At any other time, Penguin wouldn’t have been so broken down by his cell situation. This wasn’t his first time in prison.

It wasn’t his first time in Blackgate Prison, either. Although he was more familiar with Arkham, this time, he had landed himself in Blackgate. The downside was—Arkham is a mental institution. There, they wouldn’t make inmates work. They provided food, harmless tools, and encouraged reading, conversation, and rest.

But Blackgate was different, especially after the new warden took over.

The foolish Joseph was gone, and the new warden intended to transform Blackgate into her own thing. But she didn’t understand Blackgate; it was much more complicated than she imagined.

As Penguin pondered, he was taken out by the guards for today’s labor.

Due to his behavior, the once-mighty gang leader Penguin was deemed “safe” and allowed to work alongside other inmates. Naturally, they wouldn’t bring out Killer Croc to clear the sewers since the risk outweighed the reward.

However, today’s route was a bit strange. First, they went to a warehouse in Zone B2 to move some machines, then installed these machines under a technician’s guidance, and finally began learning to operate them.

The inmate next to Penguin looked confused, holding a piece of cloth in his hand: “What exactly are we supposed to do?”

“We’re supposed to add fluorescent agents while making fabrics and then do some textile work,” Penguin sneered. “But why the stupid green fluorescent dye?”

He stared at the instructional material being projected, showing the final product: a green hood with elasticity, difficult to remove by external force, sewn with goggles that only left the wearer’s eyes visible. If it weren’t for the fluorescent green, he’d think this was for bank robbers.

The patch under the wearer’s chin had black letters stitched on it—

“Sanitation.”

“Looks like this is some sort of uniform for sanitation workers. Ugly, but definitely noticeable at night,” Penguin thought. “But what does that have to do with me?”

Despite his thoughts, his actions were meticulous. Under the contract’s constraints, whether Penguin wanted to or not, he would become a model prisoner—a title that disgusted him.

After a period of work, they received dinner with an extra sausage and half an apple compared to other inmates—compensation for their labor.

But on the way from the cafeteria to his cell, he was stopped again:

“Cobblepot?” A guard nodded at him. “You’ve been assigned a new cell. Follow me.”

Penguin paused, smiling, “Alright, alright. May I ask who—”

The guard pushed him back to Zone B2, opening a door in the corner of the room where they worked earlier: “The warden thinks you did well—”

The guard’s expression was calm: “You recorded all the hood numbers during work, scratching them under the workbench with your nails.”

Penguin’s face twisted for a moment.

“And during work, you turned your head several times,” the guard indicated the surveillance, “…because there were seagulls on the windowsill. Do you miss them? You have quite the knack for bird training, Mr. Cobblepot. Since you were incarcerated, this is the first time you’ve been above ground.”

“I just,” Penguin laughed, “I just like those little darlings. What does the warden want from me? I believe I’ve been doing my job well.”

“Do what you did today,” the guard said. “You’ll stay here, and the hoods will be numbered sequentially. You must remember these numbers and ensure you know the whereabouts of any hood.”

After the guard left, Penguin sat on the bed, stunned.

Unless these hoods marked “Sanitation” were used solely within the prison, knowing their whereabouts meant…he might have a chance to leave Blackgate?

Penguin panted heavily, clenching and unclenching his fists. If he could leave the prison, he believed he could achieve many things, like finding a wizard skilled in curse-breaking.

He stared through the window at the green glow outside, the color of the hoods. Now, he found these items not ugly at all—they were his little darlings.

Meanwhile, Vivi was busy selecting users for Penguin’s little darlings.

“Not too fat, not too skinny, not overly strong, no highly distinctive tattoos…” She sat in her chair, leisurely spinning around. As she spoke, thousands of resumes on her system interface were instantly halved.

Vivi vaguely felt the system was more efficient, not because the game had become more intelligent, but due to an indescribable smoothness. It felt like the operating speed had doubled!

“Should I chat with Black Mask?” Vivi continued spinning, propping her chin with one hand. “Let me check. Black Mask’s current health…76, submission…15. But I didn’t expect that just keeping him confined counts as interrogation because it torments his mind?”

Should she release him? Of course not.

Vivi planned to wait until his submission bar was maxed out… Her plan was well thought out, but the issue was, these NPCs never followed the plan.

In the early hours of the 29th, a prison guard burst into the warden’s office, surprised to find that she was still awake, poring over inmate files.

He barely had time to think, “Ms. Bettywen, Black Mask has killed his subordinate, Cole. You know, they’re trapped in a room by some mysterious force, and then he killed him, threatening… threatening to kill more if we don’t release him. He said he would continue killing.”

Vivi frowned, “He’s just one man. There are 27 others in the room. Even if they are his subordinates, why can’t they resist?”

The guard stammered, “…Ma’am, that’s Black Mask. That’s… Black Mask!”

Who would dare to resist him? That’s Roman Sionis, one of Gotham’s most ruthless criminals, a master of torture and combat. Even with a gun to their heads, they wouldn’t dare resist.

—They could only be relieved that Cole was the first to die and not themselves.

Just as Vivi had threatened Black Mask with a self-destruction ploy, Black Mask now threatened the warden with his subordinates’ lives.

