The heavy, gold-trimmed doors of the Iceberg Lounge swung shut behind them, sealing off the glitzy, decadent world of flashing lights and indulgence within.
At the entrance, a sharply dressed security guard with a stern expression sized up the three young people, their casual clothes clashing with the club's upscale vibe.
He could've sworn he'd seen them somewhere before—especially the tall, dark-haired kid. But his professionalism kicked in, and he pushed the thought aside, giving a slight bow and saying in a practiced tone, "Come back soon."
Whoosh—
The chilly night air of Gotham's Coastal Boulevard hit them like a slap, a stark contrast to the cloying, warm perfume inside the club.
"Man, why's it colder out here than a Smallville winter?" Chloe muttered, pulling her thin jacket tighter and shivering. Goosebumps prickled her exposed arms.
Not far off, the rusty old Ford truck sat alone by the curb, looking like some abandoned metal beast.
"Let's get outta here," Pete grumbled, fumbling for his keys. "Also, can we file for emotional distress compensation for this trip or—"
His words cut off as his face twisted, and he clamped his legs together. "Hold up! That orange juice from earlier… something's wrong! Emergency! Code red!"
His expression was pure agony, clearly fighting a losing battle.
"Always something with you," Chloe said, rolling her eyes. Under the dim streetlight, she unfolded a crumpled Gotham tourist map and tapped a spot near Coastal Boulevard. "There's a public restroom around the corner, according to this…"
"Good luck, Mr. Pete," she added with a smirk. "Hope you don't get hit with a protection fee in Gotham's finest public john."
Pete swallowed hard. "Clark…"
Party invite from Random NPC A.
"Pete," Clark said with a helpless smile, "Chloe shouldn't be out here alone."
Party invite declined by Main Character C.
"Tch…" Pete huffed, waddling off down the dark, empty boulevard, legs still squeezed together.
Clark and Chloe trailed a few steps behind.
Gotham's nighttime streets were, frankly, terrifying.
Once they left the dazzling Iceberg Lounge behind, the real Gotham revealed itself. Flickering streetlights buzzed like dying fireflies, casting their shadows in warped, shifting shapes across the cold concrete. The only sounds were the dull crash of waves against the shore and the distant hum of city noise.
Just as a blue-and-white restroom sign came into view, Chloe, walking ahead, froze and gasped.
Under a peeling park bench, curled up in the shadows, was a small figure—almost blending into the darkness. A boy, maybe eight or nine, dressed in a tattered, oversized gray hoodie. His dirty face was barely visible, and an empty tin can sat in front of him.
Under the dim streetlight, his frail body trembled in the cold, looking utterly pitiful.
"Oh my God…" Chloe's heartstrings tugged hard. She instinctively reached for her small wallet. "This kid's all alone out here…"
"Clark?"
Her hands froze as Clark gently pressed them down. Confused, she looked up, only to see him shake his head slightly, his eyes flicking toward the shadows ahead.
In the heavy darkness cast by a building, several vague figures stood or crouched, cigarette tips glowing faintly. Their unapologetic stares zeroed in on them—or more precisely, on the thick wallet Chloe had almost pulled out.
It hit her like a brick.
This late, in a sketchy place like this, a kid begging alone? No way.
"No…" Her voice trembled as a chill ran up her spine. "Are they trying to…?"
"Sister," the boy suddenly spoke, his voice quivering with a sob. "Can you spare a dollar for some bread?"
His eyes were huge, like black holes in his gaunt face.
Clark's arm muscles tensed.
He could sense it clearly: as the boy spoke, the figures in the shadows began to move—slowly, silently forming a loose circle that cut off their escape routes.
No words needed.
This was a trap, plain and simple.
"Where's Pete?" Chloe muttered nervously, glancing toward the silent restroom. She shrank closer to Clark, trying to shield herself from the boy's unsettling gaze behind his broad frame.
But the trap was closing.
The boy shot a quick glance toward the shadows.
Moments later, a man in a leather jacket stubbed out his cigarette and sauntered over, cracking his knuckles. Three others followed, fanning out in a semicircle, completely blocking their way out.
