And I looked, and behold, a black horse, and the one seated on it had a balance scale," -Revelations 6:5-6 (LEB/NIV)

Blood dripped from between his fingers, dripping from the bullet hole in his side to mix with the rain and oil swirling on the pavement under his feet. John swallowed down another scream, every step pulling at the ragged edges of his wound, and threatening to steal the air from his lungs. One shoulder slammed into the brick wall of the alley way, his vision blurring at the edges. The cold fingers of desperation clutched at him, and his thoughts turned to his sisters as the slippery ends of consciousness threatened to desert him. He couldn't die. They needed him- needed the money he made to feed them, clothe them. He couldn't die. If he died they had no futures.

The sound of booted feet came from behind him and he tried to walk faster. He should never have taken that last job. He knew it was risky when he'd said yes, but Anne was never going to afford college without him and she deserved the future he'd never have.

The second he'd seen the target he knew Solvetti would never allow him to live. He was the one witness, the loose end that connected him to the diamond heist from Mr. Freeze. By then it was too late to back out. He'd have to do the job and hope like hell his luck held.

It hadn't…

He'd never even seen the man behind him until it was to late, and then it was only finely honed survival instinct that had allowed him to dodge the bullet meant for his heart. He sneered, well aware what they thought of him, the poor kike from the east end. It had saved his life they way they'd underestimated him; if there had been more than three of them he'd never had made it out the door. For once the Italian snobbery had worked in his favor.

He'd managed to kill one before escaping, but the remaining two were easily gaining on him. A lifetime of overindulgence may have left them fat and unable to run for long, but his injury had stripped him of his head start long ago. He was to far from the clinic and even if he wasn't, no one there would be able to protect him, let alone be willing to die for him.

John had worked for every family in the city and he knew none of them would stand between him and Solvetti. There was no safe harbor for him left in this hell hole he called home. He was to Jewish for the Italians and spent too much time with the Italians for the Irish. The mob kept him around only for the jobs they couldn't entrust to the average criminal idiot. He was expendable… a nobody… and everyone knew it.

There was only one option left to him, and it was such a bad idea he wasn't sure it should even count as a plan. John grimaced at what he was about to do, and turned the last corner to stare at the warehouse looming in the distance. He hesitated, knowing that if he entered that building he might never come out of it again. From somewhere behind him a trash can hit the street and a muffled Italian curse echoed off the walls of the tenements.

It didn't matter. If he stayed where he was he'd die all the same. He was in no condition to fight. The blood loss was already affecting his vision. Even if he could find the strength to raise his gun there was no guarantee he'd be able to find his target. His feet moved forward and he dug deep for a last burst of energy to stumble across the street to pound on the small door with one bloodied fist.

The seconds passed and he knew desperation was written across his face as he pounded on the door again. "I know you're in there," he shouted, his forehead thumping forward against the door as he hissed his last bit of defiance, "I know!"

There was soft rattling from behind the door, and then it cracked ever so slightly. "How do you know," a gravelly voice demanded.

"I know everything," John promised and then pleaded with the other man. "There's no one better than me." He lifted his face, and desperation gave way to anger. Anger at his city, anger at the men who had reduced him to begging for his life like a worthless dog, "let me in and I swear I'll help you bring this city to its knees."

"And you'll do all this if I save you life," the voice behind the door scoffed, not impressed.

"No, I'll do it for revenge," he swore vehemently, his eyes hardening, "Because I will never be a flunkie again."

The voice behind the door considered the offer and John held his breath as he heard the soft flip of metal spinning through the air. A moment later the door swung open just enough for him to squeeze inside, and John lurched forward into the warehouse. The gravelly voice offered only a noncommittal, "We'll see," before shutting them both inside.

John stumbled once, twice, and then fell, landing on the concrete floor less than a foot from the front door. A black dress shoe nudged him over onto his back, and even with his blurred vision he could make out the countenance of Harvey Dent/Two-Face staring back down at him. "We'll see," he murmured once more, fingering his silver coin before heading out the warehouse door to dispose of the men following his newest employee.

Famine:

3 - archaic: a ravenous appetite

Merriam-Webster dictionary