Even if it failed, it wouldn’t matter to him—if he killed them all, he’d have a quiet room to himself, while the warden would face newspaper accusations, human rights protests, and a plummeting reputation.

Black Mask thought it was brilliant, making sure his subordinates’ deaths had some value.

“I’ve had enough,” the young warden tossed her pen onto the desk, “He’s targeting me because I’m busy, isn’t he?”

She frowned, picked up the pen, and said, “Evacuate everyone from Zone A2, turn off the cameras, then find Deadshot and tell him his daughter will visit this weekend, with the prison handling the transport. Also, get the gun from the seventh locker in row C5 and give it to him.”

The guard shuddered, almost thinking the warden was planning to execute Black Mask extrajudicially.

“What are you standing there for?” Vivi said, “Don’t forget the tranquilizer darts next to the gun.”

If Black Mask wanted to get out of his cell early to enjoy his prison life, Vivi didn’t mind giving him a personal interrogation session.

After sending the guard away, Vivi made a call, “Keep an eye on the sky and the shoreline. You’re allowed to shoot on sight if you see anything suspicious.”

She stared at the map dotted with red markers, zooming in and out, then scoffed.

—If Black Mask wanted to escape, he’d have better chances with an entire squad of Deathstrokes.

Gotham’s unpredictable weather struck again. When Vivi appeared in the open yard, it was pouring rain. She stood there, looking like she might be struck by the raging lightning at any moment.

Black Mask’s subordinates knelt or lay prone, avoiding eye contact, while he stood in the center, flashing a bloody smile at Vivi.

Vivi licked her lips and returned to the second-floor corridor.

Theoretically—technically, Bella Bettywen shouldn’t be able to solve the problem of Black Mask’s confinement since it was Vivi who had driven the nails into the walls. If “Bella” did it, it would be breaking the game’s mechanics, akin to disrupting aggro in a boss fight.

But Vivi recalled that she had openly demonstrated her “teleportation” ability before without any disguise.

Lightning cracked through the sky.

Black Mask squinted, seeing a familiar figure behind the warden.

That girl who deceived him! She was staring at him!

Black Mask fired a shot directly ahead, but the bullet was deflected by the air wall. He grinned, pointing his hot gun barrel at his trembling subordinate, who dropped his gun and raised his hands, saying, “Help…”

“Help!” “Help me!” “Help, please!”

The warden frowned, shielding the girl with her body and then pushing her behind a wall, holding a small hammer in her hand. She said, “You have indeed threatened me, Black Mask. This tool can unlock this cell. Release the others!”

“You’re quite the righteous one,” Black Mask sneered, “Warden.”

Look, righteous people are far weaker than villains like them because they can be threatened. Everyone can become their weakness—even the villain’s own life.

He found it amusing. Normally, he’d continue taunting, but it seemed that in the blink of an eye, the warden had mounted a matte black and gold motorcycle. Then, she revved the throttle to its maximum, accelerating towards him—

The wind and rain seemed to pause momentarily, only to be torn apart by the vehicle’s speed. The woman threw the hammer from the bike, and Black Mask’s gaze followed the hammer for just an instant.

The next second, the roaring engine was inches from his face.

He thought, he thought that when this supposedly indestructible wall disappeared, there would be some unusual movement, but it shattered silently like a thin piece of paper—and this paper made Black Mask look utterly ridiculous.

Indeed…

“I indeed,” he thought, “hate these superhuman powers!”

If only he could wield them!

He blocked the motorcycle with one hand but slid back a distance, leaving deep tracks on the ground. Then came the almost continuous sound of gunfire. When Black Mask raised his head, all 26 of his subordinates had fallen, leaving only him and the warden in the center of the yard.

Deadshot frowned as he moved a bit forward, his sniper scope alternating between the faces of the warden and Black Mask. Soon, he lowered his gun and leaned against the wall.

“This has gone beyond human combat,” he muttered, turning his head. “Hey, kid, are you still going to stay there?”

The girl hiding behind the wall was barefoot, her sleeve seemingly caught on an exposed wire from the wall. Fortunately, she was sheltered from the wind, with only the hem of her dress fluttering slightly.

Her brown hair clung to her face, and she paid no attention to Deadshot. Instead, she focused intently on the fight in the center of the yard—

After a while, tears slowly rolled down her cheeks, but her expression remained unchanged.

Deadshot frowned again, “Kid?”

He had a daughter, which gave him a certain urge to help young girls. Why was this child crying while watching Bettywen and Black Mask fight… who was she, really?

But the next second, he saw the girl pulled into Warden Bettywens arms. The woman tilted her chin at him, “You should return to your cell, Deadshot.”

Then, she placed the seemingly mystical hammer into the girl’s hand and softly said, “You should go back too, Vivi.”

The guards rushed in to hoist the fallen Black Mask, fitting him with shackles.

Deadshot watched as the girl and the hammer disappeared together, as if suddenly teleported away.

Vivi put both the [Cardboard Cutout (Vivi)] and the [Handy Hammer] into her inventory, clapping her hands. “What are you still doing there? Want to join me for a chat in the interrogation room?”

Deadshot: “…Remember what you promised! Take care of my daughter.”

Vivi shrugged.

Of course she would. She equally cared for every innocent person in Gotham.

Now, it was time to head to the interrogation room for a chat with Black Mask.