The man with the gun wasn't the only one surprised.
East End residents rarely got good sleep. Gunfire every night was standard. Sometimes full gunfights—crackling exchanges that lasted until dawn.
People gripped their own weapons tighter when shots rang out. Watched their doors and windows. Stayed inside. As long as you minded your business and didn't draw attention, you were safe.
Most had made peace with the nightly soundtrack of violence. Older residents even needed it to fall asleep. They knew the victims could be anyone—gang members, dealers, prostitutes, neighbors, random pedestrians.
But nobody intervened.
People in the East End had enough trouble keeping themselves alive. Their lives had no margin for error. No room for heroics.
Besides, there was Batman. Catwoman. Maybe some cape would show up. No need for ordinary people to get involved.
Until tonight.
"YOU BASTARD! WHERE ARE YOU?"
The voice echoed through the darkness. Female. Furious. Armed.
Everyone within earshot froze.
Even in the East End, this was bizarre.
Years of experience had taught one universal truth: ordinary people who tried to be heroes in Gotham didn't survive long. The only exceptions were the freaks in tights who operated outside the law. The ones who treated the city like their personal territory.
The capes were powerful. Anonymous. Untouchable. They didn't struggle to pay rent or buy food. Most Gotham residents resented them for that—fear and jealousy wrapped in contempt.
What people didn't know: heroes rarely had families. And when they did, those families never lasted.
But regardless, the list of Gotham vigilantes definitely didn't include a loud, profane, middle-aged woman with a shotgun.
In the alley, the would-be rapist yanked up his pants, blood still hot in his veins. Fury overwhelmed fear. Some crazy bitch with a shotgun was ruining his night. He'd teach her a lesson.
BOOM.
The shotgun blast was thunder in the confined space.
Reality reasserted itself.
He had a pistol. Small caliber. Six rounds.
She had a shotgun.
The calculation wasn't complicated.
Buckshot chewed through brick, spraying fragments. One piece hit his face, sharp enough to draw blood.
"FUCK YOU!" He fired wildly into the darkness. "DON'T LET ME SEE YOU AGAIN!"
More shots. Panic firing. No aim.
Then he ran.
Jude crouched in the corner stairwell, watching bullets impact the far wall.
Good call staying hidden, he thought.
He didn't show himself. Just turned and headed back upstairs.
The woman he'd scared the attacker away from—she'd have to get herself home. He couldn't help more than he already had.
Ten dollars in asset points for a one-time voice modulator. Worth it to save a life, even if he'd gotten nothing in return.
Could've at least asked for compensation, he thought wryly. But then she'd remember me.
Better to stay anonymous.
He considered retrieving the bullet he'd fired—the one that hit the wall for authenticity. Decided against it. No one died tonight. GCPD wouldn't investigate. And even if they did, the gun was Clinton Banner's originally. Any ballistics would trace to him, not Jude.
The only risk had been missing the wall entirely. Jude had aimed carefully, but his marksmanship was garbage. If he'd hit someone by accident...
Well. That would've been unfortunate.
The man burst out of the alley, running hard.
"Crazy bitch!" He panted, rage still burning. "I'll find out who you are! You're dead!"
A shadow moved overhead.
Slim. Silent. Cat-like.
It dropped from a fire escape, flowing between buildings with inhuman grace. Following.
The East End was Catwoman's territory. She didn't kill. But she had other methods.
Drake was waiting when Jude slipped back inside.
He stood by the window, gun in hand, watching the street.
"Where did you go?"
Jude locked the door behind him, moved to the couch. "Watching the excitement. Gunfight downstairs."
"Wasn't the bus shootout enough for you?"
"That was your problem."
"Gentlemen." Camilla's voice cut through from the bedroom. Tired. Sharp. "It is three fifteen in the morning. If there weren't two lunatics shooting at each other nearby, we would be sleeping. Now that the lunatics are gone, please go back to bed."
Jude raised his hands in surrender, dropped onto the couch.
Drake looked at his wife's expression—which suggested homicide was on the table—and wisely retreated to the bedroom.
"Jude." Camilla appeared in the doorway, arms crossed. "Try not to join in the excitement at night in Gotham. Especially not when there's shooting."
"Understood."
"Good." She studied him for a moment. "Get some sleep."
She returned to the bedroom, closing the door with deliberate gentleness.
Jude agreed with her assessment. Before buying actual gun skills—marksmanship, tactical awareness, all of it—he couldn't reliably defend himself, let alone help others.
Survival skills first. Heroics later. Maybe never.
He pulled up the system's driving simulator, dove back into practice.
The moon set. Stars wheeled overhead.
Morning arrived with bureaucratic inevitability.
8 AM.
Jude emerged from the simulation, blinking at bright daylight. Stretched. Walked to the kitchen and started making breakfast, humming tunelessly.
Outside the window: the alley where a woman had screamed and a man had fired shots last night.
Smoke rose from neighboring apartments. Cooking smells mixed with morning air. The sunrise burned off the haze, making everything look clean. New.
As if daylight washed away sin. Made last night a dream.
But someone's mood was genuinely bright this morning.
Jude cracked eggs into a pan, watching them sizzle.
"Good morning, Gotham," he said to the empty kitchen.
For once, he meant it.