Leaving Black Cat and the seven or eight gang members bound at the entrance of the Manhattan Police Station was never an impulsive act.
For Batman, nothing was ever meaningless.
Standing alone in the deepest part of the abandoned shipyard, Batman lowered the Daily Bugle in his hand. The newspaper rustled softly in the still air, the headline splashed across the front page like an accusation. Squid Man's grotesque figure dominated the photo.
Batman's eyes remained calm.
Everything was proceeding exactly as expected.
"If Black Cat had stayed locked inside the police station," Batman thought, "and was later released cleanly because she had no criminal record, then she would be safe—but unreliable."
Such a person would hesitate. Doubt. Second-guess.
"If she carried a long criminal record and accepted prison without resistance," he continued, "then she would already be too deeply soaked in filth to be trusted."
That kind of person would betray anyone for survival.
Batman's gaze sharpened.
"But if she broke free from her restraints and never even entered the police station…"
That was the answer he was waiting for.
"That means she's capable," Batman concluded silently. "And more importantly, she still believes she can survive on her own."
Batman folded the newspaper neatly and set it aside.
The photo of Squid Man had almost certainly been taken by the young couple from last night. Their timing, angle, and distance all matched his memory.
Black Cat's escape was inevitable.
And once free, she would have only one path to take.
She would go back to Kingpin.
Not to betray Batman—but to test him.
"Judging by her micro-expressions last night," Batman thought, "she hasn't fully placed her hope for revenge on me."
And that was good.
Blind loyalty bred poor decisions.
If Black Cat wanted to gain Kingpin's trust again, she would have to tell him everything—about Joseph's death, Squid Man's escape, and the mysterious presence that dominated the shipyard.
Only then would Kingpin truly notice me.
Batman's fingers tapped lightly against the metal table.
"As for Squid Man," he thought, "his reaction last night was revealing."
After Joseph was shot, Squid Man showed no interest in fighting. No curiosity. No rage.
He ran.
Which meant Squid Man didn't understand Batman's strength.
Neither did Kingpin.
And that ignorance would lead Kingpin to make the wrong choice.
Kingpin wouldn't send ordinary gang members after someone who could drive a five-ton steel beam into the ground with bare strength.
He would choose a specialist.
He would choose Squid Man.
Batman's lips tightened slightly.
"That's exactly what I want."
He turned away from the newspaper and opened a wooden crate at his feet.
Inside lay a revolver.
He removed it carefully and placed it on the worktable, then unlatched the compact web-shooter attached to his wrist.
The device clicked softly as it separated from its housing.
"I need to merge the grappling hook gun with the web-shooter," Batman murmured.
His hands moved with practiced speed.
In seconds, the revolver was completely disassembled—springs, chambers, barrel, trigger, all neatly arranged.
After delivering Black Cat and her people to the police station, Batman had returned to inventory the spoils of the night.
Five wooden crates.
Forty-two firearms.
Revolvers. Submachine guns. Pistols of at least six different types.
And one metal case filled with cash.
One hundred and fifty thousand dollars.
Resources.
Batman studied the web-shooter.
"The firing speed needs to be increased," he thought. "Compressed air alone isn't enough."
The old grappling hook gun relied on brute force and size.
But this new tool had to be compact. Fast. Lethal in precision, not damage.
"The rope must be replaced with raw web fluid," Batman continued. "And the adhesive strength must be enhanced."
He paused.
"It must adhere to anything."
Metal. Concrete. Flesh. Water.
Batman was not stubborn. Tools were tools.
Refusing to improve a tool out of pride was idiocy.
The redesigned launcher would remain wearable on both wrists, but instead of simple mechanical propulsion, it would fire web projectiles using compressed inert gas.
High speed.
High kinetic energy.
Minimal volume.
But theory alone wasn't enough.
Most of the shipyard's machinery was rusted beyond use.
"The best inert gas is nitrogen," Batman concluded. "And there's a technology I never used before."
His eyes narrowed.
"Nitrogen Spring."
The concept was simple but powerful—compressed nitrogen stored in layered chambers, released instantly to generate explosive force without heat.
The old grappling hook never required such precision.
But now, size mattered.
Batman gathered his tools.
He was heading toward the Williamsburg Bridge—the artery connecting Manhattan and Brooklyn.
Near it stood a black factory.
An illegal one.
A place where New York's gangs manufactured bullets, modified weapons, and laundered equipment.
Batman intended to use it.
But halfway there, he changed direction.
He turned back toward Lower Manhattan.
Toward Peter Parker's rented apartment.
Batman had watched Spider-Man swing openly across New York in daylight.
To him, it was reckless.
Almost arrogant.
On the same level as Superman flying through the sky in a bright red cape.
Peter Parker tried to be careful when changing back—choosing hidden corners, empty rooftops.
But care wasn't enough.
Not in a city like New York.
Batman worried someone would eventually notice the pattern.
And patterns get people killed.
He needed to erase all traces of Spider-Man.
Every video.
Every audio clip.
Every detail that could be used to track Spider-Man's movement, height, accent, or build.
Only heavily obscured footage could remain.
But before hacking into the New York Police system, there was one thing he had to do.
Remove all physical evidence.
Inside the apartment, Batman closed the door and drew the curtains.
He moved quickly.
The red-and-blue Spider-Man suit.
The notebook.
Design sketches.
Web formulas.
Spider-Sense observations.
All of it went into Peter Parker's backpack.
Every item was a liability.
Standing before the mirror, Batman studied his reflection.
A sharp nose.
Prominent cheekbones.
Defined jawline.
Brown-black hair combed neatly back.
A typical American face.
Peter Parker resembled him—slightly.
But he was shorter.
Five feet ten.
Batman's original body—Bruce Wayne—stood at six foot two.
"Different body," Batman thought. "Different balance. Different muscle memory."
He clenched his fist.
"I'll adapt."
He slung the backpack over his shoulder.
Then came the knocking.
Urgent.
Sharp.
"Peter! Peter!"
Batman froze.
"Who is it?" he asked.
"It's me—Harry."
Harry Osborn.
Peter Parker's closest friend.
Son of Norman Osborn.
Billionaire heir.
Batman disliked complications.
He hadn't inherited all of Peter's memories.
One wrong sentence could expose everything.
He had anticipated this.
The solution was simple.
Feign illness.
When the door opened, Batman didn't hesitate.
He stepped forward and wrapped Harry Osborn in a tight embrace.
No words.
Just silence.
And a carefully crafted expression of grief.
Harry had come to scold him.
Peter hadn't shown up to school in three days.
But the moment Harry saw that face—sad, distant, hollow—the words died in his throat.
He patted Peter's back gently.
"It's okay," Harry said softly. "No matter what happens… I'm here."
Batman closed his eyes briefly.
The act held.
And somewhere deep inside, he understood something important.
This city wasn't Gotham.
But pain—
Pain was universal.
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