This was a narrow, smelly rental room.
But at this moment, within this small, dilapidated space, two of the world's most formidable figures were present — the greatest detective on the planet and its most powerful warrior.
The atmosphere was tense.
It felt like a scene from a third-rate martial arts novel — a face-off between two masters, where the first to move would lose.
Silence. Just pure, awkward silence.
Finally, it was Harvey who broke the stillness. He stepped forward, rubbing his head with a frown.
"Gentlemen, I don't have time to waste playing games."
Then he turned toward Jack. "You, Mr. Mysterious — what exactly do you know?"
"I know plenty," Jack replied coolly.
He lightly flicked his finger, and the blade he was holding disintegrated like brittle tofu dregs, falling to the ground in fragmented iron pieces.
Batman silently observed, noting yet another detail about Jack's strength.
"But," Jack said with a calm glance toward Batman, "everything comes with a price."
He had just arrived on this planet. He couldn't afford to be penniless — and fortunately, Batman had the kind of wealth that allowed him to buy secrets like candy.
"Name your price," Batman responded. If money could solve it, then it wasn't a problem. And few had more money than Batman.
"One million."
Harvey froze. "You—what did you just say?"
"One million!? What kind of garbage intel is worth a million dollars?!"
Batman said nothing. He continued to stare at Jack.
A wordless agreement passed between the two. Jack glanced at Harvey, and his sharp gaze instantly shut the man up.
Jack smiled faintly. "Perhaps you don't want to know this secret. Because since the founding of this city, everyone who has known it... has died."
"They will stop at nothing. They'll come for you, your friends, your family — anyone close to you."
Harvey's expression changed. He forced a dry chuckle and scratched the back of his head. "I'll go check how the other two are doing with the prep."
With that, he quickly left.
In Gotham, not everyone can afford the cost of a secret.
Silence returned. Jack took a deep breath. "Do you smell it?"
Batman stepped forward and placed his hand against the wall. "Linseed oil."
"They left you a message."
Jack tugged the corpse off the wall. Red light suddenly flickered in his eyes.
Buzz!
A blinding heat beam burst from Jack's eyes, striking the wall directly.
Boom!
The intense heat ignited oil marks smeared across the wall. The fire didn't burn randomly — instead, it followed deliberate lines and shapes.
Flames slithered like spirits — or demons — dancing and recombining into one coherent phrase:
Bruce Wayne will die tomorrow.
"Seems like Mr. Wayne isn't very popular in Gotham," Jack quipped coldly.
Batman didn't respond. His gaze remained fixed on the burning message.
"The information," he said.
"It's simple." Jack pointed to the corpse, particularly the owl emblem engraved on the dead man's clothing. He smiled slightly.
"Ever heard the old nursery rhyme that's been circulating around Gotham?"
Jack stepped toward the window. Bathed in the moonlight, he spoke in a chant-like, poetic tone:
"Beware the Court of Owls, who watch you at all times.
Peeking in the dark at Gotham City, hidden behind low walls.
The Claw will come for your head."
Batman didn't move. His cape billowed slightly, and his voice turned cold. "That's just a myth."
"Batman," Jack cut in sharply, "What do you think Gotham is?"
Batman's lips twitched. He wanted to say that even though the city was corrupt, there was still justice. But deep down, he knew Jack wouldn't fall for such platitudes.
"It's the same as the answer you're thinking," Jack continued.
"Gotham is a riddle. And when it's a riddle—anything is possible. Don't you think?"
Suddenly, Jack's gaze shifted. He stared at the opposite wall with a cold, malicious smile.
"Mr. Claw?"
Boom!
It happened in slow motion. Fingers — long, sharp, and pale — punched through the solid concrete wall like it was paper.
A dark figure launched from the hole in a flurry of dust.
Wearing black goggles and cloaked in owl-like attire, the figure immediately unleashed dozens of throwing knives toward Batman.
Batman had been ready. In response, he hurled his signature Batarangs.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
Metal collided. Sparks burst in the air. Batarangs deflected the incoming knives at precise angles, each clash sending fragments of steel clattering to the floor.
Whoosh!
With an agile roll, the attacker drew a short dagger from his back, assuming a combat stance.
"Batman..." the figure hissed.
The voice was distorted and grating — like nails scraping across glass.
"The Court of Owls sentences you to death!"
Then, with startling speed, the assassin leapt backward, crashing through the window and disappearing into the shadows of the night.
Jack, who had been watching the spectacle with arms crossed, nearly burst into laughter.
He had expected a deadly showdown — not a sneak attack followed by a swift retreat.
Batman didn't pursue. Jack noticed.
"You're injured."
Batman looked down at his hand. His armor, crafted from high-tech composite materials, now bore a visible gash, exposing raw flesh beneath.
He frowned deeply.
This wasn't just some street punk with a knife. This was someone equipped to pierce state-of-the-art armor — and that meant resources. It meant organization. It meant something far worse than a lone threat.
A chill spread through Batman's chest.
What if this city — his city — had been under someone else's control all along?
His mind spiraled, tracing backward through memory. What if the strange deaths of brilliant Gothamites weren't accidents?
What if — his own parents' deaths — weren't random?
"Don't overthink it, Batman."
Jack's voice pulled him back to the present.
"Thomas Wayne's death had nothing to do with the Court of Owls."
"Your father was a textbook capitalist — he didn't care about the lower class. He never wanted to change Gotham. That made him irrelevant to the Court."
Jack stepped forward. The two men — both tall, powerful, commanding — locked eyes.
"They only target those who want to change this city."
"Defiant politicians. Rogue scientists. Mad vigilantes from the slums."
"And you, the Dark Knight."
Jack's voice grew cold.
"As long as it's hope…"
He paused.
"They will extinguish it."