See No Evil: Pressure (ch.7) (Patreon)

Action movies were total bullshit. John Wick gets shot in the stomach, runs across a city, and kicks ass the entire way? Nah. Not buying it anymore. Each stumbling step sent white-hot agony through me, bay water dripping from my thoroughly ruined suit, as blood continued to flow between my fingers. My heart hammered at my ribs, a shoulder hitting a wall as I made my way through familiar back alleys.

I looked down at my hand and saw bright crimson, the same color that stained my shirt. Swallowing thickly, I pressed my hand back down and hoped that the matching hole on my back would be fine.

"Gotta… make my way to the Clinic," I told myself, pushing myself forward. My feet stumbled, nearly face planting, but I kept myself standing. I pulled my jacket tighter around me, trying to make sure that no one would notice the blood. Mr. Cobblepot knew his business because black was a good color to hide the color of blood.

The worst part of being shot was I had absolutely no clue if I was dying or not. My head felt like it was stuffed with cotton, and it felt like I had lost a lot of blood, but it wasn't like I was holding in my guts or anything. I was shot in the stomach, but not dead center. Was that fatal? Was I a dead man walking? Or was I just a pussy with no pain tolerance that was going to be right as rain if I didn't die of some horrible infection from the bay water?

All I knew was that I had to make it to Dr. Thompkins.

Taking in a deep breath, I forced myself to stand tall as I moved through the streets. Most people didn't give me a second look as I walked by, keeping the pain off my face. If they did, it was because of the fact I was soaked to the bone and it was cold enough that I could see my breath with every ragged breath. The few that noticed the blood slipping between my fingers? They didn't say a word and simply looked away and kept walking.

Stray thoughts tugged at my attention -- wondering who those people were, or flashes of watching people die, or wondering what I was going to tell Mr. Cobblepot. I had no clue how much a duffel bag of cocaine sold for, but I'm guessing it was for a whole lot. I ignored those thoughts in favor of focusing on putting one foot in front of the other and ignoring my body's screams for me to curl up into a ball and die. Because that's what I was worried would happen if I stopped.

And more than anything in this world, I didn't want to die.

Gritting my teeth, I pushed myself forward when my gaze finally landed on the Clinic. It looked different at night -- everywhere else was blacked out, from curtains to broken street lamps, but the Clinic was lit up like a shining light surrounded by an oppressive darkness. Pretty sure there was some symbolism going on there, but I was more than a little occupied with the hole in my stomach. My feet moved, taking me closer to salvation and once my fingers touched the doors, I stumbled across the finish line.

I sagged with relief and nearly collapsed because of it. The stench of antiseptic and bleach, a smell I learned to hate, was welcomed. The receptionist, who sat behind a round desk, took one look at me before she all but jumped out of her chair.

"Hello there," I greeted her, "I kinda got shot." I informed, moving my jacket away and… oh fuck, that was a lot of blood. It spread across the dress shirt, dying it a washed-out red because of the bay water.

"Nothing kinda about it," she refuted, offering a shoulder to support me as she put pressure on the entrance and exit wound. The moment she did so, every ounce of strength that was keeping me up left me and everything went dark.

…

My eyes felt like sandpaper when I opened them, but I opened them all the same. I heard the steady beeps of a heart monitor next to me, a tempo that steadily rose as confusion set in. I made to get up, only to stop myself short when white-hot pain flashed through my side. A curse hissed out of me through clenched teeth, a hand going to my side to massage away the pain.

There wasn't any confusion once I woke up. No momentary bliss induced by ignorance. Instantly, I understood what had happened. I got shot, I walked to the Clinic and once I arrived I collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut. Micky, Joseph, and Darren were all dead. The shootout that happened and all but two guys in Jeremiah's crew were killed. Not sure how many for the people that attacked us.

And they stole the money and the drugs.

One step forward, two steps back.

The only thing that was clear was that I had to make a move. Either to throw myself at the mercy of Mr. Cobblepot or something else because this wasn't my screw up. It couldn't be. I barely knew what we were doing before it happened.

No. This was on either Jeremiah and his crew or someone on our side -- Micky, Darren, Joseph. And considering how those three were dead, my bet was on Vinny if the leak was on our side. He was the only other person I knew that knew about the deal.

"You shouldn't be up yet," a stern voice spoke up and the heart monitor betrayed how my heart lurched in my chest. Despite the pain, I looked over to see Dr. Thompkins, who was giving me an equally stern look to match her voice. "Stay still. You'll reopen your wounds. Are you in any pain?" she questioned, stepping inside the room and closing the door behind her.

