For a fleeting moment as Aunt May enveloped him in a hug, Batman's pupils dilated, his body rigid with shock. A wave of astonishment and fear surged through him, nearly overwhelming.
For a few seconds, Batman was seized by an urge to bolt. Deep within, the eight-year-old Bruce Wayne screamed, desperate to cling to this fleeting warmth, but Batman ruthlessly suppressed that impulse.
Everything he had done in this world was for one purpose: to return to Gotham. The identity of Peter Parker was merely a means to sustain that goal.
"Peter… oh my God, you're hurt!"
Aunt May, seeing her nephew Peter Parker standing frozen, looked up and gasped, clapping a hand over her mouth. She hurriedly pulled him inside the house and pressed him into a chair.
During his fight with the Spider-Slayer, Batman had taken a few punches in pursuit of efficiency, shrugging them off without a second thought. But Aunt May, seeing his bruised and swollen eyes, couldn't hold back her tears.
Sobbing softly, the elderly woman rushed to the fridge, grabbed an ice pack, and pressed it gently against his eyes. Heartache and guilt sapped nearly all her strength.
"I'm Batman. I have to play the role of Peter Parker perfectly," he told himself. "I'll protect Aunt May, Peter. Until I return to Gotham."
Batman's hands trembled slightly as he stood and pulled Aunt May into an embrace.
"Aunt May, I'm fine. I just took a fall."
Batman wasn't sure how he got through Peter Parker's birthday celebration. After a hasty goodbye to Aunt May, he returned to the abandoned shipyard, a place shrouded in darkness, cut off from the world.
He didn't rest. All night, he dismantled the power armor and glider wings he'd stripped from the Spider-Slayer, meticulously modifying them to suit his needs.
As the night grew deeper, the suit began to take shape.
At 2 a.m., in an alley behind an orphanage in Hell's Kitchen:
"Boss Joseph, you sure we're starting with this orphanage?" A burly man gazed admiringly at the broad figure ahead of him.
"That's right. This is Kingpin's turf. I've heard he often comes here to volunteer. Burning this place down is a warning to Kingpin, to show him who's really fit to rule New York's underworld."
The figure turned, the dim yellow streetlight illuminating a familiar square-jawed face.
"And another thing—Joseph is the past. From now on, call me… Hammerhead!"
The burly man swallowed hard. If he'd followed Joseph before out of desperation, now he followed Hammerhead because of the man's ambition.
—And that nearly indestructible head of his.
Shot in the forehead by Black Cat at the abandoned shipyard, Joseph hadn't died. Miraculously, he survived, though his shattered skull had to be replaced with a metal one.
This twist of fate made Joseph, now Hammerhead, fearless of bullets. His ambitions grew beyond leading a small gang of seven or eight thugs. His sights were now set on Kingpin, the crime lord aggressively expanding his territory.
"Have the boys keep watch, Paul. You start the fire," Hammerhead ordered.
The burly man, Paul, nodded and waved to his crew. The newly formed "Hammerhead Gang" scattered in pairs, while Paul grabbed bottles of alcohol stolen from a convenience store to make Molotov cocktails.
Halfway through, Paul paused, a thought striking him.
"Boss Hammerhead, that guy… he's not gonna show up again, is he?"
The last time, at the arms deal in the abandoned shipyard, was Joseph's first attempt to elevate his small gang into something bigger.
With that shipment of weapons, they could've sold or leveraged their way from a crew of seven or eight to a "big" gang of over fifty.
Joseph had even hired the Squid to ensure the deal went smoothly.
But it failed. A dark shadow appeared out of nowhere, throwing their plans into chaos. Joseph took a bullet to the head, and the Squid fled on the spot.
"That was in Manhattan. This is Hell's Kitchen," Hammerhead scoffed, shaking his head. "New York's a big place. Even Spider-Man can't be everywhere at once."
"No need to worry. Light the fire, and we'll—"
Hammerhead's words were cut off as the dim streetlight above flickered. A sharp crack echoed, followed by a muffled, pained whimper.
Paul froze mid-motion, his mind flashing to that dark shadow.
"Who's there? Show yourself!" Hammerhead growled, his hand brushing his metal skull, emboldened by its strength.
Thud!
No answer came, only the sound of a heavy blow striking flesh, reverberating through the alley.
Hammerhead's face twitched. He peered into the alley's shadows but saw nothing.
Thud!
The sounds kept coming, relentless. Hammerhead shouted for his gang to regroup, but no one answered. Gripping his gun and flicking off the safety, he cautiously stepped deeper into the alley.
Paul followed, gun raised, his steps slow. Together, they spotted a dark figure dangling in the air.
The figure swayed, limbs flailing unnaturally, less like a human and more like a monster ready to pounce.
"Boss…" Paul whispered, legs trembling, already considering retreat.
Hammerhead shot him a sharp glance. "Follow me!"
Paul swallowed hard, heart pounding, but mustered the courage to trail Hammerhead into the darkness.
As they moved away from the streetlight's glow, the figure came into view.
It was one of their gang members from tonight's arson plan. His arms and legs were broken, his neck twisted at an unnatural angle, foaming at the mouth as he dangled in midair.
He was barely alive, but for all intents and purposes, he was as good as dead.
Paul and Hammerhead exhaled in relief—at least it wasn't a monster. But their relief was short-lived, their hearts leaping to their throats.
What kind of person could do this so silently, right under their noses?
They'd been standing under the streetlight, no more than twenty meters from the rest of the gang.
"We need to pull back, we—" Hammerhead's breathing quickened. He sensed he'd crossed paths with something he shouldn't have.
Hearing his boss say retreat, Paul spun around, wishing he could sprout extra legs to run faster.
But as he turned, a loud thud echoed behind him, followed by the sickening crack of breaking bones.
Paul froze. He wanted to run, but his legs wouldn't move. He wanted to look back, but fear screamed at him not to.
Slowly, mechanically, he turned his head, his gaze inching backward.
He saw a pair of sharp, pointed ears and a pair of cold, inhuman eyes.