The Suicide Slum was located in the southern part of tropolis, a place defined by poverty, rampant cri, unchecked gun violence, and an overwhelming atmosphere of desperation.
Though its official na was Hob's Bay, the bleak reality of life there had earned it the nickna Suicide Slum. The na reflected the harsh truth: living there was like committing a slow, agonizing suicide. Only those with nowhere else to go, the truly destitute, considered it a viable option for survival. Over ti, the real na of the area was forgotten, replaced by the grim moniker.
Bardi stepped into this grim environnt, his pristine white Martin boots instantly stained as he stepped into a murky black puddle. The air was thick with an unbearable mixture of stenches: rot, the musty odor of unwashed socks, and the unmistakable reek of human waste. It was a nauseating assault on the senses.
Fortunately, Bardi could control his Kryptonian-enhanced senses, dulling his sense of sll. Otherwise, the overpowering odor alone might have been enough to bring even a Kryptonian to their knees.
Trailing behind him was Mike, carrying a box. When he saw the dirt clinging to Bardi's boots, he cursed furiously in his heart:
"Dirty! Filthy! Just look at this place! Shit everywhere, piss dripping down from above. What's so great about prancing around in a white trench coat, huh? Think you're special? Think you're invincible because bullets don't touch you?"
The venom in Mike's thoughts didn't stop there. He couldn't let go of the fact that Bardi had commandeered his "money" support a woman.
Bardi's pristine white attire stood out like a beacon in the filthy darkness of the Suicide Slum.
A hunched old man squatting by a corner wall glanced at him curiously. His skeletal fra, bloated stomach, and wide, hollow eyes made him look almost inhuman. Nearby, dirty children watched with wide eyes, their faces streaked with gri. A woman gathering clothes on a balcony paused to observe him. Even burly passersby, their faces etched with suspicion, quickened their pace, their expressions like those of predators sizing up unfamiliar prey.
The sight was strange, unnatural.
Bardi was too clean, too white, too pristine for a place like this. He didn't belong. His immaculate appearance clashed with the filth of the Suicide Slum, drawing every eye.
The tailored clothes he wore, costing thousands of dollars at a minimum, were a testant to luxury. Everyone who saw him could tell his outfit was expensive, far beyond what anyone in this slum could afford. Combined with his indifferent deanor and extraordinary presence, he stood out like a piece of fine art displayed in a garbage heap.
Bardi stopped walking.
Not far ahead, a group of people were chasing and beating a disheveled drunk.
The drunkard stumbled, clutching a half-empty blue beer bottle, beer spilling onto the ground as he fled. The air around him carried the sour stench of alcohol.
"Stop! Don't hit ! Please, stop!" the man slurred, his voice thick with panic and desperation.
He tripped and fell at Bardi's feet, curling into a ball to protect himself.
The group chasing him—a gang led by a young, muscular white man—paused montarily to glance at Bardi. But seeing no reaction from him, they resud their assault.
The young leader barked an order, and the group began kicking and punching the drunkard rcilessly. Mud splattered as they struck him, covering their shoes and the surrounding ground. When the drunkard was barely conscious, the leader motioned for the others to stop.
Breathing heavily, the young man leaned down, grabbed the drunkard's hair, and yanked him upright. His face was red with rage. "You took my money! Where's my stuff?"
His furious voice echoed in the alley.
The drunkard, his face swollen and bruised, clung desperately to the beer bottle in his hand as if it were his only anchor to reality.
The young man's rage deepened as he shouted, "I gave you $300, you piece of shit! You promised a deal, told I'd get product. I believed you! I thought you'd connect to sothing big, sothing that would finally get out of this dump!"
His anger boiled over as he delivered another brutal kick to the drunkard's ribs, leaving him gasping for air.
The drunkard knelt down suddenly, wrapping his arms around the young man's leg in a desperate plea. Tears stread down his battered face as he cried, "Leon, please, I'm sorry! Don't kill ! I didn't an to lose the money!"
"Liar!" Leon roared, clenching his fist and punching the drunkard in the head with all his strength. The man's head snapped back, and his vision blurred as dizziness overtook him.
Just as Leon raised his fist for another blow, the drunkard shouted, "Don't hit ! Leon, listen! I can introduce you to international gangs, real criminal organizations! They're way bigger than anything in the Suicide Slum! I've got connections! I know people, you just have to trust !"
Leon hesitated, his fist pausing mid-swing. The ntion of international gangs and criminal organizations caught his attention. Compared to the petty cris of the Suicide Slum, working with larger syndicates could offer him real power and opportunity.
But those standing around him were less convinced.
"Don't listen to him, Leon," one of the onlookers said dismissively. "He's just an old drunk. Everyone knows his story. He was kicked out of those organizations years ago and ca crawling back here. He's nothing now."
The group murmured in agreent.
The drunkard, once a gang leader who had clawed his way out of the Suicide Slum, had been chewed up and spat out by the criminal underworld of tropolis. Humiliated and broken, he had returned to the slums he had once escaped from, where he now lived in disgrace, drowning his failures in alcohol.
For a brief mont, he had known the glory of leaving the Suicide Slum. But in the end, he had been reduced to nothing more than a desperate, pitiful shadow of his forr self.
Leon's anger flared up again as he began to beat and kick the drunkard relentlessly. The man's screams echoed through the alley.
"Don't! Stop! Don't hit ! I know people, I know the Hell's Angels! I can introduce you to them—ah! No, please!"
The drunkard coughed up blood, curling up even tighter in a futile attempt to protect himself from the blows raining down on him.
As the drunkard started to ramble, Bardi rubbed his right thumb gently against the palm of his left hand—a subtle, habitual motion that betrayed his deep thought. It was a movent he rarely allowed himself in the underground research facility, where even small gestures could reveal too much. Out here, however, it didn't matter.
This was the real world, a place far more complex than the simplified narratives often seen in stories. It wasn't just a stage with a few protagonists and supporting characters. A city as massive as tropolis wasn't that simple. Its intricate web of relationships, power struggles, and hidden agendas made it far more than a backdrop for a select few.
Bardi understood that if he wanted to dominate this city, he needed to start at its roots, exploring its dark underbelly and using both light and shadow, interest and violence, to assert his rule.
"Stop. Do you want to kill him?" Bardi asked, his tone calm but commanding as he glanced at the crumpled figure of the drunkard on the ground.
The n surrounding the drunkard froze mid-kick, turning their attention to Bardi. Their eyes swept him up and down, sizing him up.
Bardi's appearance imdiately set him apart. His tailored clothes and confident deanor scread wealth and status. To them, he was rich, and in their experience, rich people often enjoyed flaunting their superiority by tossing a bit of money at situations like this. Saving soone as pitiful as a drunkard and receiving their gratitude was just another way for the wealthy to feel powerful and charitable.
Leon hesitated, eyeing Bardi with a glimr of hope. Maybe this stranger would part with so cash to "save" the drunkard, giving him a chance to recoup the $300 he'd lost.
Feigning confusion, Leon said, "Why? He scamd us out of money. Killing him is what he deserves."
Bardi nodded as if in agreent. Without a word, he reached over and pulled a Colt Python revolver from Mike's waistband.
He handed the gun to Leon, his expression unreadable.
"Use a gun, It's faster."
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