Night had fallen.
Bane and his men left their hideout, walking through the streets of Gotham's slums.
In most people's imagination, a supervillain is usually a massive, muscular brute—someone so big and strong he looks like he could eat three kids for breakfast.
And in reality…
Yes, Bane was exactly that kind of man.
But even so, in Gotham, there were still some desperate souls who would turn to such monstrous figures for help.
Like now.
"Excuse me… can you save my mommy?"
A little girl stared up blankly at the towering mass of muscle that was Bane, her voice timid as she clutched the ragged doll in her hands.
It was a doll she'd picked up from a trash can, well-matched with her own tattered clothes.
"My mommy has cancer. She needs medicine. She's in so much pain. People say only God can help her…"
She trembled, looking up at Bane with eyes full of hope.
"C-Can you help me?"
Bane stopped one of his men from stepping forward to shoo the girl away.
"Where do you live?"
The little girl pointed to the dilapidated house behind her.
Bane walked inside.
A few minutes later, he came out, wiping the brain matter and blood from his hands.
"Your mother will suffer no more… Bury her."
"…Don't go seeking help from others so recklessly again. Or else, the suffering of the world will come find you on its own."
He tilted his head slightly, gazing toward the eastern horizon, where the starry sky was hidden beneath the skirts of darkness.
Bane spoke: "There is no God here… but Bane is."
…
…
…
Gotham's night was so quiet—filled with a graveyard kind of peace.
The gray rain carried a faint sourness as it mingled with the industrial smog under the neon lights. Deadshot stood on the rooftop of a building, watching Gotham City sneer through the hazy drizzle.
On the street below, a car roared past, splashing muddy water all over a passerby. The man immediately pulled a submachine gun from his coat and opened fire on the retreating vehicle—rat-tat-tat-tat-tat...
People in this city were way too extreme.
Deadshot thought as much while casually pulling an anti-tank rocket launcher and a mortar out of his bag.
He gave a thumbs-up toward a distant building, measuring distance and wind speed.
"I must remind you, Deadshot—my mission requires zero casualties."
His employer's voice came through the earpiece.
"Ventriloquist, you've been in the mob world for years. Where the hell did you get this superhero crap about 'zero casualties'?"
"Villains should act like villains."
Deadshot grumbled, setting the mortar up on the edge of the rooftop. "If you weren't such an old client, I'd honestly start thinking you were a snitch for Batman."
"Speaking of which, that new puppet you're carrying—don't tell me you actually teamed up with Batman. Did he give you one of those pants-less Robin outfits too?"
Fire!
The mortar launched, drawing a deadly arc through the sky—at the same time, the Ventriloquist's voice came through.
"You kill anyone, I'm docking your pay."
"Alright, alright, I get it, don't freak out."
Deadshot licked his lips and raised the anti-tank rocket launcher.
Boom!
The rocket soared, overtaking the mortar shell in flight, and the two collided above the building's rooftop in what could only be described as a French kiss.
KABOoooOM!
With a deafening roar, the rooftop tore open like the top of a soda can, blasting apart and exposing the enemies below, scrambling like ants.
"See? I told you I'd deliver the Mad Hatter to you in one piece."
Deadshot pulled out his sniper rifle, but didn't fire.
"However, my dear employer…"
"Because of your lack of trust, I don't want to take this job anymore."
"…? What?"
"He must've been scared off by that blast. The Mad Hatter's probably gone into hiding by now. Catching him again is going to be ten times harder. And this is Gotham—Batman's turf. Mercenaries willing to take jobs here are already few and far between."
"Dear employer, you wouldn't want the mission to fail, would you?"
"…Enough! Just name your terms."
Deadshot gazed up at the sky at a 45-degree angle, then said, without hesitation, full of righteousness, clarity, and conviction: "I want a raise."
…
…
…
The night lay over the city like a maiden shedding her veil—bare, fervent, and entwined with Gotham in intimate embrace.
