"Welcome to Gotham, kid. Outch!"
Lance Prescott flicked his cane and smacked away the airport inspector's hand as it reached for his backside.
It was a fine cane, a Gotham specialty. More importantly, it hurt when it hit.
"Sorry, my hand slipped."
Lance smiled at the inspector, who was glaring at him, then picked up his twenty-inch suitcase.
Inside were only three suits he had prepared and a copy of A Summary of Gotham City Inheritance Law Cases.
As for the junk the original owner had packed, like the Gotham Living Guide, Lance had already tossed it into a trash can right after getting off the plane.
In Gotham, trusting that piece of shit guide was less reliable than believing Satan was God's kept bitch.
Lance looked up at Gotham's perpetually overcast sky, took a deep breath of the city's damp air, and smiled.
Alright, Gotham.
The corner of his mouth twitched as he muttered to himself,
"Stop complaining, pal. It's better than waking up in Arkham to a wall of Joker graffiti."
In his previous life, Lance Prescott had been a lawyer.
His peers once described him as a hyena who would eat any kind of shit for gold.
As a lawyer, he had no professional ethics or moral principles.
To Lance, that accusation was nothing but a pile of dog shit.
What was wrong with gold? What was wrong with being a hyena? At least hyenas never pretended to be saints.
His only creed was simple.
Victory is justice.
However, the Goddess of Victory did not always favor him.
When the plane crashed, he had been preparing a defense for a corrupt mining company.
When he opened his eyes again, he found himself on a plane bound for Gotham City.
Still Lance Prescott, but this version of him was just a freshly graduated, greenhorn lawyer.
What could be worse than clawing your way to the top, crushing one bastard competitor after another, only to be told to start over just as you were about to enjoy it all?
After leaving the airport, Lance spotted the luxury car Bruce Wayne had arranged for him.
The driver's side window rolled down, and a meticulously groomed man gave him a slight nod.
"Mr. Prescott, I apologize for meeting you in such an informal setting. But nights in Gotham never wait for anyone to be ready."
"Alfred Pennyworth." Lance climbed into the back seat. "Let's skip the pleasantries. My mentor only said Master Wayne wanted me to help with a lawsuit. He didn't mention I'd be visiting a zoo."
"It's an inheritance dispute." Alfred Pennyworth started the car smoothly once he was sure Lance was settled. "But you're not wrong. To outsiders like you, Gotham is no different from a zoo. The only difference is that the animals here wear suits, and civilized men let their lawyers speak before they start shooting."
Lance Prescott rolled his eyes. He had no patience for people who spoke in riddles.
As a transmigrator, Lance's timing was a little too early.
In this timeline, Bruce Wayne was not yet Batman. He had not even fully taken control of Wayne Enterprises.
Lance had come to Gotham to help Bruce Wayne reclaim control of the company through legal means.
As for everything else, it was none of his concern.
Originally, it should have been Lance Prescott's mentor who came, but for some reason, the responsibility had fallen to this rookie lawyer.
Fortunately, during the flight to Gotham, this body had acquired a new soul.
If an actual rookie had come to handle Bruce Wayne's case, Bruce might not only fail to secure Wayne Enterprises, he might even end up owing William Earle more money than he could ever repay.
But…
"This is Gotham, after all." Lance glanced at the buildings rushing past outside and raised an eyebrow.
"Since when do you Gothamites rely on legal methods to solve problems? I thought you preferred something more direct. Like putting a bullet in the other guy."
"Mr. Prescott," Alfred said with a faint, helpless smile, "this is Gotham, yes. But it is not as chaotic as outsiders believe. We have our own rules, especially when it comes to Wayne Enterprises."
"Fine." Lance shrugged.
The one paying was the one in charge.
"Whatever you say," Lance replied. "So where are we headed? To meet the animal in the zoo wearing the most expensive suit?"
"Club 40." Alfred Pennyworth glanced out the window, then turned and smiled at Lance. "Mr. Prescott, we've arrived."
The car came to a stop beneath a porch adorned with crystal light fixtures.
Alfred made no move to get out. He simply handed over a gold-embossed card.
"Mr. Wayne is in a private box on the second floor. You'll need to go in yourself."
"Wait." Lance raised an eyebrow. "This is Gotham. You're sending me in alone?"
"You're a lawyer, Mr. Prescott," Alfred said warmly. "In this city, a lawyer's robe is more useful than a bulletproof vest. Besides…"
He paused.
"The fee Mr. Wayne paid includes hazard compensation."
With that, Alfred remained seated in the front without moving.
Well, that settled it.
