The abandoned Blockbuster Video store had been transformed into something between a fortress and a hideout. Bruce took in the details as Mark's crew pushed him through the reinforced door—windows completely boarded up with salvaged plywood, creating a custrophobic darkness broken only by battery-powered nterns scattered throughout the space.

  Where movie dispys once stood, Bruce now saw the infrastructure of survival: crates of canned food stacked against walls, cardboard boxes filled with stolen goods, and an impressive collection of firearms that would make most gang leaders envious. Sleeping bags were arranged in neat rows along what used to be the comedy section, each one a child's entire living space.

  It was efficient. Organized. And utterly depressing.

  Mark settled into what had once been the manager's chair behind the old checkout counter, pulling Selina onto his p with casual possessiveness. Bruce watched her face carefully as Mark's fingers moved through her dark hair in slow, deliberate strokes. Her jaw was clenched tight, eyes focused on some distant point, enduring rather than enjoying the contact.

  The other children arranged themselves around the store with practiced precision—close enough to hear Mark's words, far enough to avoid his reach unless called upon. They watched their leader with the careful attention of prey animals studying a predator.

  "Okay, Mr. Rich Man," Mark said, his voice carrying the zy confidence of someone accustomed to getting his way. "This is the deal. You're going to give me more money—because I know you have it—and everything can stay nice and friendly."

  His fingers continued their movement through Selina's hair, and Bruce caught the slight tremor that ran through her shoulders.

  "And when you don't give me the money I want, or I think you're lying to me..." Mark's hand suddenly moved from Selina's hair to her throat, fingers wrapping around her neck with practiced ease. "You know what I'll do."

  The threat hung in the air. Bruce made eye contact with Selina and saw something that chilled him more than Mark's casual violence—resignation. She'd been through this before. They all had.

  Mark's grip tightened slightly, just enough to make his point, and Bruce realized with crystal crity that this man would follow through. Violence wasn't just his tool of control—it was his entertainment.

  "Look," Bruce said, keeping his voice steady, "I'm new in town. I'm going to need time to set up money transfers, get access to my accounts. But I can go to an ATM right now and pull out five hundred. That's the daily limit."

  Mark's smile widened, though his hand remained at Selina's throat. "Now we're talking, Mr. Rich Man. Give me your card and I'll take care of that little errand. Then we can figure out how you're going to get me the real money."

  Bruce reached for his inside jacket pocket, extracting his bank card. As he handed it over, he opened his mind to his AI companion.

  *BC, can you set up some sort of system to keep feeding this account?*

  *Of course, Mr. Wayne,* came the immediate mental response. *This world's internet and digital security is quite inadequate. I'm accessing funds from various banks, criminal organizations, and any entity that can afford the redistribution. I'll make sure the money gets to you.*

  *Interesting approach,* Bruce thought back.

  *So do you want me to actually set up rger transfers?*

  *No. Just keep making sure he gets his five hundred each day. I want to see where this goes with Mark.*

  "Smart move, Bruce," Mark said, pocketing the card while finally releasing his grip on Selina's neck. She took a shaky breath but remained perfectly still on his p. "I think we understand each other."

  Mark's attention shifted to one of the older boys—eighteen, maybe nineteen, with the kind of desperate hunger in his eyes that came from wanting power. "Roman," Mark called. "You're in charge while I'm gone."

  The boy straightened immediately, chest puffing out with sudden importance. "You got it, Mark. I won't let you down."

  "See that you don't." Mark stood, finally releasing Selina, who quickly moved away and found a spot near the old movie posters. "I'll be back with our guess's contribution. Keep everyone in line."

  As Mark headed for the door, Roman immediately began strutting around the space, trying to project the same casual menace as his leader but coming off more like a child pying dress-up in his father's clothes.

  Bruce used the opportunity to observe. The younger children kept their distance from Roman. They knew he was dangerous, but not in the same league as Mark.

  His gaze found Selina, who had wrapped her arms around her knees and was staring at nothing in particur.

  "So," Bruce said quietly, "how did you end up in this situation?"

  She looked at him sharply. "What is it to you? Why do you care?"

  "Just curious," Bruce replied with a slight shrug. "I mean, you seem like a smart kid. And you clearly don't like what's happening here."

  "Mark's better than a lot of people in this city," she said defensively, though her voice cked conviction. "At least he feeds us. Takes care of us."

  "Yeah," Bruce said carefully. "He also seems to have no problem using you."

  Selina looked away, her jaw tightening.

  "How long have you been with this gang?"

  For a moment, he thought she wouldn't answer. Then, almost reluctantly: "Eight months."

  "Do you get enough to eat?"

  Another pause. "Most days."

  Gradually, piece by piece, the story emerged. Most of the kids were runaways—some from abusive homes, others from the foster system, a few simply abandoned when their families couldn't afford to feed them anymore. Mark had a talent for finding them in their most desperate moments, offering false hope, shelter, and the promise of family.

  "He finds us when we're desperate," Selina said. "When we're cold and hungry. When we have nowhere else to go. And he makes it sound like... like he cares about us."

  But the reality, Bruce learned, was far darker. The kids weren't just used for theft. Mark had them selling drugs, running messages for other criminals who wouldn't risk their own necks. And worse—much worse.

  "Some of the girls..." Selina's voice caught slightly. "He... loans them out. Says they're earning their keep."

  Bruce felt something cold settle in his chest. "And the boys?"

  "Them too, sometimes." She wrapped her arms tighter around herself. "Mark says everyone has to contribute somehow."

  But even that wasn't the worst of it. Selina's voice dropped to almost nothing as she continued: "Sometimes Mark likes to py games. He'll set up situations where... where one of us might get hurt. Real bad. Like, permanently."

  "What kind of games?"

  "Russian roulette. Or he'll send someone on a job he knows is too dangerous, just to see what happens. Tommy disappeared three weeks ago. Mark said he ran away, but..." She shrugged helplessly. "We have rumors."

  "What kind of rumors?"

  Selina's green eyes met his, and Bruce saw fear. "That he kills some of us on purpose. That there are people who pay good money for... parts. Fresh parts."