Batman leaving Black Cat and those seven or eight gang members at the doorstep of the Manhattan Police Department wasn't without purpose.
"If Black Cat doesn't escape and ends up locked in the police station, with no prior record, she'll naturally be released, just like those gang members," he mused.
"But if her rap sheet is stacked with crimes, then she's not fit to work with me."
"And if she manages to break free from her restraints and never even makes it to the police station, I'll move on to the next phase of my plan."
Batman set down the Daily Bugle, its front-page photo of Squid-Man, unsurprisingly, credited to the young couple from last night's encounter.
"From the micro-expressions she showed during our conversation last night, she's not entirely banking on me for her revenge."
"So, if Black Cat does break free, she'll undoubtedly go to meet Kingpin, relaying everything that happened last night. That's the only way she'll earn his trust."
"And Squid-Man… last night, after Joseph took a bullet, he showed no fighting spirit, no inclination to engage me. So neither Black Cat nor Kingpin has any real sense of my strength."
"But Kingpin will see me as a threat, an obstacle to eliminate. After I demonstrated the strength to slam a five-ton steel beam into the ground in front of Black Cat, he won't send common thugs to fight me. He'll hire Squid-Man to take me out."
"That's exactly what I want."
Batman neatly placed the newspaper aside and opened a wooden crate at his feet, pulling out a revolver.
He set the revolver on the table and began disassembling the web-shooter strapped to his wrist.
"I need to combine the old grappling hook gun with the web-shooter," he said to himself.
As he thought, he swiftly dismantled the revolver. In seconds, a perfectly functional handgun was reduced to a pile of parts.
After delivering Black Cat's crew to the police station last night, he'd returned to take stock of his "spoils." Five wooden crates filled with firearms—from revolvers to submachine guns, six different types in total, forty-two weapons altogether.
Beyond the guns, there was also a crate stuffed with cash: $150,000.
The web-shooter's firing speed needed to be faster, and he could adapt the air compression principles from the grappling hook gun to make it happen.
The high-strength cable originally used in the grappling gun could be replaced with web fluid.
"The webbing's stickiness needs a major upgrade to ensure it adheres to any surface, no matter what…"
Batman wasn't a rigid traditionalist. To him, the web-shooter was just a tool, and refusing to use a tool at his disposal was a waste of effort.
The redesigned hybrid of the grappling gun and web-shooter would remain compact, wearable on both wrists, and use compressed inert gas to fire at higher speeds.
But this was still just a concept. Batman didn't have the means to handcraft one in a single morning, especially since the abandoned shipyard's equipment was all rusted and unusable.
"The optimal inert gas is nitrogen. The old grappling gun didn't need to prioritize compact size, so there was one technique I never applied to it."
"But for the web-shooter, where small size and high kinetic energy are key, this technique is a perfect fit."
"It's called a nitrogen spring."
Batman set out immediately, heading toward the Williamsburg Bridge, the span connecting Manhattan and Brooklyn.
There was a black-market factory nearby, where many of New York's gangs sourced their bullets.
Batman planned to use that factory to process and manufacture the "nitrogen spring" he needed.
But on his way to the Williamsburg Bridge, Batman made a detour, stopping by Peter Parker's rented apartment in Lower Manhattan.
He'd seen videos of Peter Parker swinging through New York City in broad daylight as Spider-Man, a level of flamboyance rivaling Superman's red-cape theatrics.
Even though Peter always tried to slip back into his nerdy, plaid-wearing, unassuming tech-bro persona in secluded corners, Batman wasn't convinced it was safe.
He worried that someone with enough determination could trace Spider-Man's movements and pin down that Peter Parker was Spider-Man.
He needed to hack into New York's police surveillance system and delete any footage that could reveal Spider-Man's movements, accent, or body type, leaving only videos too vague to identify him.
But before that, Batman had one more task—clear out every trace of Spider-Man from the apartment and hide it.
At the very least, the red-and-blue Spider-Man suit and the notebook filled with everything from suit designs to web-shooter schematics to details about his spider-sense had to go.
Those were the things that could expose Batman—formerly Peter Parker.
Locking the door and drawing the curtains, Batman moved quickly, stuffing everything into Peter Parker's backpack. When he was done, he stood in front of a mirror.
High cheekbones casting distinct shadows, thick lips, neatly trimmed sideburns by his ears, dark brown hair swept back—a quintessential American white guy look.
In a fleeting moment, Batman noticed Peter Parker bore a slight resemblance to himself, though shorter. At 5 feet 10 inches—1.78 meters—he was a full head shorter than Bruce Wayne's 6-foot-2-inch (1.88-meter) frame.
"A different body means my muscle memory for combat techniques will feel slightly off. I need to adapt quickly."
Batman grabbed the backpack, ready to leave for the black-market factory to build his nitrogen spring, then return to the abandoned shipyard to train.
A sudden, urgent knock on the door interrupted his plans.
"Peter? Peter!"
"Who's there?"
"It's me, Harry."
Harry Osborn. According to Peter Parker's records from Empire State University, he and Peter were practically inseparable, the best of bros.
He was also the heir to Oscorp, a multinational biotech corporation founded and run by his father, Norman Osborn.
A guy with endless money and access to cutting-edge tech wasn't someone Batman instinctively wanted to deal with.
He hadn't inherited all of Peter Parker's memories, so in front of someone like Harry, who'd been Peter's constant companion, he could easily slip up.
While digging through Peter Parker's files in Dr. Octavius's lab, Batman had anticipated this. His solution was simple: play sick.
Fortunately, after years of convincingly posing as a carefree playboy while hiding his identity as Batman, he had the acting chops to pull it off.
So when Harry Osborn saw the door open, before he could even speak, Batman threw his arms around him in a tight hug.
Without a word, he let a look of melancholy and sorrow settle on his face, waiting for Harry to speak first.
Harry had come to chew Peter out. His best friend had skipped school for three days, leaving Harry with no one to talk to at school.
But seeing his friend's pained expression, the reprimand died on Harry's lips. Instead, he gently patted Peter's back, offering comfort.
"It's okay, Peter. Whatever's going on, I'll always have your back, no matter what."
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