"When Schiller saw Bruce's whole face written with gloom and frustration, he immediately knew his talk with Catwoman had not gone smoothly.
"You didn't end up brawling again, did you?"
Bruce said, "Worse than that."
"Alright, then which hospital room is she in now?" Schiller asked.
"I mean Gotham itself is worse than I thought."
"There are people here you can't condemn as simply 'bad,' because in this environment, they're already doing their best," Bruce said.
"I suppose you're starting to realize now that being Batman isn't such a simple matter?" Schiller replied.
"Yes," Bruce admitted. "I thought if I had a hard suit of armor, a bulletproof cowl, sharp batarangs, guns, and ammo, then no gang could stand against me."
"Guns are useful," Schiller said.
"At least they guarantee that when you speak, someone listens."
"I can't tell Selina 'you're wrong,'" Bruce muttered, covering his eyes. "The truth is, she's already done as well as she could."
"Jonathan might not agree. If I told you right now that Jonathan also grew up in the same kind of environment, and that his crimes were born of never having anyone to guide him—what would you think?"
Bruce's mouth opened, but no words came. He realized that where he once thought himself the embodiment of justice, he now saw that there was no such thing as absolute justice. He had told himself he was at least fair—but even that seemed hollow.
He had to admit he was biased toward Selina. Many of the gangsters he punished had stories just like hers, only without her luck. Their families and childhoods were disasters. They worked for gangs not because they were born monsters, but just to survive.
Breaking free of the shackles of class was far harder than he'd ever imagined, especially in Gotham.
This truth made Bruce feel despair. He finally understood why Schiller said he didn't understand Gotham—because anyone who dreams of "saving Gotham completely" simply doesn't.
Here, everyone is a criminal, yet no one is. Among these walking corpses, you can't find a soul wholly worth saving, nor one who deserves annihilation. There is no single culprit—everyone is a culprit.
Bruce's heroic "path of progression" was nothing like he imagined. He had thought that if he arrested enough criminals, extracted enough information, traced it to the roots poisoning Gotham, and finally brought those masterminds to justice, the city would improve step by step.
Now he saw it was a bottomless pit. Remove one tumor, another grows. Bring down one culprit, another takes his place.
No one could endure that endless drain—not of money or strength, but of will. Harvey believed you didn't have to reach the finish line to count as winning. But Batman… Batman didn't even have a finish line.
Only now did Bruce realize: his fight with Gotham would consume his entire life. And he understood—wealth, equipment, combat skill—none of that truly made him Batman. His greatest enemy wasn't criminals. It was giving up.
The real question was not how cunning his foes were, but whether he was resolute enough—whether he could devote his whole life to endlessly grinding against a city that could never be saved.
It was like spending a lifetime trying to make the sun rise in the west.
Batman stood atop the central tower of Gotham. The wind roared past his ears. Below, the countless petty evildoers scurried like ants building nests. From here he could see all of Gotham clearly.
He had once thought Gotham was pure chaos, without order. But now he realized—there was an order here, more entrenched than anywhere else. If it were only chaos, he could rebuild order. But as it stood, he couldn't even break Gotham's existing order.
A moment later, he heard footsteps behind him. Catwoman strolled over with her hands clasped behind her back.
When Batman turned, she smiled, pulled out a gleaming jewel, and held it out to him. "I picked a pretty little treasure from my collection for you. Don't worry, I wouldn't part with the biggest one. But this one's nice too."
Before Bruce could reply, she went on: "I was chatting with Maggie yesterday, and she said I ought to apologize to you. No matter what, I shouldn't have cut you with that knife."
"I've never apologized to anyone before. If people tried to hit me, I just hit them back. But you've been good to me, even kept me company up on rooftops. And I stabbed you for it. That's not right."
She blinked her wide brown eyes, glimmering in Gotham's darkness. "I can tell you're troubled. I hope this gem cheers you up."
Batman looked down at the triangular ruby in his hand. It almost resembled his own pointed ears. Finely cut, glowing even in the dim light, it held a charm he had never recognized in such stones before.
For the first time, it wasn't just a useless pretty mineral.
Batman asked, quietly: "Do you want to hear my story?"
⸻
Elsewhere, Schiller was on the phone. "Medical parole? How did he get that approved? I'm not blaming you, but honestly, the GCPD has never been less serious…"
Then he thought better. Well, Gotham PD had no lower limit to begin with.
He told Gordon, "I hope he stays in the hospital this time and doesn't cause more trouble. You know I'm not Batman."
Gordon hung up with a sigh. He knew it wouldn't be that simple. Jonathan had been committed to Arkham after much effort, Victor had vanished, and the mob was left weak for now.