I settled into my chair, "I'm fine. How long have I been here?" I asked, worrying that I had somehow slipped into a coma and was out of it for like a decade. It didn't make sense but panic cared very little about logic.

"Around four hours," Dr. Thompkins informed. "You came in with a gunshot wound to the torso, but nothing vital was hit. I cleaned out the wound to prevent infection, but that's something that we have to keep an eye on. Especially after a dip in the bay. You also had a gunshot wound to the leg," she informed, earning a blink of surprise from me.

"I did?" I questioned, shifting my blankets to look at my leg to find it bandaged up. "I didn't notice," I told her, feeling bewildered. How could I not know I had been shot in the leg?

"Adrenaline will do that to you," Dr. Thompkins remarked as she set aside her clipboard. "In all, as far as getting shot goes, you're one of the lucky ones. You'll have to do some physical therapy once your leg heals to get its strength back, and the same for your core to a lesser degree. I have a pain medication-"

"No, I'm good," I said with a shake of my head, making Dr. Thompkins frown.

"Ignoring pain doesn't make you tough or a badass. It makes you an idiot. A few pills won't make you weak-"

"It's not that," I interrupted with a shake of my head. "I… don't like drugs. I mean, I'll get my vaccination and whatever, but I won't take… the kinds of drugs I could become addicted to," I clarified, and Dr. Thompkins closed her eyes briefly as she gave me a slow nod. "I appreciate the offer, and, you know, saving my life, but I'd rather deal with the pain."

Opioids, hard drugs, party drugs to plain old weed -- I wouldn't touch any of them. Even if I knew they weren't bad, I couldn't bring myself to do any of them because there was this looming terror in the back of my mind that I would grow addicted. And, the thing about addiction was that it wasn't always obvious that you were addicted. The withdrawal signs were there, but there was a mental component to addiction that was subtle and insidious.

And it convinced you to do shit you never thought you would. Shit that you knew was wrong but that voice in your ear convinced you it was worth it if it got you another fix.

I watched it happen. And I'd rather die than ever let that happen to me.

Dr. Thompkins looked at me for a long moment before she let out a quiet sigh, "If you're certain, but I have a blank prescription for pain meds with your name on it if you ever change your mind."

"I won't," I stated firmly. "And thanks again for saving me, but I should really-"

"Tell me how this happened," Dr. Thompkins interrupted. "Vergil, getting shot was the least of your health concerns. You're malnourished, dehydrated, and sleep-deprived. I barely recognized you when you were on the operating table. So, tell me how this happened." It wasn't a request.

I looked up at Dr. Thompkins, seeing the genuine concern in her eyes and I was forced to look away. The truth weighed heavily on my tongue, wanting to tell her, thinking that she deserved to know the truth, but… I couldn't bring myself to say it. Even before I moved to Gotham, I knew how the game worked.

"I don't know. I didn't see anything," I replied, a heavy weight bearing down on my shoulders. I could practically hear her teeth grinding in response.

"Vergil, I'm trying to help you. Please, just tell me what happened. We'll go down to the police and get this sorted." And she was thinking the best of me. That hurt. That hurt so much worse than getting shot because I knew I didn't deserve it.

"I'm sorry," I told her. Apologizing for not being worthy of that benefit of the doubt. Because if I went to the cops, I'd be dead by the end of the day from Mr. Cobblepot's guys on the inside if I talked.

Dr. Thompkins didn't scream or shout, but I could feel her disappointment with me. "You still need bed rest. You've lost a lot of blood…" she saw my expression even though I still couldn't bring myself to meet her gaze. "You can leave once you pass a few checkout tests. I'll start now since you clearly have somewhere to be."

"Sorry," I said again, meaning it. The silence as Dr. Thompkins went through her tests was damn near unbearable, but I suffered through it. I did what I could to be the perfect patient to at least make her job easier.

"I'm giving you plenty of antibiotics, and I want you to be here for regular checkups to flush your wounds to prevent infection. I'll also give you a crutch to keep pressure off your leg until it's healed." Dr. Thompkins said after a few minutes. "I'm also giving you a set of multivitamins to help deal with… the lack of nutrients in your food. And you need to drink more fluids or I'm going to hook you up to an IV permanently. I better see improvement across the board during your next checkup."