Mr. Wayne was indeed generous.
And money was the one thing Lance could never resist.
"But how am I supposed to recognize Bruce Wayne?"
"You'll recognize him, Mr. Prescott," Alfred replied. "He's the most dazzling one in the room."
What kind of fanboy nonsense was that?
When Lance stepped into Club 40, he almost thought he had walked into the wrong place.
In his memory, places like this were filled with pounding music, deafening noise, and overly enthusiastic girls.
But here, everything was almost unnaturally quiet.
Soft jazz drifted through the air, and everyone spoke in hushed tones without thinking.
Even so, Lance spotted Bruce Wayne in the corner at a glance.
Or rather, there was no need to search.
The moment he stepped onto the second floor, the door to the private box stood open, and Bruce Wayne was lounging against a curved sofa.
Three girls hovered around him like butterflies, while he stared absentmindedly at the dance floor below.
At twenty, Bruce Wayne was an exceptionally handsome playboy. And, of course, a thoroughly infuriating pretty little bastard.
"Lance Prescott?"
He turned to look at Lance, who had just reached the top of the stairs.
Rising to his feet, he offered a warm smile.
"I didn't expect someone so young to be working for me next."
He gave a short whistle in Lance's direction and even winked.
"Especially since you're so… charming."
Bruce Wayne wasn't wrong.
Lance had a mixed-race face that blended a mixture of Asian, Pacific Islander, and European ancestry. Basically, a young Keanu Reeves.
That face had won him plenty of sympathy from juries.
It was probably the reason he hadn't been beaten to death in his previous life, despite everything he'd done.
But…
"I'm not like the girls around you." Lance sat across from him on the sofa, his cane resting against his knee.
"I'd rather see the bill you're paying me than listen to sweet talk."
"Straightforward." Bruce Wayne laughed.
"I'm starting to like you."
"Is that so?" Lance's tone was indifferent.
"Liking me costs extra."
"Fine." Bruce Wayne burst into laughter.
He gave a light pat to the hip of the woman beside him, and she took the hint, leading the others out.
"Let's go somewhere else." Bruce Wayne picked up his suit jacket from the back of the sofa and headed for the door. "It's too noisy here."
"My terms of service don't include escorting a debauched young master home."
"I'll pay extra. Triple your hourly rate, starting the moment we leave…"
Damn rich bastard.
Lance rose to his feet and tapped the floor lightly with his cane.
"Lead the way."
...
In the study of Wayne Manor, Alfred Pennyworth set down two cups of coffee for Bruce and Lance, then quietly closed the door behind him as he left.
"I take it you already know what you're going to do for me?"
"Reclaim control of Wayne Enterprises and kick William Earle and his band of sycophantic idiots off the board."
Lance replied, sinking into the Wayne family's high-end leather sofa as he spoke at an unhurried pace.
"But now I'm a little hesitant about whether I should take you on as a client."
"Why is that?" Bruce Wayne raised an eyebrow.
"I'm not sure you're ready."
Batman, the so-called hero.
But that was him past thirty.
Right now, he had only just returned from traveling the world, using a playboy façade to waste his days in nightclubs.
The real Batman should already be disgusted by that empty routine, every drop of blood and every pore in his body screaming for revenge.
The question was, which version of Bruce Wayne was sitting in front of Lance?
As far as he knew, even Batman had not seized control immediately.
And when Lance Prescott opened his eyes above Gotham, he had gained a system.
It was called "Victory is Justice."
In simple terms, every time Lance won a case, he could extract a weakened version of a skill from his client and make it his own.
So even with full confidence in himself, he still needed to determine whether the current Bruce Wayne was worth working for.
"Mr. Prescott, perhaps you've misunderstood," Bruce Wayne said. "I just want to take back the family business so I can squander it even more afterward. As for anything else, I couldn't care less."
"Is that so?" Lance suddenly leaned forward, locking eyes with him.
His pupils were a deep, unmistakable black.
Under Lance's gaze, Bruce's sharpened instincts began to sound a warning.
It felt as if he were being examined, peeled apart, even seen through by someone he had only just met.
"Isn't it for revenge?" Lance said lightly.
He held Bruce Wayne's gaze, and as the man's expression darkened, he repeated in the same casual tone,
"I thought this was the first step of your revenge."
Ignoring Bruce's face, now as dark as Gotham's sky, Lance turned to take a sip of the coffee Alfred Pennyworth had prepared.
It tasted exactly as rich as he had expected.
He added at his leisure,
"By the way, psychological counseling costs extra... After all, as you know, I'm just a lawyer."