The moment Aunt May hugged him, Batman's pupils shrank violently.
His body went rigid.
For an instant—just an instant—his mind was flooded with fear and confusion. His heartbeat stuttered, his breath caught, and a terrifying urge surged up from deep within him.
Run.
For a few seconds, Batman genuinely wanted to flee.
Somewhere buried far beneath layers of discipline and restraint, the eight-year-old Bruce Wayne screamed. That fragile part of him clawed desperately at the warmth of the embrace, at the familiar feeling of being held by someone who cared.
Batman crushed it.
Ruthlessly.
This world was not Gotham.
This woman was not his mother.
And Peter Parker was never meant to be real.
Everything he did here—every identity he wore—was for one purpose only.
To return to Gotham.
"Peter… oh my God, you're hurt."
Aunt May pulled back slightly and looked up at him. The moment she saw the bruising around his eyes, her face drained of color.
She gasped, covered her mouth, and hurried him inside before he could say a word.
"Sit, sit down!" she insisted, pressing him firmly into a chair.
Batman barely reacted.
The punches he had taken during the fight with the Spider-Slayer meant nothing to him. Pain was a tool—something to be ignored or used.
But Aunt May couldn't ignore it.
Tears welled in her eyes as she rushed to the refrigerator, grabbed an ice pack, and gently pressed it against his bruised face. Her hands trembled with guilt and worry, as if she believed his injuries were her fault.
Batman felt something twist inside his chest.
"I am Batman," he reminded himself silently.
"I must play Peter Parker well."
His hands shook as he stood up. He gently took the ice pack from her, helped her sit, and wrapped his arms around her.
"Aunt May," he said softly, forcing warmth into his voice, "I'm fine. I just… fell."
The lie tasted bitter.
But it worked.
Batman didn't remember how Peter Parker's birthday passed after that.
He remembered smiles. Cake. A candle.
He remembered leaving early.
And then—
He was alone again.
---
The abandoned shipyard was dark, silent, and forgotten by the city.
Batman returned there before midnight.
He didn't sleep.
He dismantled the powered armor and glider taken from the Spider-Slayer piece by piece, stripping them down to their core systems. Sparks flew as metal hit concrete. Components were reorganized, reforged, reprogrammed.
He worked without pause.
Not as Spider-Man.
As Batman.
Hours passed.
By the time the night grew heavy and the stars dimmed, something new lay before him.
The Batsuit.
Not perfect.
Not complete.
But functional.
Armored plating reinforced with Osborn's technology. Power distribution optimized. Mobility preserved. Fear weaponized.
Batman stood in the darkness, looking at it.
"This is the beginning," he thought.
---
2:00 a.m.
An alley behind an orphanage in Hell's Kitchen.
"Boss Joseph… are you sure this is the right place?" a burly man asked, his tone respectful as he looked at the broad back ahead of him.
"That's right," the man replied. "This orphanage is in Kingpin's territory."
He turned around, dim streetlights revealing a familiar square face.
"Kingpin comes here often. Burns candles. Donates money."
A cruel smile spread across his face.
"Burning this place sends a message. It tells him who really deserves to rule New York."
He raised his chin proudly.
"Joseph is dead," he said. "From now on, call me Hammerhead."
The burly man swallowed.
Before, he had followed Joseph out of desperation.
Now, he followed Hammerhead out of fear—and ambition.
Especially that skull.
Hammerhead had survived a bullet to the head at the shipyard. The doctors replaced his shattered skull with reinforced metal.
Now—
Bullets no longer scared him.
"Set up the perimeter," Hammerhead ordered. "Paul, you start the fire."
Paul nodded and signaled the others. The newly formed Hammerhead Gang scattered into the shadows.
Paul pulled out stolen liquor bottles and began preparing Molotov cocktails.
Then he hesitated.
"Boss… that guy," he said nervously. "He won't show up again, right?"
Hammerhead scoffed.
"That was Manhattan. This is Hell's Kitchen," he said. "New York is huge. Even Spider-Man can't be everywhere."
He waved dismissively.
"Relax. Once we light the fire, we—"
The streetlight flickered.
Crack.
A sharp sound echoed.
Then—
A muffled scream.
Paul froze.
His blood ran cold.
"Who's there?" Hammerhead growled, instinctively touching his metal skull. "Come out!"
No answer.
Bang.
A heavy impact. The sound of a body hitting something hard.
Hammerhead's face twitched.
He tried calling out to his men.
No response.
He clicked off the safety on his pistol and moved forward cautiously.
Paul followed, gun shaking in his hands.
Then they saw it.
A black shadow hanging in the air.
It swayed.
Its limbs twitched unnaturally, like a broken puppet.
Paul's legs nearly gave out.
"Boss…" he whispered. "Let's leave."
"Keep up," Hammerhead snapped.
They stepped fully into the darkness.
And saw clearly.
One of their men hung there—arms and legs shattered, neck twisted, foam spilling from his mouth. Barely alive.
Relief and terror hit at the same time.
It wasn't a monster.
Which meant—
It was worse.
Hammerhead's breathing became frantic.
"We retreat," he muttered. "We—"
Thud.
A bone-crushing impact behind them.
Paul heard the sound of flesh breaking.
He froze.
Slowly—terrified beyond reason—he turned his head.
And saw it.
Bat-like ears.
Cold, inhuman eyes.
A shape that did not belong to the city.
A presence born from darkness.
It was not a spider.
It was a bat.
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