I couldn't say no to that even if I wasn't completely sure if it was the truth. "You will," I confirmed and heard Dr. Thompkins let out a small sigh. I didn't think she believed me.

"Your shirt and pants had to be cut up, so they were destroyed. I have a set of replacements in the closet. Your phone and cards are inside the closet with them," Dr. Thompkins informed as she handed me a crutch. I finally dared to glance up at her face to see that her eyes were hard but concerned. "Can you dress yourself?"

"I can," I told her, grabbing the crutch and sliding out of bed. My wounds throbbed with pure agony, far worse than actually getting shot, but I fought to keep the pain off my face. Tentatively, I took a ginger step forward with my injured leg and the flash of pain that traveled up my leg stole my breath away. Being shot hurt so freaking much. Dr. Thompkins hovered around me, expecting me to fall face first.

It wasn't pride that kept me on my feet or anything like that. If I had to put a word to it, it was fear. Fear that a clock I had managed to put a stop to for two weeks was suddenly ticking down again.

Swallowing my pain, I limped to the closet and opened it. Inside were nice-looking clothing -- a white thermal long sleeve, a gray hoodie, and black pants that were designed for cold winters. Guilt weighed down heavily on me, feeling like I didn't deserve them, but I didn't have a choice at the moment.

The moment I could, I was going to pass them over to one of the others back at 7th Heaven.

"Thank you. I'll pay you back for this. I promise," I swore to her.

"You said that already," Dr. Thompkins remarked, "And it's a free clinic. You don't owe me a single thing."

"I'm still going to pay you back," I decided. I wasn't sure how or when, but I would. I wouldn't let myself die until I had paid her, Jack, and the guy that spotted me a twenty back. No matter what.

Dr. Thompkins didn't comment, simply making a noise of acknowledgment as she left the room. I was glad for it. My throat felt rough from the emotion that clogged my throat. Thankfully, putting on my clothes was one hell of a distraction. With painful slowness, I dressed myself. My wounds throbbed with pain, but it wasn't enough to make me stop. Lastly, I grabbed my phone and saw that it didn't work. Waterlogged.

And my cards were in perfect condition. No signs of water damage, or blood stains from when I grabbed them. No trace of damage at all. Sorting through them, I saw all my cards there. From my guns to the various items that I had for sale, to junk I was interested in repairing…

I flicked my wrist ever so slightly and my deck reshuffled itself so it displayed a card. A black card showing a bloodied baseball bat that looked sinister.

Murder Weapon. Cursed Series.

My gaze lingered on it for a long moment before I stuffed my deck into my pocket. With my crutch tucked underneath my arm, I limped out of the room to find Dr. Thompkins standing there. She tried to keep her worried expression off her face, but she couldn't quite manage it when she passed me two pill bottles. Antibiotics and multivitamins.

"Just come to the clinic when you run out. Take two of the antibiotics a day and one of the multivitamin. Your first checkup is when the antibiotics run out," she informed, earning a nod from me.

"I'll see you then," I promised, taking the bottles and sliding them into my hoodie pocket. I offered her a thin smile that she returned before I started to limp away. Dr. Thompkins didn't try to stop me and by the time I reached the door and looked back, she was already gone. Swallowing a sigh, I pushed the door open to see that it was still nighttime. Worse, it was late at night. Around two in the morning if I had to guess, given that it was around ten when everything went to shit.

I had to get back to the Lounge. Explain the situation to Mr. Cobblepot that what went down wasn't my fault and prove that I hadn't pulled a runner. My cards were the only safety net that I had -- if I was a regular goon, there wasn't a doubt in my mind that he would ice me. But with my cards, my value shot right up. It would be a lie to say that it was impossible that he would kill me, but with what happened and what I could do, I thought it was unlikely.

But, to prove that, I had to get back.

The only issue was when I turned to start heading that direction, I saw two people coming my way. And I wished they were dressed in fine suits.

"GCPD. My name is detective Roman Cavallo. That's my partner, Marcas Wise. I was hoping to ask you some questions," a powerfully built man said, flashing a badge at me with an easy-going smile that could be mistaken for kind. The smile didn't reach his eyes.

"I didn't see shit," I said, falling on the knee jerk reaction when dealing with the police.

"You don't even know what I'm going to ask about," Roman remarked, his grin a little too sharp.

"Doesn't matter. I didn't see anything," I said, knowing better than to say anything more. At least until I had a lawyer present.

