It was late at night.
Bane and his men left their hideout and walked down the streets of Gotham's slums.
In ordinary people's imagination, a great villain is usually tall and strong, built like a bull, looking as if he could eat three children in one meal.
And in fact...
Yes, Bane was exactly that kind of person.
But even so, in Gotham, there were always some desperate people who would seek help from such monstrous and terrifying beings.
For example—now.
"Excuse me, can you save my mom?"
A little girl stared blankly at the mountain-like muscular giant looking down at her, nervously clutching the rag doll in her hands.
It was a doll she had picked up from a trash can—perfectly matching her shabby clothes.
"My mom has cancer. She needs medicine. She's in so much pain. People say only God can help her."
She trembled, looking up at Bane with eyes full of hope.
"Can you help me?"
Bane stopped his men who wanted to drive the girl away.
The little girl pointed to the shabby house behind her.
Bane walked inside.
A few minutes later, he came out, wiping brain matter and blood from his hands.
"Your mother will no longer suffer… bury her."
"…Don't recklessly seek help from others again, or the suffering of this world will come knocking on your door."
He looked up slightly. In the east, the stars were hidden beneath the skirt of darkness.
And Bane said:
"There is no God here… but Bane is here."
The long night was far from over.
---
Gotham's night was so silent, filled with the stillness of a graveyard.
The gray rain, with a faint sour smell, intertwined with the industrial smog under the neon lights.
Deadshot stood on a rooftop, watching Gotham City sneer in the misty drizzle.
On the street below, a car sped past, splashing a passerby with muddy water. The passerby immediately pulled out a submachine gun and fired at the receding car—ratatatatatata!
This city's people were just too much.
Deadshot thought to himself while skillfully pulling out an anti-tank rocket launcher and a mortar from his bag.
He raised his thumb toward a distant building, calculating distance and wind speed.
"I must remind you, Deadshot, my mission requires zero casualties."
A voice came through the earpiece—it was the employer.
"Ventriloquist, you've been in the mob for years. How did you come up with such superhero nonsense about no killing?"
"A bad guy should act like a bad guy."
Deadshot grumbled, setting the mortar on the edge of the roof. "If you weren't an old client, I'd think you were one of Batman's informants."
"Speaking of which, that new puppet of yours—don't tell me you've really joined Batman. Did he give you a pair of Robin's pants too?"
Thump!
The mortar launched, tracing a deadly arc through the air, while the Ventriloquist's voice came again:
"Killing people means a pay cut."
"Yeah, yeah, I got it, calm down."
Deadshot licked his lips and raised the rocket launcher.
Boom!
The rocket flew right after the mortar, and the two projectiles met in midair in a French-style "wet kiss."
BOOM!
The explosion ripped the rooftop open like a can of soda, scattering debris and revealing the panicked enemies below, running like ants.
"See? Told you I'd bring the Mad Hatter to you safe and sound."
Deadshot pulled out his sniper rifle but didn't shoot. "But now, my dear employer…"
"Since you don't trust me, I don't feel like finishing the job."
"What? What!?"
"With that little scare, the Mad Hatter's probably gone into hiding. Finding him again will be ten times harder. And Gotham's Batman's turf—there aren't many mercenaries willing to work here."
"My dear employer, you don't want the mission to fail, do you?"
"…Enough! State your terms."
Deadshot looked up at a 45-degree angle, righteous and clear as he declared:
"Pay me more."
The long night was far from over.
---
The night draped over the city like a girl shedding her veil—bare and passionate, entwined with Gotham's soul.
Cheshire Cat strolled elegantly through the empty corridors of Gotham Heights High School. Outside, sirens wailed, and terrified shouts filled the air.
"I must remind you, ma'am, that the target this time—Mr. Zsasz—is, like you, a deadly assassin."
The voice of the Ventriloquist—no, rather the voice of the bat-shaped puppet on his left hand—came through her earpiece.
"I don't doubt you can beat him, but my condition is the safety of every student hostage. So, you must separate Zsasz from the girls first, and then—"
"Oh, really?"
Cheshire's slender fingers traced her narrow waist and the fair skin at her chest, stopping at the grinning cat mask on her face.
"I don't think that's necessary. Do you?"
"What are you—"
"She's not talking to you."
The cold moonlight mixed with the red and blue flash of police lights, illuminating the scarred figure emerging from the shadows.
Thick muscles carved with countless tally-mark scars.
Victor Zsasz—one of Gotham's infamous killers.
His gaze lingered on the woman's graceful figure.
"Why not let me see your face, my lady?"
"Oh no, you know the rule."
The female assassin turned around.
"A cat never removes her mask—especially in front of a naked exhibitionist."
A dagger appeared in Zsasz's empty palm.
Cheshire sighed softly. She pulled a retractable knife from behind her back, then a handful of shuriken from her front, like a hamster dumping its hoard.
Then she tilted her head.
"Catfight?"
The infamous Gotham maniac and serial killer Mr. Zsasz grinned grotesquely.
"Cat Quest."
The long night was far from over.
---
In the Batcave beneath Wayne Manor, Chen Tao was using the Ventriloquist's voice, manipulating mercenaries remotely like a bald puppet master.
"…Enough! State your terms. What? Pay more?"
He waved his hand, barking in a rich man's tone, "Fine, raise it! Raise it all!"
He turned around to see the third Robin, Tim Drake, glaring at him and holding up a sheet of paper. On it was written:
"Batman, I still can't believe you didn't take me with you—and instead hired mercenaries to help fight Bane!"
The real Ventriloquist crouched innocently in the corner, pretending to be an actual dog.
Tim clenched his fists but held back from hitting him in front of Batman.
Instead, the young Robin bit his lip and continued writing angrily: "And not only did you bring villains home, you're calling other villains right in front of me!!!"
Batman hung up the call and sighed.
Tim fell silent for a moment.
Then he asked:
"Is it because of Paul? (Jean-Paul, the fallen Azrael mentioned earlier)"
"Not entirely," Chen Tao replied. "Listen to me."
He turned, gripped Tim's shoulders, and looked him straight in the eyes.
"I'm retiring."
"W-What?" The unexpected answer stunned Robin.
"Youth always fades, Tim. The boyhood ends, the golden cup empties, and old dreams turn cold. Batman is nothing but an eight-year-old's dream refusing to wake up… and now, it's time to wake."
"I'll do one last thing for Gotham, then live a normal life—the life I deserve. You too, Tim."
"You're bright, talented, and have parents."
"You have no idea how rare that is!"
"You deserve everything good in this world. You should go to school, and one day meet your true love."
"She'll have golden hair and ocean-blue eyes—or maybe crimson hair. She might be a Gordon, or a Brown—but someday, she'll be a Drake."
"You'll know her, you'll love her, my boy… that kind of young, innocent love is something I'll never have again."
"It's time we both escape this nightmare."
Clang!
Behind them, Alfred dropped his tray, shattering it.
He covered his face, weeping with joy.
"Is it true, Bruce? Am I not dreaming?—Bruce?"
The long night was far from over.