Chapter 18: It’s a Hit, It’s a Hit

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In truth, Mark Shawdy could somewhat understand his colleagues’ fear toward this particular guest. As mentioned before, Gotham had its “Black Knight,” often dismissed as a freak in tight clothing or some urban legend. Yet there was also the “White Knight,” who was neither myth nor ghost but a real, ruthless presence.

Harvey Dent, Gotham’s district attorney, was one of perhaps only three unwavering champions of justice in the city: a certain bat, a police commissioner, and this very White Knight before him.

Together, they formed a trinity—one meted out vigilante justice under cover of darkness, another apprehended criminals in the public eye, and finally, Harvey Dent prosecuted them relentlessly to ensure they received their due punishment.

With his steely resolve and intellect, Dent’s name was notorious among Gotham’s myriad gangs. He held leverage over many, having incarcerated several members, earning their hatred yet grudging respect.

In Gotham, countless aspire to be good, but only a rare few withstand harsh reality to remain so.

Yet the problem was, Mark Shawdy was damn afraid of him too.

The White Knight is the brightest beacon when he embodies hope, but once fallen into darkness, he becomes the most twisted and fractured.

If you fear Harvey Dent, then what about me? Am I not afraid of Two-Face? Am I really your colleague?

“Mr. Dent, good evening. Please, this way.”

Harvey nodded sharply, his piercing gaze fixed on Mark’s face for several seconds before suddenly asking, “I notice your smile seems a bit stiff. Are you feeling unwell? Or a bit nervous?”

“No, no, I’m feeling great. I’m just... very passionate about my work, so a little excited, that’s all. Ha ha ha.”

Mark forced his smile to appear natural, unwilling to leave an impression on this future supervillain.

“Oh, really?” Dent smiled meaningfully. “I thought you all didn’t much care for me.”

“Not at all. Red Dragon sincerely welcomes every guest. I’m honored to serve you. Ha ha ha.”

How foolish I am, Mark thought. I only knew superheroes rarely had money, and those who did wouldn’t come here. I didn’t realize Harvey Dent had this habit of flipping faces.

If he wasn’t here today to mock the Falcone family and gather intel, I might as well write my name backwards.

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Mark felt a twinge of nervousness under Harvey Dent’s bright, sharp gaze.

He hoped that when Dent becomes Two-Face, he wouldn’t remember him. Otherwise, flipping a coin—heads for Superman today, tails for Superman tomorrow—would surely mean Mark catching a beating.

Wait, will there be a fight later? Hopefully not.

“Then bring the menu. A few scum were arrested yesterday, so my mood and appetite are good. I’m already considering how many years to sentence them.”

“Ah, well...” Mark handed over the menu and glanced back stealthily. Several faces in the crowd visibly flushed red. A bad feeling crept over him.

Please, don’t mess with me.

“That scum,” Dent said, flipping through the menu with evident interest, “are like rats. Have you ever seen a swarm of rats?”

He went on with relish: “I’ve seen plenty. The big ones are cunning, hiding in their nests by day, only daring to bite at night.”

About half the crowd had now turned red.

“Enough, enough,” Mark thought, terrified. If Dent continued, everyone would be red.

“But the gutter rats have no loyalty or family values. The small ones are stupid. Catch a few, and you can drag out the rest of the nest.”

Now everyone was red. Ha ha ha.

Mark desperately scanned the surroundings for cover and discreetly felt the Beretta tucked under his suit.

If a fight breaks out, he hoped no blood would stain him.

Fortunately, after ordering, Dent did not continue tormenting him, only casually asking about the food and wine—questions clearly answered in the guidebook.

The wines in such a place were mostly stories: a particular vintage, brand, region, grape type, weather that year, winery history, unique flavors—all detailed in that hefty guide. No matter how interesting the story, it was merely marketing for a high price.

With dozens of wines came dozens of stories. It was less a test of the wine and more a test of the server—only a seasoned waiter could remember them all and present them smoothly.

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As for observing and handling customers, Mark had initially planned to bluff his way through with bravado, but meeting Harvey Dent spared him the effort. Most of the time, Dent used their conversation to provoke other gang members.

Mark nervously served dish after dish, catching glimpses of his colleagues reaching for their concealed weapons, only to be restrained.

“Ding ding ding—”

Suddenly, a phone rang, interrupting the otherwise pleasant mood. Dent answered briskly, spoke a few words, then promptly paid and left.

Mark was baffled, unsure what had transpired, but he was pleased to have received his first tip and bonus points.

The restaurant staff seemed relieved as well. Had Dent stayed any longer, their anger might have overwhelmed them.

No one knew why Dent was so good at timing; he had arranged to visit exactly today, and Maroni’s men had been arrested just yesterday.

If it was mere coincidence, Mark was truly lucky.

Fortunately, the following guests were ordinary people, and the manager’s assessment of Mark was correct—his appearance and demeanor masked much of his novice awkwardness.

Hundreds of upper-class patrons passed through the restaurant, and Mark served one after another, truly broadening his horizons.

Whether picky elites, fiery menopausal women, self-important buffoons, or arrogant fools—his colleagues handled them all adeptly. Many of them were actually gangsters moonlighting as waitstaff, which Mark found impressively professional.

He wasn’t without contribution either; the fiery menopausal woman had been his responsibility, and just his brief presence completely dissipated her anger.

Perhaps he was truly cut out for this work.