"It's about a drug deal gone wrong over in Dock Nine. Nine bodies in total over a half a million in cocaine," Roman continued. And that was a real gut punch. Half a million. And half a million to pay for that cocaine. I didn't know that.

So how the fuck did a detective know that?

I clamped down, my mind racing as the other detective moved in to flank me. As if I could run with my leg. They must have been staking the place out, waiting for me to leave the clinic since it's neutral ground. And the fact that they were waiting for me meant someone had pointed them in my direction.

The only suspects I had were Jeremiah, his friend, and Vinny. Given that Jeremiah nearly died that night too, my money was on Vinny.

"Anything you would like to tell us?" Roman asked, taking a threatening step forward. I could smell the cigarette smoke on his breath.

I answered with, "I want a lawyer."

The two men cracked a chuckle at that, bearing in. I didn't back down. These guys? Thugs with badges. I knew the type. So I had to treat them like thugs that I couldn't touch.

"That's practically admitting guilt right there. If you didn't do anything wrong, then there's nothing to worry about. You just have to answer a few questions then we'll both go about our day," Marcas said, cocking his head and his tone telling me that it wasn't a request.

My hands itched, wanting to go to my cards but that was stupid. They could think I was going for a gun or something and this whole situation would escalate. They knew I would be here, they had waited me out, and they knew about my involvement… but they weren't arresting me. They were asking questions. Meaning that they didn't have evidence to prove anything.

So I couldn't give them any.

Roman let out a sigh, pinching his nose for a moment before he lashed out with a foot and knocked my crutch from my grip. "Just a couple of questions, kid. Do you want to answer them now, or do we have to drag you to the precinct?" He asked, glaring hard at me.

I remained silent, right up until a pained grunt escaped me when he grabbed my arm and spun me around. I felt the cold metal of cuffs on my wrists, squeezing down on them a notch too tight. I felt hands pat down my body, and I grunted again when a hand slammed into where I was shot.

"The fuck is the matter with you?" Roman demanded, digging into my pockets to take my phone and cards. And I was really happy that I sealed the pills into my cards because I couldn't give them an inch or they would take a mile.

"Bullet wound," I answered. Wasn't like I could hide it.

"Someone shot you?" Marcas questioned, looking over the phone and cards. All the while Roman, instead of dragging me to a police car to go to the station, dragged me into an empty alley. That was a very worrying sign.

"No. Someone threw it at me," I responded before I could stop myself. My back slammed into the Clinics wall, both men standing close to block any hope of escape.

"Heh," Roman actually cracked a smile at that. But, unfortunately, he didn't find it funny enough to not punch me in the face hard enough that I only realized I had been hit when I found myself on the ground with the heavy taste of blood in my mouth. That… was a punch. Couldn't even compare it to that love tap that guy that tried to rip me off gave me. "That's funny."

I spat out blood, running my tongue along my teeth to make sure that I still had them all. Blood rapidly filled my mouth, dripping from my split lip, until it covered the bottom half of my face.

"So," Roman started, grabbing a fist full of my hair and pulling my head up so I could look him in the eye as he crouched down. "You feel like telling us about what went down at Dock Nine? You know, while you still can?" He asked, his face set in an expression of utter apathy. And, more than anything, that scared the absolute hell out of me.

Just not as much as what Mr. Cobblepot would do to me if I squealed.

I pressed my lips together and met his gaze evenly. A few seconds passed in oppressively tense silence before it was broken by Roman letting out a sigh. Slowly, threateningly, he raised a fist and it was only when I saw it pointed in my direction that I noticed how utterly massive it was. He gave me a second to reconsider my silence. I didn't.

This time I felt his fist slam into my face. The hair in his hands ripped free as it felt like my right eye was just hit with a sledgehammer. I groaned pathetically, shifting to protect my face away from him. The entire right side of my face hurt and my eye itself was already swelling shut, but it felt like he had punched my eye back an inch or something. My forehead touched the filthy concrete, and a stray thought wormed its way into my head.

How many people had died in this alleyway?

"I have things to do today, kid. Hurry up and spit it out," Roman said, grabbing me by the back of my hoodie and hauling me to my feet with frightening ease. "Look, I've been doing this for ten years now, so I'll tell you exactly what'll happen if you talk now. You give us whatever you can on the Penguin's Mob, and instead of doing time, you'll get put in witness protection since you're a minor. Then it's all smooth sailing for you, kid. You'll get out of this shithole of a city, you'll be set for life and you'll never have to look back."

