The night sky hung low.
A few vintage streetlights cast dim, golden glows in the autumn breeze, illuminating the empty fountain square at the town's center.
But behind the awning of the pizza shop, three bumbling "agents" were lurking, up to no good.
"The plan's simple," Chloe whispered, her phone screen lighting up a small notebook. "Step one: we check out every bakery in town!"
"Roger that!" Pete snapped to attention, throwing an exaggerated salute. "Mission accepted, boss!"
His buzzcut gleamed under the streetlight, practically glowing like a tiny spotlight.
But then…
A hesitant voice broke through their covert planning session.
"Uh, guys…"
Clark's awkward pause drew their attention. He scratched the back of his head. "We might not need to go through all that trouble."
"I think I know where Dio's working."
"?!"
Two pairs of eyes zeroed in on Clark. Chloe's gaze flickered with the faint disappointment of a plan unraveling before it even began.
"You got him to talk?" she asked.
"Sort of…" Clark gave a sheepish grin, fishing a crumpled business card out of his jeans pocket.
The card was thick, its edges embossed with subtle gold trim that shimmered even in the dim light.
"Saraphiel found it in a trash bag outside Dio's room," Clark explained, sounding a bit surprised himself. "He said the reflective edges caught his eye, and he thought it might be something important Dio accidentally threw out, so he kept it."
"Let me see."
Chloe snatched the card, and Pete leaned in close.
Three heads huddled together, squinting under the faint streetlight and the glow of Chloe's phone to make out the text:
Iceberg Lounge
Manager: Roman Wick
Phone: 212-444-1375
Address: 1 Coastal Boulevard
The air went dead silent.
Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked faintly, making the trio's quiet moment feel even heavier.
"Iceberg Lounge?" Pete broke the silence first, his voice wavering. "Why does that sound like…"
"That's the high-end nightclub in Gotham City, right?" Chloe finished, her brows knitting together as her tone grew serious. "My uncle mentioned it last Christmas—said it's, uh, a hotspot for rich big shots and all kinds of 'important' people."
"Gotham?!" Pete's voice shot up an octave. "As in, the crime-ridden city where even a stray dog might steal your burger?"
"Dio's working there? No way!"
"It's not that bad," Chloe said, waving him off. "I went to the Gotham Museum for summer camp last year. It's pretty normal during the day—"
"Daytime!" Pete cut in, flailing his arms. "The key word is daytime! It's night now, and Dio's working at that kind of place! Doesn't that creep you out?"
"He's not—"
"Ahem." Clark coughed, jumping in. "I gotta admit, it does seem kinda risky."
"Aren't you worried about Dio?" Pete pressed.
"…"
"I am, a little," Clark admitted, hesitating. "It's Gotham, after all. But since it's Gotham…"
He trailed off, and Chloe suddenly grabbed his arm, her voice brimming with inexplicable confidence. "Exactly! We've got you!"
"…"
"Look, let's not get into how this relates to football," Clark said, his face darkening as he tried to pull his arm free. "First off, how are we even getting there? The last bus to Metropolis left two hours ago. Without a transfer, we can't catch the last train to Gotham."
"Easy peasy," Chloe said with a sly grin, like she'd been waiting for this exact question.
She slowly pointed at Pete.
"?"
Pete's head snapped up. "Me?"
---
A few dozen minutes later…
Interstate 70 stretched into the dark, a gray-black ribbon under the heavy night sky.
An old, rusty Ford truck embarked on what was sure to be a bumpy journey.
The engine groaned with effort as Pete gripped the steering wheel—practically alive with its own ideas—his sweaty palms nearly wearing through the cracked leather.
"Why, oh why, am I driving out here in the middle of the night?!" he wailed, his voice echoing in the cramped cab. "If Grandpa Henry finds out I took his precious truck for this, he'll skin me alive and turn me into a couch cover!"
"Pete…" Clark, hunched in the backseat to give Chloe more room, tried to soothe him with a guilty tone. "It'll be fine. Grandpa Henry wouldn't really—"
"Clark!" Pete cut him off, nearly swerving the wheel. "Do you think you and I are on the same level in Grandpa Henry's eyes?"
"You're the guy who can single-handedly move a whole barn of hay—an angel! And me?"
He smacked the steering wheel, the horn letting out a pitiful, cow-like moan that rang out mournfully on the empty road.
"I'm just the punk kid leading you astray!"
"Alright, Pete," Chloe said from beside Clark, her flashlight beam fixed on a map. She didn't even look up. "You're the only one with a license. Suck it up—this is for Dio!"
She paused, then added a flimsy justification even she didn't fully buy: "What if he's been coerced or brainwashed by some shady Gotham organization?"
"…"
"Seriously?" Pete's face darkened. "I still think—"
"Shut it! Eyes on the road! Drive!"
"Ah!"
Chloe's warning turned into a scream as a black Harley roared out of a side road, cutting across the truck's path like a ghostly shadow.
"Whoa!"
Pete, scared out of his wits, yanked the wheel and slammed the brakes. The tires screeched, smoking as the truck skidded, barely grazing the roadside guardrail before shuddering to a stop in the emergency lane.
The cab fell silent.
All three panted, hearts racing.
Scrape—scrape!
The windshield wipers, somehow triggered, flailed uselessly against the dry glass, scraping in futile arcs.
"Clark," Pete muttered, shakily turning them off, his voice trembling. "If I die, don't let them carve the cause of death on my tombstone."
"Sorry, Pete," Clark said, rubbing his nose guiltily. "I'll make it up to you—"
"Three months of cafeteria desserts," Pete cut in, still shaken but seizing the chance to negotiate.
"Deal," Clark said with a chuckle.
Bang!
The truck roared back to life, hitting a pothole that rattled the entire cab like it might fall apart.
After a brief silence, Pete spoke up, hesitation in his voice. "What about the toll booth at the bridge? I spent all my cash filling up this old beast."
"No worries," Chloe said with a mischievous grin, pulling a faded pass from her backpack. "My uncle's shipping company pass. Let's just hope the guard doesn't check the expiration date."
"…"
"Chloe…" Pete glared at her through the rearview mirror, gritting his teeth. "You've got this all figured out, don't you?"
"Just doing my part," she said with a smug grin, tucking the pass away like a mastermind.
Whoosh!
Under the moonlight, the old truck cast a long shadow as it rattled toward Gotham's cross-sea bridge, like a clumsy moth stumbling toward the city's flickering lights.