"You're telling me… there are vampires in New York?"
Chief George Stacy leaned back slightly, staring at the man seated across from him in the interrogation room.
"Real ones. Night creatures. Blood-sucking monsters. Just like in the movies?"
Across the table, Paul sat handcuffed, his face pale, eyes bloodshot, voice trembling with desperation.
"Yes! Vampires! I saw them with my own eyes!" Paul shouted hoarsely. "They come out at night! They hang people in the dark like meat! They're not human!"
No one in the room believed him.
Over the past two mornings, police officers arriving for duty had found groups of tied-up criminals dumped directly at the station entrance. First the gang members from the abandoned shipyard. Then Squid Man.
All of them were alive.
Barely.
Broken arms. Shattered ribs. Twisted necks. Some had spinal damage so severe they would never walk again.
What unsettled the police most was the precision.
Whoever did this clearly understood human anatomy. Every injury was calculated—enough to completely incapacitate, yet never quite enough to kill.
"He's delusional," George Stacy said calmly. "Probably beaten senseless by that unknown vigilante."
He waved his hand.
"Call a doctor. Give him a sedative."
Paul screamed in protest as officers dragged him away, his words dissolving into incoherent curses about shadows, wings, and monsters.
George Stacy rubbed his temples and turned to his assistant.
"Ogg," he said, "have the victims of Squid Man's murders been fully identified?"
"Yes, Chief," Ogg replied immediately. "I worked through the night. The trial is tomorrow. If everything's in order, the death penalty is inevitable."
"Good." Stacy nodded. "Coordinate with other precincts. Increase night patrols."
Ogg hurried back to his desk—then froze.
The neatly organized victim list he had spent an entire day and night compiling was gone.
"What the hell…?" he muttered.
The list was crucial. With the help of the mysterious individual who had captured Squid Man, the police had saved enormous effort. Losing it meant starting over.
"Hey!" Ogg shouted. "Who took my report?"
His colleagues looked up, confused. Everyone shook their heads.
"I put it right here…" Ogg bent down, searched the floor, then looked back at the desk.
The report was there.
Perfectly placed.
As if it had never moved.
A chill ran down his spine.
Instinctively, Ogg looked toward the station entrance—and caught a glimpse of a man in black clothing and a hat slipping out the door.
"Stop!" Ogg shouted, sprinting after him.
Several officers followed, weapons drawn.
"Ogg! What's going on?" George Stacy demanded as he rushed outside.
The man was gone.
"I—I think someone took my report," Ogg said, confused and frustrated. "But he put it back. The list contains all the victims' information. I don't understand what he wants."
George Stacy stared at the street for a long moment.
"Whatever his intentions," he said quietly, "assign protection to those victims immediately."
He placed a hand on Ogg's shoulder.
"Someone out there knows more than we do."
---
Three street corners away, Batman casually dropped his black clothes and hat into a trash bin.
Dressed now in a plaid shirt and casual pants, he blended effortlessly into Manhattan's crowds.
"Hired by multiple gangs… eight contract killings," Batman recalled, replaying the victim list in his mind.
"Seven gang members."
"And one… me."
The realization left him momentarily speechless.
Batman bought a copy of the Daily Bugle from a street stand, folded it under his arm, and returned to the abandoned shipyard.
He didn't read the paper yet.
Instead, he trained.
Using rusted industrial equipment and massive counterweights, Batman pushed his body to its limits. Metal chains clanged. Steel groaned.
His original plan had been simple: use the 7.6 million dollars taken from Squid Man's lair to arm himself, crush gangs, and target Kingpin for even greater resources.
But the battle suit problem had already been solved through the Spider-Slayer.
That plan could wait.
Now, the priorities were clear:
Eliminate gangs.
Accumulate capital.
Watch the market.
Batman was no stranger to finance. In Gotham, he had spent years playing the role of Bruce Wayne, navigating high-level investments and corporate warfare.
"When the funds are sufficient," he thought, "I'll establish a company… and invest in Dr. Otto's nuclear fusion research."
Boom.
Several stacked counterweights—twenty-five tons in total, Peter Parker's maximum strength—hit the ground.
Batman's training wasn't just about mastery.
It was about insurance.
Genetic mutation was unstable. There was always a chance—however small—that Peter Parker's strength could fail one day.
Batman never ignored small probabilities.
If that happened, skill, discipline, and a properly funded battle suit would still allow him to fight.
But such a suit would require tens of millions.
That meant patience.
After training, Batman finally unfolded the newspaper.
The headline caught his eye.
"Osborn Group Announces Major Breakthrough in Nuclear Fusion Clean Energy—Now Open for External Investment."
Batman frowned.
"This is false."
Just yesterday, Norman Osborn had halted all research, including Dr. Otto's project, diverting every resource to the Super Soldier Serum.
"This is a smokescreen," Batman concluded. "A signal meant to mislead investors."
"Trying to attract outside capital… and divert it."
"No one is stupid," he thought coldly. "Osborn is just struggling."
He stacked the newspaper with others he'd bought earlier.
As usual, he returned briefly to Peter Parker's rented apartment—then headed straight for Dr. Otto's laboratory.
Even if the headline was fake, Dr. Otto's research was not.
"I hope nothing's gone wrong," Batman thought.
Dr. Otto's lab was in Brooklyn, about an hour's walk away.
Batman briefly considered swinging across the city in the Spider-Man suit—then immediately dismissed the idea.
He hailed a taxi.
---
"Peter."
Dr. Otto barely lifted his head when Batman entered.
The energetic scientist from days ago looked exhausted now. Dark circles ringed his eyes. His shoulders slumped.
Every machine in the lab was powered down.
Dr. Otto sat motionless, staring at the silent instruments.
"I found the problem," he said quietly. "Another few days… maybe a week… and I could have completed it."
He laughed bitterly.
"Then Osborn cut the funding."
Batman sat beside him.
"What are you planning to do now?" he asked.
"I wanted to seek private sponsorship," Dr. Otto replied, handing him the Daily Bugle. "But Osborn blocked that path too."
Batman pretended to read the paper.
In truth, his attention had shifted.
Behind Dr. Otto, standing where nothing had existed before, was a new device.
Four metallic tentacles.
Segmented.
Cold.
Unmistakably familiar.
They looked disturbingly similar to the mechanical tentacles used by Squid Man—the very man Batman had delivered to the police with his own hands.
Batman's gaze hardened.
New York was already creating its own legends.
And soon—
They would create their own monsters.
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