Roman slammed a fist into my face hard enough that my head bounced off the wall behind me. Hot blood sprayed from my nose, and my vision swam. Yet I felt so light-headed it was like I could float off the ground at any second.

"You don't? I kick the shit out of you and you go to prison for life because a judge can't be bothered with you," he continued and what really stood out the most was how he sounded like he couldn't care less. One way or the other, he didn't care. It meant nothing to him.

Roman stared at me hard for a few seconds, waiting for me to talk. Blood gathered in my mouth, but I spat it out to the side. I didn't say a word.

He groaned in annoyance before a fist slammed into my gut hard enough that he folded me like a piece of paper. I fell to the ground, hunched over, and desperately tried to keep the burgers that I had eaten down. I gagged, air refusing to enter my lungs for a few seconds, my nose too busted to breathe through and my throat spasming to try to puke.

"Or, how about this?" I heard the terrifying sound of a gun being cocked. Then I felt cold steel pressed against the back of my head, forcing my forehead to touch the ground. "I just kill you for being a pain in my ass? Think anyone would give a shit? You'll just be another dead kid in an alley. Doubt anyone will even write an obituary for you."

Even as blood leaked from my nose and mouth and as my eye swelled shut to the point I couldn't open it, my mind raced. When I was younger, I always thought about what I would do in this situation. Naturally, it always ended with me being a total badass that kicked the shit out of my attackers, but there was a stunning lack of badassery on my part.

Because he was probably right.

I had no identity. My only connections were with 7th Heaven, which was inhabited by the homeless, and the mob.

But, even still, I didn't say a word.

Roman groaned in frustration before he grabbed me by the wrists and took off the cuffs. Trying to take incriminating evidence before he killed me? A moment later, he grabbed me by the hair to force me to look at him, "Firstly kid -- shampoo is your friend, you nasty street rat. Secondly… heh, you’re absolutely pissed." He remarked as he hauled me into a sitting position by my hair. "You know, everyone always thinks that they won't flinch when they're looking at the end of the line. Most piss themselves, but I've seen a few that can stare down the barrel of a gun without blinking."

He yanked up hard on my hair, hard enough that I was probably sporting a bald spot. "First time seeing someone get pissed, though. Kid, you look about ready to rip my throat out with your teeth." He sounded amused like I wasn't a threat to him at all. And I absolutely loathed the fact that he was right.

All I could do was stare up at him while a gun was pointed in my direction. I thought there would be fear. But if there was any fear, then it was completely overshadowed my anger. I was about to die. I was about to get murdered in an alleyway and it was completely and utterly my fault. 

This wasn't how I wanted to die. I… call it clarity in my final moments, but everything clicked into place. Just… shifted into focus and I only realized how fuzzy things had been one that I could see with 20/20 vision. 

I wanted to be great. I wanted to be someone. I wanted to matter. 

And I was going to die a nobody and the world wouldn't notice my passing.

"I hope my blood doesn't wash out of your suit," I told him. If I couldn't be a threat, then at the very least I wanted to be an inconvenience. It was something.

"Funny. That's funny," Roman said, sounding like he didn't think it was. But a second later, his smile grew. "The Penguin sends his regards. Told me to pass you a message if you passed his test -- the drugs and money are added to your tab. Looks like you're a million deep with the Penguin, kid." He informed me

I blinked slowly with my one working eye, my jaw starting to lock up as well. "Huh… so that's how you knew where I'd be," I said, trying to focus. It also explained how he knew about the deal.

Worst part was, this didn't surprise me. I grew up with gangs and had friends in them. Tests like these weren't uncommon to find out who was loyal, who they could trust, and who was an undercover cop.

I wasn't about to die. It was a test. And I passed.

"Yup. I'll give him a call and tell 'em you didn't say a word. See ya, kid. Good luck with the Penguin," Roman said, giving me a small wave as he and his partner started walking away after he tossed my cards over me. My gaze caught on the black card that I picked up with my hand.

Murder Weapon. Cursed Series.

The cards condensed into a deck in my hand with a thought before I turned towards the men walking away. "My phone," I said, getting their attention. "I'd like my phone back," I told Marcas. "Please."

Marcas glanced at Roman, who was laughing at his dumbstruck expression. To save face, Marcas took out my phone and lobbed it at me, the phone bouncing off the ground and landed back up to let me see that the screen was cracked to all hell. I looked at it for a moment before my gaze flicked back up to them.

