
He was Gotham's version of a damn local veteran.
Battle-tested. Emotionally broken. Highly adaptable.
BANG!
A bullet hit the ground two inches from Ren's foot.
He flinched. "What the hell?!"
A voice shouted from across the road.
"Hey, you little shits! You think I didn't notice you two? You been riding this bus for months, watching our fights like it's a goddamn movie?! Come out and fight, you freeloading bastards! I'll put a hole in your skull, you GDX mother—"
Ren turned to Drake with slow, withering dread. "...You sure this is the safest ride?"
"I didn't know someone would survive six months of shootouts and still have a grudge! I've kept a low profile!"
BANG! BANG!
Two more bullets whizzed past.
Ren's heart leapt to his throat. "Do something, dammit! You're the local! You have Gotham citizenship!"
"I don't even know my parents!"
Under pressure, Drake switched gears.
His panic vanished in a heartbeat. He became eerily calm—measuring angles, assessing risks, plotting movement like an assassin from a video game.
Ren watched him, stunned, as he mentally traced a route: roll out, use the engine block for cover, time a sprint, dive behind a trash bin, vault through a bookstore window…
It was John Wick meets Hitman 47—minus the part where it actually happened.
"I'll get us out," Drake whispered. "Just follow my lead."
He smiled. Reassuring. Calculating.
Then slowly took off a shoe, flicked it into the open.
BANG BANG!
Two new bullet holes appeared where the shoe had been.
Drake calmly slipped it back on.
One second passed.
"COME ON OUT, YOU COWARDS!"
BANG!
Two seconds.
"YOU THINK I WON'T KILL YOU? YOU DON'T KNOW WHO YOU'RE MESSING WITH!"
BANG! BANG!
Three seconds.
Ren glanced at Drake, deadpan. "So… what's the plan? Anytime now?"
Drake hesitated, then offered a sheepish smile. "...I think it's safer to stay put. His aim's better than I thought. If we make a move, we'll be Swiss cheese."
Ren felt his soul leave his body.
He turned his blank gaze to the sky.
I trusted you. I really thought you had it together. But you're just a danger magnet with good posture and a fast mouth.
"And you didn't think someone who survived this route for half a year might actually be good with a gun?!"
"Less talking, more thinking!" Drake hissed. "You're the one who said I'm the local. You help!"
"I'm from out of town! I don't even have paperwork!"
As they argued in a hushed panic, something shifted in Ren's peripheral vision.
He glanced up.
On the rooftop across the street—a figure.
Slender. Dark. Watching.
The silhouette was unmistakably feminine, clad in sleek black leather. Her stance was relaxed, almost amused.
Her lips curled into a sly smile—sharp and feline.
Like a cat playing with mice.