Gotham's nights never sleep.
They just breathe in a darker, more dangerous way.
The old Ford pickup wheezed its way across the massive bridge, groaning like it was on its last legs.
Below, the inky black water reflected the dazzling, heart-pounding skyline of the city across the shore.
But beyond the rusty bridge railings, a city emerged through the thick night fog, looming like a crouching beast.
And the first thing to pierce the mist and catch their eyes?
A towering skyscraper, its sharp spire stabbing into the sky like a black sword, radiating silent menace over the entire city.
It felt like it could shoot a death glare at these out-of-towners any second.
"W? Wayne?"
Clark blinked, the name ringing a vague bell, but he couldn't quite place it.
"Good Lord," Pete muttered, instinctively slowing the truck, his fingers nervously tapping the steering wheel.
"Clark, you smell that?"
"This place—even the fog smells evil."
"?"
Clark quietly rolled down the window and took a deep breath…
And instantly regretted it.
His heightened senses picked up more than most: cheap perfume, booze, spoiled food, and some weird, unplaceable stench.
"Hey, look over there…" Chloe whispered suddenly, her finger pointing nervously toward a shadowy street corner.
Both guys followed her gaze.
There, two men in long trench coats were gesturing wildly, their voices rising and falling, movements sharp and tense, like a bowstring ready to snap.
Could it be?
Pete swallowed hard.
Was this about to be Gotham's signature "greeting"?
But…
Just as Pete's foot hovered over the gas pedal, ready to floor it, the two men shoved each other's shoulders, hard. Then, as if they'd reached some unspoken deal, they stopped arguing, spat on the ground in unison, and vanished into separate, darker alleys.
Their movements were smooth, no hesitation.
But all three in the truck saw it clear as day—
When they shoved each other, their coats flared, revealing the unmistakable glint of cold, hard metal at their waists…
Guns!
Definitely guns!
"Welcome to Gotham," Pete said dryly, his voice tight.
"Such warm, friendly folks."
"Look at that civic pride—arguing with efficiency, wrapping it up in three sentences flat so they don't miss their evening crime shift."
"…"
Chloe and Clark stayed silent, not taking the bait.
They leaned out to keep scanning the streets.
Not that the view outside was any more comforting.
The streetlights were mostly dim and flickering, like sickly old men clinging to life.
The few still working blinked erratically, casting swaying, ghostly shadows on the slick, eerie asphalt.
Every wall in sight was plastered with chaotic graffiti—crude gang tags to warped, anxiety-inducing abstract scrawls, as if the whole city was screaming through spray cans.
After a moment, Clark frowned, tilting his head.
"You guys hear that… that sound in the distance? Like police sirens?"
"."
"I wouldn't call those sirens here," Chloe said, frantically tapping the map on her phone to hide her nerves, her tone dead serious. "That's just… city background music. BGM, got it?"
"Like cows mooing on the farm or pages flipping in a library. Totally natural."
"What are you even talking about?" Pete muttered under his breath. "I don't get it."
Vroom!
With a cough, the old Ford lurched onto the main road.
The scenery shifted to something more glamorous.
But if you looked closer, beneath the glittering veneer, there was a cold, guarded edge:
Every shop window was fitted with absurdly thick bulletproof glass.
Gotham was weird.
And right now, on this road, the weirdest thing of all—
Their rattling, smoke-belching Ford pickup, looking like it was stolen from a junkyard.
In this glitzy, money-drenched backdrop, the truck stuck out like a sore thumb.
It was turning heads left and right!
Drawing a mix of disdainful, curious, and openly wary glances from the high-society types.
"Left turn, then right, and we'll hit the waterfront boulevard," Chloe whispered, her voice nearly drowned out by the engine's rumble.
Pete, sweating bullets, gripped the wheel like his life depended on it, coaxing the old Ford through clumsy turns until they finally rolled onto a wide, brilliantly lit coastal boulevard.
The moment they hit the road, the sight ahead made all three gasp.
Pete even slammed on the brakes, making the whole truck shudder—
A real, modern-day crystal palace stood boldly along the coastline!
Massive spotlights bathed its outline and the surrounding night sky in a dreamy, dazzling blue-purple glow.
Rolls-Royces, Lamborghinis, and a slew of other luxury cars they couldn't even name formed a silent, expensive line of steel dragons out front.
White-gloved attendants in crisp uniforms darted around, opening doors for the VIPs.
"I thought the 'Iceberg Lounge'…"
"Was just, like, a slightly fancier version of the 'Heatwave Bar' back in town…" Clark mumbled, his eyes wide with shock.