But Gotham University's former headmaster, through connections, had secured medical parole instead of prison. Schiller knew the man wouldn't let things rest.
Sure enough, just as Schiller was about to leave work the next day, a girl burst into his office—Christine's close friend, the one who had complained to the school when Christine disappeared.
"Christine's missing again?" Schiller asked.
"Worse," the girl panted. "She gave me a safety number after last time. She said if I ever got a call from that number with nothing but silence, it meant she was in danger! Three minutes ago—I got the call!"
Schiller packed up quickly. "When?"
"Just now! The line connected, but no sound."
He calmed her, then called Bruce. "Bad news. Christine's in trouble again. Did Gordon tell you? The old headmaster got out on parole. If he wants revenge, Christine—the one who testified—is the first target…"
Bruce raced back to Wayne Manor, donned the cowl, and prepared to save her. After all, it was he who urged her to testify.
But this time the old headmaster had grown cunning. No cheap thugs—he had hired professionals, leaving no trace. He wasn't bargaining. He just wanted revenge. That made it even more dangerous.
Soon, Batman got another call—Schiller again. "The street once held the Red Crows' den—the drug lab you shut down. East side."
Before Bruce could ask why, Schiller hung up. Batman roared off into the night.
Without the Batmobile yet, his sports car wasn't fast enough. Christine could be killed at any moment. Though Bruce had little affection for her, he couldn't bear to see an innocent slaughtered. He pounded the wheel, realizing he needed better transport.
Then, an unexpected number flashed. Catwoman's voice chimed, "Hey, I think I just spotted your little girlfriend, the one always waiting on the street for you. What's going on? They're heading to Maple Street—that's dangerous…"
"She's been kidnapped! Can you track them? No—just shadow them from afar and call me. Don't engage!"
"You sound like you need help," Catwoman teased.
"This isn't your concern! Just stay out of trouble tonight!" he snapped, hanging up, then sped for Maple Street.
At the Red Crows' old base, he heard fighting and gunfire inside. He broke in through the back. Thugs lay sprawled, joints wrecked. In the hall, masked kidnappers were already down. A whip cracked close—almost hitting him.
Catwoman turned, smirking. "Thank God, the girl's safe."
On the couch lay Christine, shaken, clothes disheveled. If Catwoman hadn't intervened, things might've ended far worse.
But then Catwoman sniffed the air. "Wait… I smell gasoline. Is your car leaking? No—Molotovs! We have to move!"
Glass shattered at the front. Bottles wrapped in rags came flying, bursting into flame. The abandoned den was full of curtains, couches—fire spread like fury. Smoke choked the room.
Batman's suit was fireproof, but Christine and Catwoman weren't. And fireproof cloth didn't stop smoke inhalation. They coughed violently as smoke thickened.
A clang came from the right—a metal object fell. Catwoman's whip snapped, dragging it over. An extinguisher. She didn't question how—it was there. Batman said, "Toward where they threw the Molotovs! There'll be a vacuum pocket!"
He cleared flames ahead while Catwoman supported Christine. At the front door, Batman shot the lock, then rammed the door. The blockade gave way with one final crash. They stumbled out, smoke-stained but alive.
Later, driving Christine home, Batman asked Catwoman, "Why risk yourself to save her? That was dangerous."
She marveled at the luxury car's interior, clearly unused to such finery. Then she cleared her throat, trying to steady her voice.
"At first, I thought of excuses—you know, maybe I wanted to learn from you, or maybe I'm secretly heroic, or maybe I just couldn't stand seeing innocents hurt. But the truth?" She turned, brown eyes sparkling.
"I just wanted to make you happy."
Batman's grip on the wheel loosened slightly. He didn't know if this was the answer he sought. But he knew—the real reason he loved Catwoman wasn't her charm, nor her jewels.
It was her freedom. The freedom he, as Gotham's Dark Knight, could never have.
And he had already resolved: he would spend his life fighting this hopeless city.
From a rooftop nearby, Schiller watched the car stop at a corner. He told the symbiote in his head, "No. We're not going down there. What comes next isn't for children to see."
The symbiote grumbled.
"Yes, I know you did well—tossing that extinguisher from the café across the street. Perfect throw."
"But what happens in that car… It's just the meaningless human ritual of reproduction. You symbiotes don't need that. You just shed pieces of yourselves."
Silence. Schiller wasn't sure if it understood.
He turned from the car, gazing at Gotham's dim lights.
Maybe this city was beyond saving. Maybe even Batman would despair.
But Batman would never be alone."