The gunshots exploded through the exhibition hall without warning.
But Dean did not flinch.
His expression didn't change—not even slightly—as if this exact moment had already played out countless times in his mind.
Almost a heartbeat before the gunfire fully rang out, Dean had already moved.
He pivoted sharply toward the direction of the attack, his movements smooth and decisive. With lightning speed, he seized the edge of his white cape and snapped it upward, letting the flowing fabric spread wide and completely shield his body.
The timing was perfect.
The dozen bullets struck the cape simultaneously.
Yet instead of tearing through cloth and flesh, the bullets rebounded as if they had hit a flexible wall. Their deadly momentum vanished in an instant. Rather than ricocheting dangerously, they dropped harmlessly to the floor less than two meters from Dean, clinking softly like discarded coins.
The cape itself?
Pristine. Untouched. Spotless.
Not a tear.
Not a burn mark.
Not even a crease.
As the last bullet hit the ground, Dean's movements did not stop for even a fraction of a second.
His right hand swept the cape back behind him in a fluid arc, while his left hand flickered forward in a rapid throwing motion.
Whoosh!
Whoosh!
Whoosh!
In the blink of an eye, more than a dozen playing cards burst from his hand.
They flew with terrifying precision—straight, fast, and unnaturally accurate.
Each card struck its target.
Each card hit the barrel or grip of a firearm.
One by one, the guns were knocked cleanly from their owners' hands, clattering loudly against the marble floor.
Silence followed.
Absolute silence.
"What… what the hell?"
Every person who witnessed the scene froze in place, mouths hanging open.
The security guards who had fired were the most shaken of all.
If they hadn't lived through it themselves, they would never have believed it.
Bulletproof clothing wasn't unheard of—technology had advanced far enough for that.
But reaction speed like that?
Blocking a dozen bullets at point-blank range with a single motion?
And then disarming over ten armed men using nothing but playing cards?
That crossed the line from impressive into inhuman.
Dean hadn't just survived.
He hadn't just counterattacked.
He had done it calmly—almost lazily—like a performer brushing aside a minor inconvenience.
---
"Who fired without authorization?!"
Commissioner Gordon's voice cut through the stunned silence like a whip.
His face was dark with fury.
This was a crowded public space. Hundreds of civilians were present. Gordon had explicitly forbidden any gunfire indoors without his direct command.
He knew Gotham well enough to understand what happened when guns were fired recklessly.
His sharp gaze swept over the officers—
Then paused.
His anger cooled slightly, replaced with something closer to frustration.
The shooters weren't GCPD officers.
They were museum security guards.
Private security.
Hired muscle.
Unlike the police, they weren't obligated to follow Gordon's orders. Their instructions were simple: neutralize perceived threats immediately. Liability would be handled later—by lawyers and investors.
Gordon hated that system.
But legally, his hands were tied.
He exhaled sharply and forced himself to refocus.
"We'll talk about your failure to follow protocol later," Gordon snapped. "Right now—spread out. Form a perimeter around Kaito Kid. Civilians behind the line, immediately!"
The officers obeyed at once, weapons raised but held in check.
---
While the entire hall buzzed with shock, Dean's thoughts were far less dramatic.
"Damn… my hand is numb."
Blocking bullets looked incredible.
It felt less incredible.
His right hand throbbed fiercely, a deep tingling pain spreading up his arm. Even with the system-provided cape absorbing most of the kinetic energy, the impact had still been brutal.
If the cape hadn't had a built-in energy-dissipation function, his hand would have been shattered on the spot.
Even now, it felt like he had slammed his elbow full force into a solid table.
Still—
The payoff was worth it.
Just that one moment alone had flooded him with over four hundred astonishment points, pouring in from terrified tourists, stunned guards, and shocked officers all at once.
Dean straightened his posture.
A calm, confident smile returned to his face.
He bowed deeply, one hand placed politely over his chest.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he said warmly, "I must apologize. My opening remarks were interrupted by an… unexpected situation."
He bowed again.
"Please accept my sincerest apologies for the disturbance."
The crowd stared at him in disbelief.
"Is… is he serious?"
"A criminal apologizing?"
"This is insane. Gotham has officially gone mad."
In a city of lunatics, monsters, and mass murderers, politeness felt unreal.
---
"Apology accepted," a voice cut in sharply.
"But only after you're behind bars."
The words came from the side.
Before Dean could fully turn, a sudden gust of wind slammed toward him.
His instincts screamed.
Dean leaned backward without thinking.
A boot swept past his face, missing his nose by just a few centimeters.
Had he reacted a moment later, the kick would have landed squarely on his face.
Dean slid back two steps, regaining his balance effortlessly.
"Really?" he said calmly. "I've heard it's bad manners to kick someone in the face, Robin."
He tilted his head slightly.
"Or should I call you Wonder Boy?"
Robin landed lightly, retracting his leg, eyes locked onto Dean with sharp focus.
"I'll take either," Robin replied coolly. "They both sound better than Kid the Thief."
The distance between them was short.
Too short.
Two steps—three at most.
Robin shifted his stance, muscles coiled, ready to strike again.
Dean sighed dramatically and rubbed his forehead, looking genuinely troubled.
"I had planned to finish my first performance properly tonight," Dean said. "But you all keep interrupting me."
He spread his hands helplessly.
"This is making things very difficult."
"I don't usually talk to criminals before taking them down," Robin replied, tilting his head. "Talking to you this much already breaks my rules."
With that, he moved.
Robin lunged forward.
Fast.
Direct.
But just as he took his first step, something subtle caught his attention.
Dean's lips curved upward—just slightly.
A quiet smile.
Not arrogance.
Not panic.
A smile of certainty.
Robin's mind flashed back to Batman's voice:
Never underestimate an opponent—especially when they smile calmly.
Robin's movement hesitated.
Just for an instant.
That instant was enough.
Dean's smile widened.
"I'd love to play with you a little longer, little bird of the Bat-Family," Dean said lightly.
"But unfortunately—"
He raised his hand.
An antique pocket watch had appeared between his fingers at some point, its chain glinting faintly under the lights.
The hands pointed clearly to the time.
21:35.
Dean snapped the watch shut.
"It's time for the curtain call."
BANG!
BANG!
BANG!
BANG!
BANG!
BANG!
Gunfire erupted again—this time from multiple directions.
The final act had begun.