"Yeah," Pete chimed in, his voice shaky. "This place looks like they'd charge us country bumpkins just to breathe the air…"
"You sure Dio's 'working' here? He's not, like, some secret prince, is he?"
"And us—"
Yeah.
Their beat-up truck, roaring like a tractor and spewing suspicious black smoke, felt like a downright sin in this ultra-luxurious setting.
"How about… we just turn around and go home?" Pete suggested cautiously.
"This is not our scene! We're not even dressed for it. They'll probably toss us out before we touch the door."
"No backing out now, Pete," Chloe snapped, her eyes flashing with determination, a spark of adventure reigniting. "We're here! Dio might be counting on us to boost his numbers!"
"And who says you need a suit to get in? If there's no door, we'll make one!"
She spun around, rummaging through the backseat's pile of mysterious toolboxes.
After a clatter of metal, she yanked out some wrinkled gray coveralls and a few yellow hard hats.
"Essential gear: disguises!" she declared, sounding like a captain barking orders.
Pete and Clark stared, dumbfounded, as she held up the gear.
"Why do we even have this?!" Clark gaped at a collapsible aluminum scaffold tucked in the corner of the truck. "When did you sneak this in? Is this a pickup or your magic bag?"
"No time for chit-chat."
Chloe slipped into the coveralls with practiced ease, tucking her blonde hair under a hard hat.
"With this," she said, smugly patting the scaffold, "we can go anywhere."
She cleared her throat, adopting an exaggerated, old-school New York accent.
"Wherever we want, baby~"
Clark & Pete: "…"
A moment later, clumsily hauling the scaffold, the trio trudged through the sea of luxury cars and glamorous elites like a lost construction crew.
Chloe led the charge, undaunted, her blonde ponytail swinging confidently under her hard hat.
"Make way! Maintenance!" she bellowed, startling a posh woman clutching a lapdog, who shot them a disgusted look.
Clark and Pete, meanwhile, wished they could pull their hard hats over their faces.
Those few hundred yards felt like a century.
"We're here," Chloe's excited voice called from ahead.
Finally.
The two guys behind her let out a silent sigh of relief.
Thud!
But the second their boots hit the steps—
"Good evening."
Two black-suited security guards materialized like ghosts, earpieces glinting, blocking their path.
Their faces were stone-cold, eyes sharp with unconcealed disdain as they sized up the trio's oil-stained coveralls and clunky gear.
"You lot…"
"We're here for maintenance," Chloe cut in, impatiently tapping the scaffold's crossbar.
"Maintenance?" The guard's gaze lingered on Chloe's slim frame and too-pretty jawline, skepticism written all over his face. "Lady? Maintenance crews these days—"
"What's that supposed to mean?" Chloe snapped, yanking up her hard hat, her blue eyes cutting through the dark like knives. "In Gotham, women can hold their own! You want me to call the mayor's office to chat about gender equality?"
"The mayor?" The guards snickered, their faces practically screaming, The mayor's nothing!
"…"
"Ahem!" Clark jumped in. "Sorry, gents, we're here on Mr. Rockman's orders." He flashed a business card. "Fixing the cooling system."
Mr. Rockman?!
The guards, who'd been chuckling, froze like they'd seen a ghost.
Their faces paled.
"I mean—"
"Welcome to the Iceberg Lounge!"
"Maintenance entrance is this way. It's our duty to make things easy for professionals like you!"
Flustered, one guard pushed open a hidden metal door, seamlessly blended into the ornate marble wall.
Behind it was a dim, narrow passage barely wide enough for one person.
Before the trio could fully process this sudden stroke of luck, they were half-ushered, half-shoved inside.
Clang!
"Damn, we almost pissed off Mr. Rockman," one guard muttered outside, scratching his cheek nervously. "Seriously, is Gotham's labor shortage so bad they're sending model-looking girls to swing wrenches now?"
The metal door slammed shut, cutting off the outside noise.
The three "maintenance workers" exchanged looks, the scaffold clanging awkwardly in the tight space.
"Now," Chloe said, grinning as she yanked off her hard hat, her blonde hair spilling out like a waterfall, "Welcome to the Iceberg Lounge!"
She tossed the hat into a trash can. "From here on, we're just lost tourists!"
Yeah.
The plan sounded way easier than it actually was.
Because the moment they pushed through the fire exit, the Iceberg Lounge's inner world hit them like a tidal wave of extravagance, swallowing them whole.
This place…
It was a sprawling maze of money, lights, and desire.
Getting lost was par for the course.