"Well, well," the man said with a grin, flashing white teeth. "You scared my kid here. How about some compensation for his emotional distress, and we call it even?"
Clark opened his mouth to reason, but Chloe stepped in front of him, taking a deep breath to steady her voice. "How much?"
The man spread his hands dramatically. "This much." He held up one finger, like he was being generous.
"A thousand bucks?" Chloe asked, secretly relieved. It hurt, but maybe she could buy their way out.
"Ten thousand," he corrected with a chuckle, his buddies snickering behind him.
"Ten what?!" Clark and Chloe blurted in unison, floored by the astronomical figure.
Was this how Gotham folks rolled?!
The man seemed to enjoy their shock, his grin widening. "You seem reasonable. Ten grand—cash or card, we're flexible."
"Boss, we wouldn't mind something else," a red-haired thug cut in, leering.
"Easy, we're Gotham gentlemen," the leader said, waving him off. "Gotta leave a good impression on out-of-towners. Wouldn't want them running to the cops, right?"
He'd already noticed Chloe furtively dialing her phone.
"No use, sweetheart," he sneered. "Gotham's police stations get hundreds of calls a night. Right now, the operator's probably cozying up with a coffee, not your SOS."
"Is that something to brag about?" Clark muttered, exasperated.
"Point is, you're out of options," the man said with a shrug. "Nobody's dumb enough to walk Gotham's streets at night without a private car—especially coming from a place like the Iceberg. Tourists like you? Prime targets. Rare as they come."
"Last time I heard of rich folks with this kind of romantic streak, it was Thomas and Martha Wayne," he added, chuckling as if recalling a great joke. His crew joined in with crude laughter.
"They took a stroll down an alley, too. Went in with six legs, came out with two."
"Hahaha! History lesson, folks!"
Clark's grip tightened on his phone.
The man's words were brutal but true.
Chloe's eyes stung as she glanced at her phone screen, her last shred of hope fading.
But wait!
They weren't far from the club!
A spark of hope flickered in her eyes. She turned, ready to yell for the club's security…
"Don't count on those bouncers either," the man said, reading her mind and snuffing out her plan. "The club's got a 'rule': no trouble within a 300-meter radius of their 'sanctuary.'"
"And after my very precise measurements—" he declared with absurd pride, "this restroom? Exactly 304 meters out. Just outside their 'rule.' Oh, and that fancy tourist map you're holding? I paid good money years ago to get that restroom marked on it."
Chloe's breath caught.
Was this Gotham? Even street thugs were this calculated?
"Clark," she whispered, her voice laced with desperate resolve. "Listen, they've got numbers. On three, we split and run in different directions. One of us has to make it!"
"You…" Clark sighed softly.
He knew his childhood friend too well.
This "split up" plan was just her way of playing bait, drawing their attention so he could escape. A sturdy guy versus a skinny girl? Any idiot would know who to chase.
"Chloe, trust me. Close your eyes."
His voice was oddly calm.
"Close them? Now?!" Chloe froze, thinking she'd misheard from sheer panic.
What kind of strategy was this?
"Now," Clark said, his tone firm and unshakable.
Before she could protest, his hands gently covered her eyes, his warm palms blocking out all light. "Trust me. When you open them, it'll all be over."
"Clark!"
Her shout was muffled in the darkness. She could feel the warmth of his hands and… a faint, almost imperceptible vibration?
The threatening noises around them vanished.
All that remained was the howling sea breeze and… brief, rapid thuds, followed by stifled groans, so quick they felt like a hallucination.
It was over in a second—or maybe a century.
"Open your eyes, Chloe. It's me."
The darkness lifted.
Chloe blinked rapidly, adjusting to the sudden light, and then… she froze.
The thugs were gone. Even the little beggar had vanished.
Only the night wind swept a few stray newspapers across the empty street.
"Where… where'd they go?" Her voice shook.
"Uh…" Clark rubbed his eyes, which looked a bit strained. "They said they remembered some urgent business at home. Like, super urgent. So they left."
