Sitting in Gordon's car, Martin realized that not every part of Gotham was plagued by crime and murder.
As the police car entered the city center, the streets, once littered with garbage, suddenly became clean and well-maintained. The rundown huts selling second-hand drugs and guns gave way to towering skyscrapers filled with luxury boutiques. The people walking the streets transformed from impoverished addicts and beggars into white-collar professionals dressed in tailored suits and polished shoes.
"It's like two different worlds."
Leaning against the car window, Martin observed the stark contrast between poverty and wealth. Gotham's division was so extreme that the difference between heaven and hell could be measured in a single street.
"Jim, how do you put up with this?"
He turned his head, his black-and-white eyes peering through his glasses at Gotham City's police chief.
Gordon sighed, his lips pressing together beneath his graying beard. "Do you think being the police chief means I have the freedom to just say nice things all day?"
Martin shook his head. "On the contrary. If you were free, Gotham would have turned into a battlefield long ago."
"Patience is my only choice."
Gordon's response was vague. He glanced at Martin and asked, "If you were in my position, what would you do?"
"I'd act without hesitation."
Martin's answer was firm and decisive. Though he was young, the identities he had assumed and the experiences he had endured were beyond what most people could fathom. Without a strong sense of purpose, he would have lost himself, becoming just another fragmented soul—another schizophrenic casualty of Gotham.
"You're still young," Gordon said with a weary smile. "I'm old. I don't have your fire anymore. As long as Gotham doesn't get worse, that's enough for me."
At fifty, Gordon had endured more than most. His only daughter had been crippled by the Joker, yet he remained in his position instead of retiring. That alone spoke of his resilience.
Martin didn't offer praise or criticism—just a silent nod.
Soon, the car pulled up to a museum's entrance.
"This is where the Riddler challenged Batman," Gordon said, pulling a paper bag from his briefcase and handing it to Martin. "Inside, you'll find an ID and some gadgets from Wayne Enterprises. They'll help you avoid unnecessary trouble."
Martin stepped out and took the bag. "If you're not coming with me, who do I go to if I need backup?"
"Call me." Gordon rolled down the window, gesturing towards his radio. "I have a backlog of criminals to deal with—I can't run around Gotham with you."
"Fair enough," Martin shrugged, bidding Gordon farewell before heading toward the museum.
From the outside, the building looked like a collection of massive white stones stacked together in an ancient Greek style.
Martin frowned at the structure, muttering, "Did the architect have a screw loose? Gotham barely sees the sun. What's the point of a white building here? It's like throwing a cotton ball into a pile of coal."
"Stop right there! The museum is closed—no visitors allowed!"
A security guard, noticing Martin's approach, immediately raised his automatic rifle.
Unfazed by the weapon pointed at him, Martin reached for the pass Gordon had given him—only to be interrupted by a voice calling his name.
"Wait, are you Martin? The great detective from TV?"
Martin froze, pointing at himself in surprise. "You know me?"
"Of course! You're a legend—some say you're even on Batman's level!"
The guards lowered their rifles and excitedly gathered around, asking for autographs like giddy fans.
Though the media's opinions on vigilantes like Batman were mixed, Gotham's working-class citizens admired them. After all, no one else cared about their lives.
Looking at the once-intimidating guards, Martin sighed and pulled out a pen and paper as if by magic. It seemed he had underestimated the influence of his persona.
Rather than refusing, he signed their requests.
"What if you get in trouble for leaving your post?" he asked.
"If we get caught, so be it," one guard shrugged. "This place gets hit by criminals like Catwoman all the time. In the end, Batman always finds a way to recover the stolen stuff."
The others nodded in agreement.
"We're just nobodies in the grand scheme of things. Gotham is a mess, but at least we're still here. That's something."
"Now, that's Gotham logic."
Shaking his head, Martin handed back their signed papers. "Take me to the Riddler's crime scene."
With their autographs secured, the guards eagerly led him inside.
The museum's interior was eerily silent. Each step echoed, the sound bouncing off the stone walls and layering over itself like an amplified noise machine.
Martin grimaced, covering his ears.
He scanned his surroundings, noting that a Renaissance-themed exhibition was currently being displayed.
As a former archaeologist, adventurer, and appraiser of cultural relics, he could immediately recognize the Renaissance's essence in the oil paintings and statues—many of which made a point of showcasing exposed body parts.
The outer exhibits featured lesser-known artists with no real commercial value, only archaeological significance. However, as Martin moved deeper inside, he spotted works by Leonardo da Vinci, Michelangelo, and Dante.
Unfortunately, the exhibition platforms now held nothing but air—aside from the Riddler's signature green-painted riddles.
Circling the empty display cases, Martin clicked his tongue. "Damn, Wayne Enterprises is loaded. The combined value of these stolen pieces, even at a low estimate, would be in the hundreds of millions."
"Hundreds of millions?"
The guards' eyes widened, practically glowing like dollar signs.
That kind of money was beyond their wildest dreams. If they…
"Don't even think about it," Martin cut in, inspecting the exhibit's security system. "Cultural relics aren't like street drugs—you can't just sell them. Every valuable artifact is tracked in the black market. To cash in, you'd need ultra-wealthy buyers willing to take risks. None of you could even step foot in those circles, let alone make a deal."
His words doused their greed like a bucket of ice water.
To survive in Gotham, ordinary people had to learn their limits.
As Martin worked to disable the alarm system, a sharp, irritated voice echoed from outside.
"Damn Gotham lowlifes! Who permitted you to be here? If you're slacking off, you can get out! Gotham is full of desperate people willing to take your job, you useless—"
Martin frowned and stood up, recognizing the suited man striding toward them.
Andy Rosen.
The museum's curator.
His face was plastered all over the entrance in promotional posters as if he were a celebrity. It was impossible not to know who he was.