As the saying goes, "Man is iron, rice is steel; miss a meal, and hunger's real."
Batman was the only designated ordinary human among the Justice League's founders—a pure mortal. No matter how clever he was, he still had to eat. That much was perfectly reasonable.
Yet, seeing him clad in full gear, wearing that terrifying, pointy-eared mask while eating a simple bento box, the image was somewhat dissonant.
Then, as Liam's gaze shifted to the side, he caught sight of a large bag stuffed with several stacks of bento boxes tucked beneath the Batmobile's passenger seat—and he fell even more silent.
Hmm… is Mr. Wayne living in the Batmobile now?
But soon, Liam began to understand the situation. Following Mr. Wayne's line of sight across the street, he quickly spotted a luxurious venue. It boasted a grand entrance, flanked by vibrant flowerbeds bursting with fresh blooms. A pebble-paved driveway led directly inside, where magnificent sculptures and fountains surrounded the illuminated building, awash in colorful lights.
Its opulence seemed almost out of place in Gotham's usual grim atmosphere.
Under the night sky, luxury cars arrived one after another—sleek, high-end models pulling up to the venue's doors. Every gentleman who stepped out was impeccably dressed in a suit, handing over generous tips to the valets. They strolled arm in arm with ladies wearing deep V-neck, high-shouldered gowns, their confident strides almost like proud roosters.
Liam quickly realized this was Sal Maroni's residence—one of Gotham's top drug lords. Tonight, he was hosting a grand banquet, with elites from all corners of Gotham society invited.
Maroni had long been one of Gotham's major crime bosses, holding power roughly equal to the notorious Carmine Falcone—each controlling half the city. Later stories would tell how Maroni disfigured the famed villain Two-Face, Harvey Dent, by burning half his face. And after the downfall of old drug lords, the newly risen Penguin had started as a minion personally promoted by Maroni.
Mr. Wayne was clearly monitoring Maroni closely. At least judging by the number of bento boxes in the Batmobile, he had been watching for quite some time.
Luxury cars gradually stopped arriving, signaling that most guests had made their entrance. The venue's doors closed, marking the beginning of the high-society revelry.
It was time for Batman to move.
The sliding door on the Batmobile's roof hissed open, and Batman leapt out. The car door closed automatically behind him.
He approached the base of a tall building, shrouded in shadow. Opening his utility belt, he pulled out a simple rope with a grappling hook attached.
Apparently, the fledgling Mr. Wayne didn't yet possess his signature grappling gun. For now, he still had to rely on this old-fashioned rope to scale walls.
Batman coiled the rope, swung it several times, and threw it with force. The grappling hook arced high toward the rooftop edge, but it hit the wall, bounced off, and flopped limply at his feet like a withered snake.
He missed.
Liam: "..."
An awkward silence hung in the air.
Batman silently picked up the grappling hook, coiled the rope again, and swung it like a windmill before throwing it with greater force.
Clack.
This time, the hook caught securely on the rooftop's edge. He tugged the rope to test it, satisfied.
He began climbing, pushing off the wall, grunting with effort.
Liam: "..."
He certainly looked like he was working hard.
Most comic readers only remember the effortless way Batman scales walls, or how he, a mere mortal, manages to face gods. Few recall that Mr. Wayne was once a rookie too—struggling at first.
Classic Batman stories like Year One or Earth One emphasize these early difficulties: falling off rooftops during pursuits, grappling guns jamming or tangling, all kinds of embarrassing mishaps.
In truth, it was tough going.
After finally reaching the rooftop, Batman stood tall, the cold wind whipping his cape like a flag. A pale blue lightning bolt streaked down through the dark sky, illuminating his tall figure.
"I am the night, I am vengeance, I am Batman!"
His iconic line, perfectly timed with the flash of lightning, was undeniably cool.
Click.
Liam snapped a photo—perfectly framed with the ideal angle and lighting.