“Did Penguin send that other gang?” I questioned, keeping my tone even.

Roman looked back at me for a moment, waiting just long enough I doubted that he was going to answer. “No, he didn’t. I was just supposed to pick you up and sweat you a bit to see if you would flip. Don’t have a clue about what happened at the deal.” He answered and that was a relief.

"See ya, kid," Roman said, nearly sounding friendly as both cops left the alley, leaving me alone. I stared at where they left, trying to keep track of them by the sounds of footsteps, but I quickly lost them. My face began to really swell up, feeling uncomfortably hot. My wounds throbbed with searing agony, bad enough that I wished that I had it in me to crawl into the Clinic and beg for pain meds.

But I didn’t.

Anger bubbled in my chest as I sat there, leaning against the wall as I waited for the blood to stop flowing. It was like there was a pot of rage in my chest that had been simmering for some time, and as I sat there, completely helpless after getting my shit kicked in, another million in debt over shit that wasn’t my fault, it finally started to boil over.

I was alive. I was alive and six million dollars in debt.

I heard someone walk by the alley and muttered a quiet, “Oh shit,” before they took off running. My hands curled into fists, the pain screaming at me to stay down, but I forced myself onto my feet, even if I had to lean heavily against the wall. I didn’t have it in me to bend down to grab my busted phone, forcing me to drop a blank card onto it, sealing it within, before having the card fly back to the deck.

“Ugh…” I groaned, using the wall as a crutch to let me limp forward. I couldn’t put any weight on my other leg, but that didn’t matter. Rage flowed through my veins like water, and it was enough to keep me moving. “This… is total fucking bullshit,” I swore, limping forward until I reached the street.

My crutch was gone. Fucking fantastic.

This wasn’t my fault. I did absolutely everything I was supposed to. Even the knowledge that Mr. Cobblepott knew I wasn’t a snitch wasn’t enough to soothe the growing anger in my chest. Not when every speck of progress I made during the past two weeks, working myself like a dog, was wiped away and the debt shot right up. Not when I was battered to hell and shot twice. Everything hurt so much that I wanted to just curl up into a ball and give up.

But I didn’t. I didn’t have it in me to give up.

Not until I paid back Jack, Dr. Thompkins, and the guy that gave me a twenty. Not until Tifa got back home. Not until I settled up with the guys that shot me. Not until I beat the holy hell out of Roman and Marcas.

I would get what I was owed and I would pay every debt that I had.

Gritting my teeth, I limped across the street, trying to clear my nose of blood that rapidly lost its heat in the cold air. I felt it sticking to my face, clogging up my nose so I couldn’t breathe except for my mouth. But my jaw locked up, feeling like one giant bruise topped with a busted nose. Probably broken given how meaty those fists were.

I walked down Crime Alley, the road that made Batman, and made a promise to myself. Not for anyone else, but for me. 

When I died… the world would know. I would carve my name so deep into the earth that it would never fade. I would never be forgotten.

After what felt like an eternity, I managed to make it across the street. Using the walls as a crutch, I continued down the block. The few gangsters that were out barely gave me a second glance, assuming that I had already been mugged. However, once I reached the end of the block, I saw a familiar color. Three guys sitting in front of a building, all dressed in red.

I tried to loosen up my jaw to some degree of success. The one sitting on the steps looked up, noticing me first, the gold chain around his neck glittering in the little light the city offered. “You look like you got messed up real good,” he remarked, making the other two crack up.

“Is Jeremiah in?” I asked, coming to a stop in front of them. “I need to talk to him about what happened tonight,” I said, and just like that, the laughing stopped. All three of them got up and I found myself in what was rapidly becoming a familiar situation. “No, I didn’t set anything up. We lost three guys and I got shot. Twice.”

The leader looked doubtful, “Then what happened to your face?” He challenged.

“Gotham’s finest,” I answered shortly. “I didn’t talk, but the cops knew about the deal. Meaning someone told them.”

“You better not be saying what I think you are,” The guy got in my face, but I didn’t back down.

“The three guys I was with are dead, and I know it wasn’t me. You lost people too and Jeremiah just about got me killed to get out of the warehouse. All I know is that someone talked, and I want to know who. And I want to know who busted up the deal and stole the money and the drugs,” I answered tersely, my jaw killing me but compared to everything else, it barely hurt. “So, can you take me to Jeremiah so we can talk this shit out?”

