I should have known—there's no such thing as a good life in Gotham.
Martin drove through the neighborhood before pulling over and taking a deep breath.
Siwa's safety wasn't a concern. The towering man in black armor loomed over her, yet he was no match for her.
Physically unscathed, Martin was still frustrated, his thoughts scattered.
Where had the samurai beside Siwa come from? Who was the man in black armor? What organization did they belong to? Did it have ties to the Penguin's crew?
Questions flooded Martin's mind, his temples throbbing with irritation.
"Damn it."
He clenched his fists and slammed them against the steering wheel, forcing the chaos aside. He had only one priority—finding the Penguin.
That fat, conniving bastard had to know something. But without direct access to Gordon or Batman, tracking the Penguin in a city like Gotham was like chasing a ghost.
Martin devised a plan. If he couldn't find the Penguin, he'd make the Penguin come to him.
But first, he needed to confirm something.
He pressed the accelerator and sped toward a grimy bar in Gotham's slums.
Inside, his clean attire made him stand out among weary laborers. No one approached him. He didn't mind. He took a seat in the corner.
A heavily made-up waitress sauntered over. "Hey there, handsome. What can I get you?"
Martin slid a fifty-dollar bill across the table. "Sit down. I need some information—breakfast's on me."
Maybe it was the money. Maybe it was something else. Whatever the reason, she pocketed the bill, fetched a meal, and sat across from him.
"Listen, kid," she murmured, "I can't promise I'll have all the answers."
Martin bit into his sandwich. "Just got to Gotham. Need a job. Heard the gangs are hiring."
Official news sources were unreliable. If he wanted real information, he had to dig where the streets talked. And bars like this were the perfect breeding ground for rumors.
The waitress sighed. "Look, kid, do yourself a favor and get out while you can. Gotham is a hellhole. It swallows everyone who steps into it."
There was a weary bitterness in her tone, the kind that came from crushed dreams.
"Appreciate the concern," Martin said with a warm smile.
She shook her head. "The gangs are hiring. Young guys like you? They'll snap you up in a second."
Martin nodded. "What about the Penguin's crew? Heard they lost a shipment last night."
The waitress waved dismissively. "Doesn't matter. That boat was gone before sunrise. Everyone at the docks knows."
A customer called out, and the waitress sighed. "Word of advice, kid—leave Gotham."
Martin smiled but had no intention of following her advice.
If he wanted the Penguin's attention, the easiest way was to hit him where it hurt—his territory. No matter how powerful he was, he couldn't afford to lose ground.
Time was short. Martin needed to act fast.
Finishing his meal, he left money on the table and drove to the Iceberg Lounge—Penguin's real nest.
Even in the morning, the place glittered with neon lights, luxury cars coming and going. Martin's car looked out of place, an ugly duckling among swans.
But he didn't care.
He pulled up in front of the entrance, blocking high-end vehicles behind him.
"Hey! Where the hell do you think you're parking?" A suited security guard stomped over. "Move that junk heap or I'll move it for you."
The guy may have been dressed sharp, but he still carried himself like a street thug.
Before Martin could respond, the guard yanked out a gun and aimed it at the car window. "Open up."
Martin slowly rolled the window down.
Then, in an instant, he shoved the car door forward, trapping the guard's arm. With a swift kick, he slammed the door shut on the man's limb.
A sickening crack echoed. The guard howled, dropping his gun. Martin picked it up and shot the guy in the leg.
"Lucky for you, I came here to make a scene. Otherwise, you'd be dead."
The gunshot drew attention. A dozen more guards poured out, weapons drawn.
Martin raised his hands, smirking. "I'm here to join the Penguin's crew. Any kind soul willing to make an introduction?" He mimed a phone call.
A guard sneered. "You think you can just waltz in and see Mr. Cobblepot?"
"Get lost, punk."
More people emerged, both from the hotel and the streets. Gothamites loved a good show.
"Guess I'll have to prove myself," Martin muttered.
Then, with a sudden burst of speed, he kicked off the ground—and vanished.