You can hear English spoken with accents from all over the world—these people are the societal dregs who couldn't survive outside and came to Gotham in search of a way out.
They indulge themselves here, ordering drinks, exchanging the latest money-making schemes, and occasionally groping the thighs of passing sex workers.
The stench that wafts in as the door swings open combines sweat, the sour smell of stagnant alcohol, and the scent of vomit.
Even a homeless person used to scavenging for scraps would wrinkle their nose upon entering.
On a small television behind the bar, the latest nighttime news is playing.
A reporter, holding a blue microphone, stands beside a wrecked, beached yacht. "Superman has not been seen in public for nearly three months, leading to increasing speculation among citizens about whether he has encountered some trouble. Meanwhile, this newly emerged superhero—Homelander—is gaining popularity and seems poised to challenge Superman. According to his spokesperson at Vought International, Homelander is a true, pure Earthling. Does this mean we could have a new Superman who belongs to Earth?"
"Homelander? Hahaha, that name sounds even more ridiculous than Superman!"
A plump Mexican man laughed heartily, slamming his beer glass down on the bar.
The glass hit the surface, splashing beer in all directions, with one drop flying in a perfect arc and landing on the gloved hand of a man seated two spots away.
…A small area around that man fell silent.
Everyone turned around to look, staring at the solid man in a brown jacket and red hood, fearing he might suddenly lash out and pull a gun from his pants pocket.
The Mexican man fell silent as he realized what he had done, nervously swallowing hard, cold sweat beading on his forehead. "I-I'm sorry… Red Hood, I'm really sorry—"
Red Hood turned to look at him, flipping his hand over to wipe away the spilled beer from the bar.
Even though no one could see the expression beneath the red hood, the Mexican man felt a chill running down his spine under Red Hood's gaze—
The guy in front of him was a notorious figure in Gotham's underworld!
Rumor had it that the number of people who had died at his hands could form one of the largest gangs in Gotham.
He killed without blinking, showing no mercy to anyone.
Anyone who dared to provoke him would meet a fate worse than that of a stray dog in the alley…
"Red Hood, someone's looking for you!"
The voice of the scarred bouncer at the bar's entrance saved the Mexican man.
He cautiously leaned on the bar, casting a glance at Red Hood. "This guy says he needs to talk to you."
Red Hood turned his head.
The scarred bouncer stepped aside, revealing a slender figure wearing a baseball cap and a mask, covered up tightly.
"Red Hood, I want to ask you something."
—Soren looked up from beneath the cap, studying the muscular, dangerous figure in front of him, speaking in a low voice.
Red Hood quietly looked at him, the white lenses of his mask resembling the eyes of a monster, making it impossible to discern the true expression behind the mask.
He scoffed, his voice low as he spoke: "You think I'm some kind of informant?"
The crowd of onlookers erupted into laughter, whispering and snickering amongst themselves.
They were all mocking Soren for approaching the wrong person—what a joke.
Who did he think Red Hood was?
Who in their right mind would dare ask Red Hood for information?
Some sharp-eyed bystanders noticed Soren's designer hoodie and expensive sneakers, then caught a glimpse of his pale fingers peeking from beneath his sleeves.
They all wondered which pampered rich kid had wandered into the wrong place.
It wouldn't take long before he'd be crying, learning the hardest lesson of his life.
Soren ignored the jeers around him, his gaze locked onto Red Hood.
His bright Kryptonian-blue eyes were the only part of his face visible behind the white mask.
"You'll want what I'm offering," he said, voice steady.
"Oh?" Red Hood responded lazily, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees.
He crooked a finger at Soren, motioning for him to continue. "And what exactly are you offering?"
Soren's voice was calm and unwavering.
"Step outside, and I'll show you."
This time, Red Hood genuinely laughed, crossing his arms as he straightened up in his chair. "You really think I'm gonna be interested in whatever it is you've got?"
Soren nodded confidently. "If you don't want what I have, I'll leave right now."
Red Hood's cold eyes locked onto Soren, sizing him up.
Even though Red Hood was sitting while Soren stood, the former's imposing presence hadn't diminished in the slightest.
The air was thick with tension, like the scent of gunpowder after a shot had been fired.
For a long moment, the two stared each other down, but to everyone's surprise, Soren didn't back down.
His Kryptonian-blue eyes remained fixed on Red Hood, unflinching.
Finally, Red Hood let out a low chuckle. "Alright. Follow me."
He led Soren outside to a narrow alley, casually leaning against his massive motorcycle.
His powerful legs, like thick logs, were crossed as he rested his heavy combat boots on a patch of wild grass sprouting through the cracks in the pavement.
"Alright, little rich boy," Red Hood drawled, "let's see this 'generous offer' of yours."
Soren followed closely behind, both hands clutching his satchel.
Upon hearing Red Hood's challenge, he reached into the bag and said, "If you give me the information I want, I'll give you this—"
From the bag, Soren pulled out a shimmering, razor-sharp Batarang.
The sleek weapon had sharp, angular lines, with narrow blades extending from its wings.
Though it hadn't been sharpened, its deadly potential was unmistakable.
"I know this sells for a lot on Gotham's black market," Soren said seriously. "This is the only Batarang I have, but I can guarantee it's authentic. I want to trade this for a piece of information—something small, something that doesn't matter to you."