The three men exchanged looks. Not the good kind of looks. The kind that was asking if any of them had a convenient place to stash a body kind of looks.

“If I was going to start something, then I would do it when I was capable of finishing it,” I continued. “I just want to talk. He owes me a favor and I think he’s going to want to hear what I have to say.” That seemed to tip the scales in my direction. Nothing quite like assured destruction to convince someone that you weren’t trying to screw them over.

“Alright,” The leader decided, “Keep up gimp.” He said, leading the way towards Jeremiah while the other two trailed behind me, looking out for someone tailing us or if I tried to make a run for it. They led me to a run-down looking building with music thumping so loudly I could feel the vibrations through the sidewalk.

Limping up the steps and into the building, I was greeted with the stench of weed and bombarded with loud music. The place was lit up with Christmas lights and black lights. Surprisingly, the building was absolutely packed. A party was being thrown -- what was once a living room was a massive grindfest as people drank and smoked the night away. Most of them weren’t wearing the colors, so it seemed like it was just a normal party being thrown.

I followed the leader up to the second floor to see two guys standing outside of a door. The leader nodded, making one of them knock at the door. He was somehow heard and answered, because he opened the door and let me limp inside.

Jeremiah was sitting in the room next to a guy that was being checked on by a woman. A nurse, I’m guessing, judging by how comfortable she seemed to inspect a wound.

“You look terrible,” Jeremiah remarked, gesturing to a chair next to him.

“Thanks,” I said, falling heavily into the chair, and a groan slipped between my lips. The nurse looked up at me before letting out a sigh. She grabbed a medical kit and moved over towards me. I thought about waving her off, but I had no idea if my nose was broken or not. “Do you know who hit us?” I asked as the woman started to touch my nose.

And apparently my nose was broken because with a flash of utter hell, she reset it. I gripped the arms of the chair with white knuckles, but otherwise didn’t react.

Jeremiah looked at me for a moment, a cigarette between his fingers that he took a slow drag of. “Rival gang. Local Lighters, or LL for short,” He answered. “You know how they found out about the deal? Couldn’t be on our end.”

I looked at Jeremiah with only one eye that could see. “Hm. I think it was my handler. Guy named Vinny. Not sure about it, though, but he’s the only person I know who knew about the deal. Not counting Penguin,” I said, making the woman’s hands still for just a moment, but she resumed cleaning up my face with an alcohol rag that made the cuts on my face sting.

“I lost friends today,” Jeremiah said, steel in his voice.

“And the loss of the deal is on my head. I’m being charged for the money and the drugs. A full million,” I answered, making him shift in his seat. “I want them back.”

Jeremiah gave me an even look, “I owe you, but I don’t owe you that much.” He decided flatly and while it was a little annoying that he wouldn’t fork over a million bucks to settle this problem, it wasn’t like I expected him to.

In response, I pulled out my deck of cards. I flashed him an empty card before I slowly and deliberately reached out and sealed away a can of soda that was sitting on the nightstand. I watched his expression, ignoring how the nurse’s hands tried to keep me seated for a moment. Then I unsealed the soda.

I could see the cogs in his head moving. “I need the money and the drugs. But, if you hit their hideout with me, then everything else there is yours. And I’ll owe as many favors as it takes to cover the difference,” I told him, making him lean back in his chair as he took a long drag of his cigarette.

I met his gaze, even when the nurse pulled out a needle and thread and went to my eyebrow, which had apparently been cut. All things considered, I barely felt it as she stitched up the cut after cleaning it.

“What kind of weight can you move?” Jeremiah asked, testing the bait before he bit. But I could already tell I had him hooked.

“Don’t know my upper limit, but I can move refrigerator sized amounts of weight no problem. Fifty-two refrigerators,” I clarified and he tried real hard to keep the interest off his face, but he couldn’t manage it.

Jeremiah nodded, “Alright. I can do that. I know where their hideout is, but I doubt that they took the drugs and money there.”

“But we can find out where they took them,” I said, leaning back in my chair. I was going to get those drugs and that money back. I didn’t care what I had to do. I wouldn’t let another million bucks be added onto my tab.

“We can. Smack ‘em around a bit and they’ll talk. When we find the drugs and money, they’re yours,” he said, sticking out a hand for me to shake. “We’ll have to hit them soon before they divide up the loot.”

“We’ll hit them now.” Because if we waited any longer, then I wasn’t going to be able to move.

The deal was stuck.