The screeching of tyres. The loud, deafening sound of a car horn being slammed at a constant, demanding rate. An old lady's horrified scream from the sidewalk and finally, what seemed to be the loudest of them all was a name being cried out by an angry, horrified best friend.

"Max!"

Max threw herself backwards, away from the general direction of the car, her eyes widening in shock as it managed to swerve to a stop a meter or so from where she'd previously stood. The Volvo driver was immediately climbing out of the driver's door. His face filled with rage as she slammed her hand over the left side of her chest on top of her racing heart, her scream caught in her throat. It took her a few moments to realize that the guy was yelling at her.

"What the hell's the matter with you?"

She let her gaze trail over to him after her eyes raked over the old silver 940 Estate, something burning inside of her as she glared down at the Volvo. She disliked Volvos, a lot. If it wasn't for the fact that the silver bulk of a car was between them both then Max was sure that he would've headed straight towards her and wrapped his hands around her throat. He was probably around in his late fourties and resembled something along the lines of Voldemort.

Max processed his question that he screamed at her, the burning turning into something more familiar. Hatred and anger. She narrowed her eyes on him.

"Th...?" She rasped out barely even a word, trying to gather her words together. "The matter with me? You almost turned me into roadkill, jackass!" She snapped with disbelief. Was he honestly blaming her for his driving? For the fact that he almost killed her? She glared across the beat up car with distaste, only letting her eyes fall on the passengers in the back for a second. Men, to be precise, and four of them. She grimaced at the driver.

"You stupid bitch, you walked out into the middle with the road!"

Max barked out a dry, humourless laugh. "Are you being fucking serious? You almost kill me and you blame me for the fact that you don't even know how to drive?" She growled, stomping around the front of the car towards the sidewalk.

"Quiet, lady, or I'll-"

"You'll what?" Max stopped in front of the hood. "You'll hit me? You'll shut my mouth for me? Oh, wow, or will you get into that punk-ass, silver hunk of shit of yours," She laughed, slamming her foot into the already dented bumper. "And finish the job? Well, c'mon then, give it your best shot! Let's find out if your aim isn't as bad your driving." She sneered.

The angry best friend of Maxine Anderson had quickly made her way over to Max while she threatened the driver, slamming her hands onto her shoulders and dragging her away to the sidewalk. Max didn't struggle and instead stared the bald driver as he climbed back into the Volvo.

"Whatever, just watch it next time," He snarled. Max flashed him a big, satisfactory smirk and nodded, giving him the thumbs up as Leah Davidson pulled her further away.

"Thanks, man! And watch the road, pal!"

Voldemort slammed his door shut, stomped on the gas pedal and drove away. Leah angrily shook her best friend, shrieking that she was an idiot for almost getting herself killed and pissing off an obvious criminal. Max didn't care, instead she watched the Volvo speed away, catching a final glimpse at the passengers. In her eyes, she'd done the right thing.

But she hadn't, and she'd just gambled with her future. One of the passengers sat amongst the rest, hidden beneath his ski mask, a small smirk on his scarred face. She had a little fight in her, he liked that. He liked that a lot. He found the whole ordeal amusing, hilarious. Many women would scream, probably faint if they were threatened by any of Gotham's criminals. But she didn't.

He wondered what she would do if he asked her what she thought of them. What she thought of his scars.

Wanna ah, know how I got these scars?