He was certain that years later, when Batman was famous and scolded newcomers to the Justice League with, "No lines, no posing," this embarrassing rookie photo would become priceless.
Lack of experience and mishaps aside, even as a rookie, Mr. Wayne was still Mr. Wayne. The infiltration went smoothly. Although there was a gap compared to the terrifying Dark Knight of later years, Batman successfully slipped into Maroni's venue through the ventilation ducts.
Once inside, he landed quietly, lowering his center of gravity and shrinking beneath his wide black cape. He moved on his knees like a seasoned veteran—stealthy and deliberate.
Liam, watching from a bird's-eye view with X-ray vision, couldn't help but smile.
People usually only see Batman appearing and disappearing like a ghost in the dark, silently dragging criminals into the shadows. But few realize how much painstaking crawling on knees it takes just to look cool for a moment.
Presumably, the knees of the Bat-suit must wear out incredibly fast.
By the way, Liam wondered, does it always look this amusing from Superman's perspective?
Batman slipped out of a storage room and moved along the corridor toward the banquet hall. Ahead, Liam spotted two thugs smoking and chatting.
"Batman? Impossible, that's not real," one thug scoffed. "My family's lived here for seven generations. I'm sure there's no such thing."
"But Donald said he saw him…" the other replied.
"Oh, Donald? That idiot who talks nonsense? Forget it," the first said. "Batman can't be real. Even if he is, there's nothing to fear. He only bullies low-level thugs like us. If he showed up in front of me, I'd hit him with an uppercut and follow it with a right hook—"
He was so wrapped up in talking that he didn't watch where he was going and bumped his head hard against someone around the corner.
"Hey! Watch where you're going!"
The thug turned his head and froze.
A large dark silhouette with pointy ears and a fierce expression stood before him—Batman.
Both thugs' hearts stopped.
The shout "Batman!" was never uttered.
Before they could react, Batman had them pinned—one on each side—and slammed their heads together with a loud smack, instantly knocking them out.
Liam nodded approvingly.
It's good to see that even rookie Mr. Wayne is skilled at head-slamming.
His gaze shifted again, piercing through layers of obstacles to peer into the banquet hall.
Inside, Gotham's elites dined in Maroni's lavish room. Commissioner Gillian of the GCPD was among them.
Everyone knew Maroni's reputation and dirty dealings. But there was no evidence, and no one cared. Even the Commissioner laughed and chatted with him.
Maroni leaned in, speaking casually to Gillian. "Busy these past two days, Commissioner?"
Clearly, he meant the Batman situation.
Gillian said nothing, but the Mayor chuckled.
"No matter who he is, he's effective. Street crime is down, and my approval's up. Ha, maybe you should give him a position—pay him a salary—and let him keep at it. Otherwise, what if he gets bored and quits? What do you think, Gillian?"
The Commissioner's face drained of color; he remained silent. From his perspective, Batman was a problem from every angle.
First, Batman's actions severely disrupted some of his illicit income. Second, officially, Batman's existence was a slap in the face to the GCPD.
Every time the vigilante hit the papers, it felt like a merciless mockery—implying the GCPD were lazy good-for-nothings who just ate donuts all day.
Well, after a moment, even Gillian had to admit it was somewhat true. Still, it was infuriating.
"Don't worry," Maroni said with a sinister smile. "Batman won't be a problem."
"If he just keeps things quiet—fewer people stirring on the streets—that's fine. It's not necessarily bad for Gotham to have a hero. At least it gives people a sense of security. The safer they feel, the fewer questions they ask."
He paused, voice growing colder.
"But if that fool dares to cross us—"
Maroni's eyes darkened suddenly. Amid the startled murmurs around the table, a swirling shadow rose behind him—a mass of dark mist taking the vague form of Batman.
A cruel smile curled Maroni's lips.
"…He'll learn soon enough he's not the only one with tricks up his sleeve."