American Comics: BOSS Invasion

Gotham City at night is even darker and more chaotic. In the shadowy alleys, the stench of blood and screams are commonplace.

On the city's edge, a ragged beggar was passed out drunk in a dilapidated tavern.

His clothes reeked, yet he clutched the most expensive whiskey in his hands.

The bartender, an old man and the tavern's owner, was a native of Gotham City and knew more about the true nature of the world than ordinary people.

The tavern wasn't exactly clean and tidy, but it was orderly. On weekdays, the old regulars from the neighborhood would gather here for a bit.

Young, ambitious out-of-towners all flocked to the city, but the bartender preferred the increasingly desolate old district.

Perhaps "desolate" wasn't the right word. To create chaos, Gotham City had become an important port, with astonishing daily cargo volumes. The massive amount of imported goods accounted for almost one-fifth of the domestic civilian consumption.

You old geezers could drink here for a month and not spend a hundred dollars combined. Of course I'm going to earn this money!"

Falk spoke frankly, not bothering to hide his words from the beggar, but the beggar seemed deaf, paying no attention.

The middle-aged man's gaze flickered as he looked at the beggar, but after glancing at Falk, he ultimately spat in frustration and turned to leave.

Falk watched the tavern door close expressionlessly, then picked up a glass and began cleaning it.

In his youth, he was a notorious thug, having made a great name for himself with an old hunting rifle.

Although he had retired from the underworld, his former students and disciples were everywhere. Even if some had left Gotham, and some had long since returned to the afterlife, no one knew how many remained.

The middle-aged man coveted the ten thousand dollars, but compared to offending Falk, ten thousand dollars seemed insignificant. He could only leave in anger, regretting that he hadn't discovered this damned beggar sooner, or he would have killed him in a ditch.

Only two people remained in the tavern. An old-fashioned record player was playing a black vinyl record, the soothing jazz creating a romantic atmosphere.

The beggar paid no attention, still desperately pouring alcohol into his mouth.

Falk suddenly sighed and placed a white napkin on the table, saying, "Martin, I don't know what you've been through, but this isn't a solution. The money will eventually run out. Do you want to die at the bar like this?"

Before he could finish speaking, the tavern door was pushed open again, and a tall man in a bright silver trench coat, wearing a half-mask, slowly walked in.

The man's attire was peculiar.

Judging from his attire, he looked like an old-fashioned gentleman from the eighteenth century, carrying a cane, wearing a trench coat, a top hat, leather boots, and delicate carvings on his collar.

If the overall color wasn't silver, Falk might have thought this guy had just come off a stage.

Superheroes wearing masks weren't popular yet, so although the owner felt something was strange, he didn't pay much attention.

The man stepped inside, briefly surveyed the surroundings, and surprisingly sat down next to the beggar.

He tossed down a banknote and said elegantly and gently, "A bourbon, no ice. I don't feel like drinking hard liquor tonight. By the way, do you have any white towels? Get me a few; I'll need them later!"

Although Falk found it strange, he quickly provided the requested items for the sake of the large banknote, not uttering a word of nonsense.

This was a tavern; they might not have anything else, but they had plenty of alcohol, and naturally, they weren't short on white towels.

The man took them, gently thanked him, ignored the bourbon, and slowly unfolded the three towels before folding them back together.

His left hand held the white towel and gently pressed it against the beggar's head. His right hand drew something from his coat, revealing a uniquely shaped pistol, and pressed the muzzle directly against the towel.

Falk was startled and quickly tried to stop him, saying, "Don't!"

Whoosh!

With a soft sound, a round hole appeared in the tavern's wooden wall.

The beggar slumped onto the counter.

The man acted quickly, pressing the towel under the beggar's head. Blood flowed from his temple, directly onto the towel, without a single drop splattering outside.

Falk dropped the glass in his hand and turned to grab the hunting rifle from the cabinet. He suddenly felt a chill on the back of his neck, and his body froze.

Sure enough, the man had appeared behind Falk, the cold gun muzzle pressed against the back of his neck.

He gently patted his hat with his silver-gloved right hand and smiled, saying, "Don't worry, my only target is him. I have no malice towards you! But the environment here is quite nice, perfect for my next plan. Are you interested in collaborating, boss?"

Falk had weathered many storms. Although he was an old acquaintance of Martin, that was all it was. He was already being remarkably merciful by managing to talk himself out of simply killing Martin and stealing his money.

He certainly wasn't going to bother avenging a worthless acquaintance.

Falk composed himself, slowly raised his hands, and said calmly, "This has nothing to do with me. I didn't see anything, and I didn't hear anything!"

"Very good. Since you've agreed, let's move on to the next step!"

The man said to himself, took out several wanted posters from his coat, placed them aside, and then took out a uniquely shaped telephone from his pocket.

"This telephone has been specially modified. It's impossible for intelligence agencies to monitor it, and it can't contact the outside world. Just pick up the receiver and wait a few seconds, and you'll be able to contact us!"