Ren hadn't been lying. Last-minute cramming was practically a life skill. Anyone who'd ever survived exam week knew the drill—an entire semester's worth of material, consumed in three caffeine-fueled nights, then purged from memory the moment the test ended.
Sure, the employee handbook was thick—no highlights, no cheat sheet—but he'd absorbed most of it. Just to be safe, he even spent one system credit to upload the whole thing into his system's record board. That way, he could pull it up with a thought whenever he needed a quick reference.
The floor supervisor threw a few questions his way. Once it was clear Ren hadn't just been bluffing, he led him straight to the locker room and handed over a fitted waiter's uniform—black suit, clean lines, sharp collar.
This would be Ren's first time wearing a suit.
"Hmm. Not bad. Not bad at all."
The supervisor stepped back and gave him a critical once-over. Tall, lean build. Symmetrical features. Clean-cut, handsome, even. Everything checked out—except for the glint in Ren's eyes. A little too sharp. A little too wild. He had the look of someone who smiled with his teeth, not his lips.
"If you were working nights, you might get away with it. But this is a daytime shift, and that face of yours looks like it belongs in a mugshot, not on the service floor."
Ren tried to soften his expression, curling his lips into something that vaguely resembled a customer-service smile.
It didn't help.
If anything, it made things worse—like a predator pretending to be tame. If someone saw him in an expensive Italian suit, they'd probably assume he was some mid-tier mob boss rather than a waiter.
"You ever consider joining a gang?" the supervisor muttered as he turned away. "I feel like you'd fit right in."
A moment later, he came back with a pair of sleek, gold-rimmed glasses.
"Put these on. Just... try not to drop them into someone's soup, alright?"
Ren slipped on the glasses. Instantly, the cold, feral edge to his demeanor was softened—replaced by a trace of quiet intellect. It wasn't a total transformation, but it helped.
"Much better."
The supervisor ran him through a few basic service routines—greeting customers, taking orders, clearing tables. Ren followed along smoothly. His posture was straight, his tone polite, and his answers precise. Where he fumbled a step or two, his looks and composed demeanor did most of the heavy lifting.
"Not bad," the supervisor said. "You're a fast learner. Clock in at ten."
Then he wandered off, stifling a yawn. Probably heading home to sleep off a long night. Judging by the dark circles under his eyes, the late shift must've been intense.
Ren had already eaten, so he didn't bother with food. Instead, he popped off his glasses and walked to the newsstand outside. He bought a paper—mostly out of habit, but also just to see if Gotham had managed to implode overnight.
A quick skim through the headlines painted the usual picture:
> Two armed robberies turned deadly—Gotham's population continues to decline.
Biker gang road-raged into a cement truck. Tragic, but hard to sympathize.
Pharmaceutical lab workers mysteriously frozen solid. All signs point to Mr. Freeze.
Several Maroni gang members hospitalized with shattered bones. Evidence turned over to GCPD. Looks like karma finally made a house call.
Wait. Shattered bones?
Ren flipped back to the article, reading more closely. The victims had multiple fractures—limbs, ribs, everything. The article even hinted that they might be tied to the two earlier robberies.
Good job, Ren thought. Sure, you're probably a psychopath, but at least you're a productive one.
Of course, the Maroni family was a vassal clan under the Falcone crime empire, Gotham's top-tier mafia. No wonder the supervisor had pulled an all-nighter. Odds were, some high-level players had shown up at the restaurant last night.
Still, none of this had anything to do with him. He was just a waiter.
Ren shrugged and kept reading. More street thugs hospitalized. Drug dealers gift-wrapped and left on the steps of GCPD headquarters. Nothing too out of the ordinary. All in all, yesterday had been a relatively "peaceful" day by Gotham standards.
"Hmm?"
He'd just folded the paper when he noticed a few other suited employees standing behind him. They were reading over his shoulder with mild amusement.
"Morning," Ren offered.
"Morning. Name's Santos. Claude Santos."
"Lloyd Rick."
"I'm Bridgette Castro."
"Nice to meet you all," Ren said with a friendly nod. "Wanna take a look?"
"Thanks."
Santos took the paper and began reading intently. Ren stood up and noticed that they were all focused on the story about the Maroni gangsters getting sent to the hospital. A flicker of understanding clicked into place.
It made sense. Drake had mentioned that Donald—the restaurant owner—had powerful backers. Given how he'd acted on the phone last night, there was no way this place didn't have ties to the Falcone family.
But what Ren hadn't expected was that the staff might have direct connections to the mafia. That went way deeper than he thought.
"Maroni's guys, huh," Santos muttered, tone dripping with mockery.
Rick shook his head. "Embarrassing. And they got dumped at the police station too."
Bridgette frowned. "Are we just gonna let that slide? What about the Don's reputation?"
Santos chuckled. "Maroni's reputation isn't the Don's problem. And hey, you might stand a chance in a gunfight against lions or tigers or even people. But what about ghosts, nightmares, or fear itself?"
He closed the paper with a satisfied sigh. "Not our problem anyway. We're just humble waitstaff. Still... made for a good read."
He stood up, grinning as he teased, "You though, Ren—you really do have that mobster look. You sure you're not secretly with the Falcones?"
Ren raised his hands, laughing. "No, no. Not in a gang. I just... look a little mean sometimes."
He slipped the gold-rimmed glasses back on.
"See? Much more approachable."
The others exchanged amused glances. Santos's grin widened. "Just messing with you. No offense."
Rick and Bridgette subtly checked Ren's neck and wrists, looking for gang ink. Nothing.
Maybe we should've asked the supervisor before assuming he was one of us, they thought. Could've gone sideways.
What none of them realized was that the situation with the Maronis had been far worse than what the papers reported. The supervisor and Donald had spent the whole night dealing with the fallout—and completely forgot to brief the team about their new hire.
"Almost time for shift change," Santos said. "Chef's already here. Wanna head in together?"
"Sure. I just got here—I could use a walkthrough."
They didn't wait long before a sharply dressed man stepped into the restaurant.
Ren stayed where he was, curious to watch how the others handled a guest.
But then Santos, Rick, and Bridgette all stiffened—just for a second—then shoved Ren forward like a human offering.
"...?"
"Good morning, sir," Ren said smoothly. "Do you have a reservation?"
"One."
"And the name?"
"Dent. Harvey Dent."
(End of Chapter)