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Chapter 17: Reporter Receives Award

  It took Su Ming and Cindy about five minutes to regroup in the torrential rain.

  Tonight's darkness felt thicker than usual, and the streets of Gotham were soaked in an air of unease. Many civilians, startled awake by the chaos, huddled behind their curtains, afraid to turn on their lights for fear of drawing attention. Through rain-streaked windows, they watched the two blurred figures down below with fear in their eyes.

  "I've got only bad news," Cindy said, her voice tinged with frustration. "I found ninja footwear prints on the rooftop. Someone else—another shadow dancer—was here before us."

  Su Ming nodded. The water around their ankles was rising, but Gotham's drainage system was running full throttle and still couldn't cope with this level of downpour. Inside the building, everything was eerily clean—as if someone had licked it spotless. It was unimaginable for this kind of neighborhood, especially considering the bck-cd figures had probably cleaned up before leaving.

  He sighed, disappointment creeping in. He’d tried questioning residents, kicking down doors with guns and knives, pressing for answers, but it had been in vain. Some were so terrified they had literally lost control of themselves. But still, no witnesses. No clues.

  That meant the bck-cd figures had moved quickly, silently. And, perhaps more importantly, it confirmed that neither Gordon nor they had fired their weapons—Gordon wasn’t hurt.

  "So, we're left with the assassin's body," Su Ming muttered under his breath. "We could use it to lure the Assassin's Guild for a chat... but that's too passive. What if the bck-cd ones are gone by the time they come to collect the body? What if Gordon's already..." His voice trailed off as he couldn’t bring himself to finish the thought.

  "We'll head back to the car and take the body with us," Cindy said, cutting him off.

  With no better option, the two of them trudged back to the car, the rain spping against the windshield like a wild river rushing toward the horizon. The world outside seemed as if it was drowning in water, and inside the car, the silence was thick with unspoken thoughts.

  "Why do you think she was dressed like that?" Cindy asked, breaking the quiet. "There were no gunshot wounds. How did they capture her?"

  Su Ming sat back, his hands behind his head, his gaze following the chaotic motions of the weather outside. The local news station had Peter on screen, whirling in confusion as he directed the crew to film the rising water.

  "Gotham's full of people who can pull off stuff like this," he mused. "Scarecrow’s fear toxin is sold openly on the bck market, almost like it’s on a supermarket shelf. Killer Croc, Cyface, all those mutants take contracts—clients can afford their fees. But these bck-cd guys? They’re reckless. Shadow dancers don’t talk, no matter how much you torture them. All that effort would be a waste, and worse, it’ll provoke the Shadow Dancer Guild."

  Cindy sighed in frustration. "Such economic power... They could’ve been one of my clients, but now, look."

  She was bitter, feeling like she had lost a fortune. The Assassin's Guild? They were leagues above them—professionals. Many of them had started their training as children—by four, they knew every kind of weapon; by five, they’d killed. By eight, they were out in the world carrying out the guild’s assassination contracts. They had no identity. They didn’t even have real names anymore. They were just weapons—tools of the guild, without honor or personal connections.

  "They might be on the verge of being wiped out," Cindy continued. "But before that happens, we’ve got to pull Gordon out."

  Barbara, sitting in her wheelchair, knew the investigation had hit a dead end. The only piece left was that assassin's body—and Gordon might only have three hours left to live. The three of them sat in silence, contempting their next move.

  The streets outside, blocked by shattered security cameras, were a wastend of broken signals. Su Ming couldn’t help but feel like he was back in the '80s, when the police had to solve cases without modern tools.

  Just as they were deep in thought, the cheerful hum of Vicki’s return broke the quiet. She jumped into the car, looking more than satisfied with her test scoop. She quickly shed her raincoat and, upon seeing Barbara's frown, asked with curiosity, "What’s wrong with her?"

  "Because we have nothing to go on," Su Ming replied. "All we have is a dead woman. Did the station call? Any tips from the public?"

  Vicki chuckled. "Despite the hefty pay, no one dares lie to me. Even the fraudsters are scared of me. Haven’t received a single call."

  Vicki pulled out her phone and waved it in front of them. "They did call, just to check if I was still alive, and asked me to tell Deathstroke that they’d cooperate with his demands. They begged me not to kill them."

  "Really?" Cindy raised an eyebrow. "So if no one’s calling, they won’t send anyone to help us find clues? I guess we’ll need to spice things up. Maybe we should head to the station and motivate them."

  Her tone was ced with annoyance. This mission felt more troublesome than usual. In past jobs, clients at least provided photos of targets, names, and activity. But this? It felt like they were flying blind.

  "Sure!" Vicki’s eyes lit up, a touch too eagerly. "We could start by eliminating one of their directors. She’s always been a thorn in my side, trying to crush the career of talented reporters like myself."

  Without missing a beat, she urged Cindy to drive back to the station, ready to go on a rampage. If Deathstroke did the deed, it would make her life a whole lot easier. It was as if she had a dark obsession with being the puppet master, viewing herself as an observer of life rather than a participant.

  Su Ming removed his helmet, a faint smile tugging at his lips. He knew Vicki had found something—and now she was demanding her reward. She was acting like a bounty hunter, drooling over the promise of payment.

  "We’re going to kill people now, huh? Did you find something?" he asked with a knowing grin. "Because that’s what we promised to the person providing the clue."

  Vicki’s smug smile widened. She pulled out a pair of gsses, dripping with water as though they’d just been fished out from a ke. She handed them to Barbara, her eyes twinkling with excitement.

  "You can’t say I didn’t keep my word. The person who provided the clue... was me."

  Barbara stared at the gsses, and after a moment, realization dawned. "These are Gordon’s."

  "Exactly," Vicki said with a satisfied grin. "He dropped them when he was kidnapped. But look closely. He left a clue on the lenses—some scratches. It's a license pte number. That’s the vehicle that took him."

  Su Ming took the gsses and inspected them under the dim light. At first gnce, they looked like ordinary, outdated gsses. The kind older folks might wear. Maybe Barbara got her fashion sense from Gordon after all.

  But then, under the light, the scratches on the lenses became clearer. Su Ming leaned in, his brow furrowing.

  "He scratched something on the lens," Cindy observed as she moved closer. "It’s a license pte number. This must be the car that took him."

  "Cssic Gordon," Su Ming muttered. "Even in the face of capture, he leaves a trail. Barbara, you know what to do, right?"

  Barbara nodded and immediately opened her ptop. She began hacking into the traffic department’s server, attempting to pull up footage from other districts or vehicle registration information.

  But the screen fshed an error.

  "Shit, the server’s offline," she swore, frustration rising. "The storm probably knocked out the power."

  Su Ming offered a reassuring look. "It’s okay. We know the pte number. There’s still one more pce that’ll have information."

  Barbara’s eyes lit up. "Where?"

  Su Ming grinned. "I know a pce. Everything about Gotham is there... but whether we can get it depends on you."

  "I’ll do it!" Barbara said, determination in her voice. "Even if I have to go to jail, I’m saving my dad."

  Cindy, who had been silent, gestured to the back of the car. "Then you’d better blindfold them and take their phones. We can’t have them remembering our route."

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