"…?"
Chloe glanced at the restroom, where odd noises were coming from, then at Clark's guilty grin and his terrible poker face. Her heart skipped a beat.
She wasn't stupid. The truth they'd always tacitly ignored was now staring her in the face.
Her mouth opened, her throat tight. Tonight, she'd have to confront the fact she'd been avoiding.
Her best friend was…
"Clark, I know you—"
Vroom!
The familiar, rusty roar of the old Ford's engine cut her off. A blinding headlight sliced through the night like a sword, interrupting her words.
"Clark! Chloe!" Pete, somehow already out of the restroom, had heroically driven the truck over. He leaned out the window, his face a mix of terror and reckless bravery. "Don't worry! I'm here to save you! I'll mow these punks down!"
He floored the gas, the truck roaring as it charged toward… nothing but air and a few scattered leaves.
SCREECH—
The truck skidded to a stop.
Pete stuck his head out, looking around. "…?!"
Clark and Chloe exchanged a glance, silent for a moment before bursting into laughter.
The absurdity after all that tension was just too much.
But their laughter was cut short by another low, menacing engine roar tearing through the night from the other end of the street.
A sleek black Harley drifted to a stop in front of them with a flashy, arrogant slide.
Snap!
The rider yanked off their helmet, revealing a cascade of golden hair that shone even in the dim light—and a pair of deep, crimson eyes that seemed to glow.
Dio had lost all interest in work the moment he saw these three troublemakers sneak out of the club. After collecting his $13,000 for the night from Roman Wick, he'd raced after them.
And just moments ago, from the shadows, he'd seen Clark handle those thugs like they were trash, moving so fast it was a blur, stuffing them—and the kid—into the restroom.
This guy…
He wasn't holding back.
Dio glanced at the restroom, where muffled thuds and whimpers echoed, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.
But then, "Clark," he said, his icy gaze sweeping the scene. "You came to Gotham in the middle of the night to play vigilante? Cleaning up street trash like some volunteer cop?"
"Dio, that's not fair," Chloe jumped in. "Clark was just worried about you working at—"
"Shut it, Miss Sullivan," Dio snapped, his eyes pinning her like nails, his voice merciless. "As stupid as ever."
"I don't need to guess to know you dragged my idiot brother into this mess just to satisfy your pathetic curiosity."
"Penguin lady in the revolving door," he said, stepping closer with a sneer. "What, you think Gotham's nights are perfect for a casual stroll?"
Chloe opened her mouth to argue but stopped. Every word Dio said hit home. Tonight's fiasco was her idea, driven by her nosiness.
Guilt flooded her. She looked down, unable to meet Dio's or Clark's eyes, her voice barely a whisper. "I'm… I'm sorry, Clark…"
Seeing her like this, Dio lost interest in chewing her out further. He snorted, his gaze flicking to Clark as he tossed out a curt, "Keep yourself in check."
"And don't let the family hear about this, unless you want Aunt Martha losing sleep over it."
Without waiting for a reply, he slammed his helmet back on. The Harley's engine roared, shattering the street's silence as he sped off into the night.
Clark and Chloe let out a collective sigh, the weight on their chests finally lifting.
"Home?" Pete asked cautiously, poking his head out of the truck, having miraculously avoided Dio's wrath.
"Home," Clark said with a gentle smile, opening the door for a shaken Chloe.
The old Ford rumbled to life, pulling away from the chaos.
Inside, silence hung heavy. Chloe stared out the window at the passing night, her gaze lingering on Clark's calm profile. She opened her mouth but said nothing, burying the near-certain, shocking truth deeper in her heart.
Left behind was the public restroom on Coastal Boulevard, its door mysteriously welded shut. Faint, eerie thuds and desperate whimpers echoed from within, chilling passersby who fled in terror.
And so, a new Gotham urban legend was born: the Coastal Boulevard restroom that swallowed evildoers.
When the wicked approached, the door's handle would melt into molten iron, sealing them inside until they repented every sin of their life—or faced eternal toilet-bound imprisonment.