Golden corridors stretched in every direction, lined with plush, sound-absorbing carpets and abstract paintings that screamed "expensive" despite being incomprehensible.
The air was thick with sweet, high-end perfume, the smoky richness of cigars, and a faint metallic tang.
Every corner they turned brought a new wave of music and chatter, like stepping into a different world.
"Now what?" Pete asked, overwhelmed by the dazzling chaos. "This place is a hundred times bigger than anything back home! Where do we even find a waiter?"
"Splitting up's too slow, but staying together's too obvious," Chloe said, nodding.
Her eyes scanned the room, locking onto the waitstaff hurrying by with trays.
"If Dio's working here, he's probably where the crowd is. Let's check the main hall."
They trailed a waiter, sneaking through the throng.
They reached…
A smokier, louder area.
Slot machines blinked endlessly, coins clinking in a constant rhythm, with bunny girls weaving through the crowd.
"Care to try your luck?" a bunny girl purred, sidling up.
Pete's eyes were instantly glued to her.
"Eyes on the road!" Chloe snapped, yanking him back. "We're here to find someone, not blow cash!"
She tried to pull them back to the corridor but accidentally shoved open a heavy door.
Boom!
Deafening EDM slammed into them like a wall. Laser lights sliced through the air, and the dance floor was a writhing mass of bodies.
Center stage, dancers spun around poles, stealing the spotlight.
Clark and Pete froze, cheeks burning red.
"I—"
"I'll admit it, I'm a total country boy," Pete stammered, stunned.
"Clark!" Chloe barked, exasperated.
"Sorry, sorry…" Clark snapped out of it, mortified, looking up to avoid the scene.
But maybe it was the overwhelming spectacle, or maybe it was his own panic…
His eyes, out of his control, glowed faintly red.
Crack!
A ceiling light fixture exploded in a shower of sparks!
Whoosh!
A piercing fire alarm cut through the music, and the overhead sprinklers kicked on, drenching the dance floor in a chaotic downpour!
"What the hell?!"
"Run!"
The crowd screamed, scattering in every direction.
"This way!" Chloe, quick on her feet, wiped water from her face.
Grabbing a dazed Clark with one hand and a yelping Pete with the other, she bolted toward a less crowded side passage.
They barreled through doors, stumbling into a quieter, plainer corridor.
A back-of-house area, maybe?
"Stop… stop…" Pete gasped, leaning against the wall. "What just happened?"
"An accident, probably?" Clark said, hiding his own panic, his eyes darting away.
What was going on with his eyes?!
"Let's find somewhere to lay low," Chloe said, scanning the area. Her gaze landed on a nondescript elevator at the corridor's end.
They piled in, the metal doors shutting out the chaos.
They slumped against the mirrored walls, panting, soaked to the bone.
"Now…" Chloe said, catching her breath and wiping water from her face. She eyed the complex panel of floor buttons. "Clark, where do you think we should look for Dio?"
"Huh?" Clark glanced at the panel.
"-1 to +15"
"We—"
"Wait." His eyes, still faintly warm, paused on the panel's lower edge.
Something felt… off about that blank space at the bottom.
Almost on instinct—or maybe because he saw something—Clark tapped the blank spot twice.
Click.
A soft mechanical sound, and the seamless panel slid inward, revealing a hidden button not listed on any directory.
-44
All three gasped.
"Forty-four floors underground?"
"Clark," Chloe whipped around, her eyes blazing with excitement. "How'd you know there was a hidden floor? Are you—"
"I'm not! I didn't! Don't make stuff up!" Clark waved his hands frantically, terrified of being pegged as some Lounge regular or secret VIP.
"What do you mean, 'didn't'?" Chloe blinked, thrown by his overreaction. "I was just gonna say your random tap was some crazy luck!"
Her gaze locked onto the ominous black button, her excitement spiking. "A hidden forty-fourth basement in Gotham's biggest money pit… this is huge! What's down there? Something shady, I bet…"
Her curiosity was practically buzzing as she reached for the button, drawn to it like a moth to a flame.
"Chloe," Clark said sharply, his strong hand shooting out to grab her wrist.
"Chloe, don't. We're here for Dio."
"Clark, this could be—"
She turned, only to meet his deadly serious gaze, so intense it almost felt tangible, making her heart skip.
"Fine… you're right. Sorry, I got carried away." She took a deep breath and casually pressed the "4" button. "Let's check the fourth floor for Dio."
"?!" Clark let go, shocked. "You actually listened?"
Chloe's face darkened as the guys stared at her like she'd grown a second head. She punched the wall in frustration.
"Let's go!"
The elevator hummed, starting its smooth ascent.