Chapter 4: The Fatal Strike

“What’s going on here?” Jason, having lived in Gotham for so many years, wasn’t scared out of his wits—just a bit surprised.

“Hard to say...” Roland pondered. There were so many possibilities: the manhole nearby could be the execution site of Killer Croc’s underground kingdom, the victim might have been a passerby torn apart by Solomon Grundy, or perhaps leftovers from one of Dr. Hugo’s experiments.

“Should we call the police?” Jason asked.

“Do you have a phone?”

Jason shook his head.

“Neither do I.” Roland picked up the severed arm. “We’re headed to the precinct anyway; might as well bring it along.”

“Although the subway security in Gotham is basically a joke, isn’t it a bit much to bring this in with us?” Jason was shocked. What kind of state of mind comes up with such a morbid idea?

“Wrap it in something?”

“Just leave it where it is. We can tell the police about it.” Jason rubbed his forehead in disbelief.

“Alright then.” Roland agreed readily and placed the arm back where he found it.

As they stepped into the subway, a foul stench assaulted their senses.

Roland frowned. “Did someone just relieve themselves down here? It smells that bad?”

“Completely normal. This is Gotham,” Jason replied nonchalantly. “Even if someone died down here, it wouldn't be surprising.”

“Yeah, this place is truly insane.”

Jason skillfully led Roland past the turnstiles, while the overweight security guard nearby paid no attention, showing no intention of bothering them.

Since it was late at night, the subway was nearly empty, save for a few youths dressed in eccentric attire leaning against the pillars, seemingly deep in discussion.

They looked about seventeen or eighteen, with brightly dyed hair, exaggerated earrings, and glaring tattoos on their arms.

“Are those ‘shamate’ kids part of a gang?” Roland whispered.

“No, just some punks,” Jason sneered. “Better keep your distance; these guys aren’t exactly stable.”

“Yeah, that much is obvious.”

The two discreetly moved away from the group and boarded the train at the other end.

The interior was dilapidated, with flickering lights overhead, some bulbs burnt out and exposed wires hanging down.

“This place is a dump. Why don’t they fix it?” Roland complained. “The flickering’s giving me a headache.”

“The mayor allocated funds to renovate Gotham’s public facilities three months ago. This is after the repairs,” Jason said. “It used to be pitch dark. Be grateful.”

“Impressive…”

The church was located in the outskirts of Gotham, not far from the police station. Roland had unwittingly fallen asleep on the subway until a gunshot rang out inside the carriage.

“What’s happening?” Roland’s face paled. “Does this happen often?”

“That sounded like a gunshot. It’s my first time hearing that on the subway,” Jason said uneasily. “Must be those punks. Damn it, what are they up to?”

More gunshots erupted, growing in frequency, accompanied by cries for help and wails from the adjacent carriages, making the situation feel increasingly dire.

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