At the sound of that command, Waylon Jones froze.
It slowly turned its head, the golden-yellow eyes locking onto Lance at the entrance of the alley.
Lance walked toward it step by step, leaning on his cane.
His black leather boots stepped into the pools of blood with a wet squelch. For a moment, Lance had the urge to tiptoe around them like a little girl, carefully avoiding the mess.
But doing something like that in front of the "child" he intended to adopt would clearly be inappropriate.
The closer he got, the heavier the stench of blood became. It was splattered everywhere.
In the end, Lance stopped three steps away from Jones, his gaze sweeping over the corpses scattered across the ground.
"Wow," he said with a soft sigh.
Clean and decisive. A blend of brute force and skill. Still, the execution was crude and unrefined. At the very least, Lance himself could never tolerate this level of mess.
Blood was splashed everywhere. A length of intestine even hung from the wall.
Jones released the grip.
The gunman, paralyzed with fear, scrambled backward. His terror was so complete that his pants were already soaked.
Lance extended his cane, blocking his path.
The man clearly recognized him.
"Lance Prescott!?" he screamed, his voice cracking. "You, you're working together!"
"If you insist on putting it that way, it's not entirely wrong," Lance replied with a faint smile. Then he tapped the man's forehead with his cane, sending him into unconsciousness.
Lance shrugged. "Don't worry. I don't kill people. I just help the Gotham Police Department improve their performance metrics."
With that, he turned his attention back to Jones.
Jones stood where it was, its chest rising and falling heavily, blood sliding down the scales on its hands.
It looked at Lance, then at its own blood-covered hands. Suddenly, as if jolted awake, it took a step back.
A low, uneasy rumble rose from its throat.
This pet was… far too adorable.
Lance admitted he was projecting a certain "dog-like" image onto it, but the truth was, Jones fit his idea of a pet almost perfectly.
So Lance smiled.
He took a handkerchief from the inner pocket of his suit and walked closer.
"Lower your head."
Jones stared at him blankly.
"I said, lower your head."
After a brief hesitation, Jones slowly lowered its head.
With a tone that did not match his gentleness, Lance pressed the handkerchief against Jones' face and began wiping it off roughly.
Scales had already covered more than half of her face, leaving only a vague trace of human features.
Lance did not care. He rubbed the cloth back and forth across the scales, though it did little to remove the blood.
The stains barely faded.
But that hardly mattered. People loved appearances above all else.
"Those fingers," Lance asked as he wiped, "you left them at my door?"
Jones tried to nod, but with Lance's hand still pressed against its face, it did not dare move.
"Why?"
"…They offended you." Jones finally spoke, its first words since seeing Lance... the voice sounded off, a little softer than what Lance was expecting.
To be honest, the voice was unpleasant, like fine sandpaper grinding against the ear but it held a softer edge. Well, Lance just ignored it at the moment.
"They shouldn't have offended you. This is the price."
Lance's hand paused.
He looked at the person in front of him. No, the child.
The hoodie it wore was worn thin. The knees of its pants were torn through. Even the soles of its shoes were peeling.
And yet, when those yellow eyes looked at him, there was an awkward sincerity in them, something that made it difficult to look away.
Lance had long since lost that kind of thing.
Or perhaps he had never possessed it at all.
"I never asked. What is your name?" Lance asked, though he already knew.
"Waylana. Waylana Jones."
Ahh.. not Waylon but Waylana.. Lance was a little surprised. So it was a girl.
That explained the budding chest situation. You couldn't blame her for wearing a man's clothes in Gotham's East Side. Being a girl here could give you a fate you wouldn't like.
"How old are you?"
"I don't know."
Lance put the handkerchief away. It was already soaked through with blood.
He tossed it into a nearby trash can, then pulled out a piece of chocolate from another pocket.
"Hold out your hand."
Waylana obediently extended her blood-stained palm. Lance placed the chocolate on it.
"Eat it."
Waylana did not even unwrap it. She shoved the entire piece into her mouth and swallowed it without chewing.
Lance smiled again.
He was not a particularly serious person and smiled often, but tonight, he had smiled more times than usual.
He raised his hand, intending to pat Waylana's head, but Waylana leaned back immediately, avoiding the touch.
"Afraid of me?" Lance asked, raising an eyebrow.
Waylana stared at his suit, her voice low. "It'll get dirty."
Lance's hand paused in midair, then he did something that made Waylana's eyes widen.
He leaned his cane against the wall, unbuttoned his suit jacket, and casually tossed it onto the ground.
He rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt to his elbows, revealing well-defined forearms.
"How about now?" he asked.
Waylana stared at him for a long moment, then slowly, hesitantly, leaned forward and rubbed her blood-stained face against Lance's palm.
The rough scales scraped against his skin, mixed with the sticky blood of others, like a large beast marking its scent.
If anyone happened to pass by this alley and saw the two of them, they would not think this was the aftermath of a killing.
They would think it was some kind of ritual.
No matter how you looked at it, the scene was completely inappropriate.
Lance felt the coarse texture of the scales in his palm, along with the damp blood.
He did not pull his hand back. Instead, he used his other hand to ruffle Waylana's messy hair, then withdrew and gestured for her to stand properly.
"Listen, Waylana," he said.
"You don't need to guard my door anymore. And you don't need to…" He recalled the row of fingers at his doorstep and hesitated, unsure whether to laugh or sigh. "…you don't need to arrange things so neatly."
Waylana nodded.
"But if anyone hurts you," Lance paused, then continued, "or hurts me, then do whatever you want. Understood?"
Waylana nodded again, something lighting up in her yellow eyes.
"So," Lance extended his hand toward her, "my law firm is short an assistant. Will you come with me?"
Waylana hesitated.
Lance kept his hand extended, waiting patiently for an answer.
Raising a stray dog was like this. It required patience, care, and above all, the ability to wait.
Of course, a little technique helped as well.
Seeing Waylana's hesitation, Lance slightly moved his hand, as if he were about to withdraw it.
In the next instant, Waylana reacted.
"I will!" she shouted.
From his earpiece, Number 1 spoke.
"Sir, multiple life signs detected approaching. Approximately twelve individuals, armed. Distance: two hundred meters."
Lance sighed.
He picked up his suit jacket. Though it was already covered in dust, he put it back on without concern and retrieved his cane.
"Let's go," he said to Waylana. "I'll take you somewhere to eat something decent. As for these bodies…"
He glanced at the alley and shrugged.
"…leave them for Batman to deal with. After all, he's the self-proclaimed 'trash cleaner' of this city, isn't he?"
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Yeah, that's why I used 'it' a lot in the previous chapter and this one. Hope you liked it!♥
Read 12 chapters ahead of WN:
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