Cheshire walked gracefully through the empty halls of Gotham Heights High School. Outside the windows came the wailing of sirens and the chaotic shouting of panicked people.
"I must remind you, ma'am, the mission target—Mr. Zsasz—is, like you, a lethal assassin,"
came the voice through the earpiece—not from the Ventriloquist, but from the little Batman plush on her left hand.
"I have no doubt you can defeat him, but my condition is that all student hostages remain unharmed. So, first you need to separate Zsasz from the girls before you engage…"
"Oh, really?"
Cheshire's slender fingers traced along her waist and the captivating pale curve of her chest, finally coming to rest on her grinning cat-faced mask.
"I think there's no need to go through all that trouble. Don't you agree?"
"What are you even—"
"She's not talking to you."
Cold moonlight, laced with flashes of red and blue from police lights, illuminated the figure rising from the shadows.
Countless scars were carved across his burly, muscular frame.
Victor Zsasz, one of Gotham's notorious villains.
His gaze lingered on the assassin's graceful form.
"Why not show me your lovely face, my dear lady?"
"Oh no, you know the rule."
The female assassin turned around.
"A cat never takes off her mask—especially not in front of a naked exhibitionist."
A short dagger appeared in Zsasz's once-empty palm.
Cheshire Cat sighed. She reached behind herself and pulled out a retractable blade—then, from the front of her outfit, she dumped out a small arsenal of shuriken like a hamster unloading its food stash.
She tilted her head slightly.
"Catfight?"
Gotham's infamous exhibitionist and serial killer, Mr. Zsasz, gave a twisted grin.
"Cat Quest."
…
…
…
In the Batcave beneath Wayne Manor, Mark was using the Ventriloquist's voice to remote-control mercenaries like some bald puppet master.
"…Enough! Just name your terms. What? You want a raise?"
With a grand wave of his hand, he responded in the tone of a filthy rich tycoon:
"Fine, raise it—whatever you want, it's all approved!"
He turned around—only to see the third Robin, Tim Drake, storming up with a furious expression, holding a sheet of paper in his hand.
Written on it in bold letters:
"Batman, I still can't believe you're paying mercenaries to help you fight Bane instead of taking me with you!"
The real Ventriloquist sat in the corner, trying his best to look innocent—curling up and pretending to be an actual dog.
Tim looked at him and felt his fists clench, but ultimately couldn't justify punching the guy in front of Batman.
So the young Robin simply gritted his porcelain-white teeth, full of frustration, and continued writing on the paper:
"And not only did you bring villains into our home—you even made phone calls to other villains right in front of me!!!"
Batman hung up the call and let out a sigh.
Robin fell silent for a moment.
Then he asked,
"Is this because of Paul?"
(Jean-Paul, the Angel of Death who was killed by Bane earlier)
"Not entirely," Mark replied. "Listen to me."
He turned around, placed both hands on Tim's shoulders, and looked him straight in the eyes.
"I've decided to retire."
"W-what?"
That answer, so completely unexpected, left Robin stunned.
"Youth fades, Tim. Boyhood ends, golden goblets run dry, and old dreams are hard to sustain.
Batman… was just the dream of an eight-year-old who refused to wake up.
And now—it's time to wake up."
"I want to do one last thing for Gotham… and then go live a normal life. The life I deserve. And you should too, Tim."
"You're educated, brilliant, you have a dad and a mom."
"You don't realize how rare that is!"
"You deserve all the good things this world has to offer. You should go to school, and one day, meet the girl who's meant for you."
"She'll have golden hair and ocean-blue eyes… or maybe wine-red hair. She might be named Gordon, or Brown, but one day… she'll be Drake."
"You'll come to understand each other, fall in love. My child… that kind of innocent and pure love is something I'll never have the chance to experience."
"It's time for both of us to escape this nightmare."
Clang!
Behind them, Alfred dropped the tray he was holding, the porcelain shattering on the floor.
He covered his face, weeping tears of joy.
"Is it true? Bruce? Am I really not dreaming—Bruce?"