Before Lance had even stepped out of the revolving doors of Stark Tower, a large sum of money had already been deposited into his account.
That was the charm of working for that group of top-tier bastards.
They all had their flaws and were difficult in their own ways, but when it came to paying, they were always impressively fast.
Because of that alone, Lance could greet every client with the most enthusiastic service attitude.
What? You think he just stabbed Iron Man right in the heart?
Darling, that's called technique.
Stepping out of the Stark Industries building, Lance moved through the streets of New York with a clear goal.
His top priority now was to buy a proper cane.
During that week in Gotham, the cane had become his most reliable companion.
Now that he was in New York, his hands felt empty. Even his left hand seemed to miss that old partner.
Unfortunately, the street around Stark Industries was far too upscale.
Lance walked through several blocks before finally finding a shop tucked into an alley that specialized in custom canes.
Fortunately, there happened to be an unclaimed ebony cane for sale inside.
"Take good care of her." The shopkeeper handed over his prized work with visible reluctance.
"I will."
Lance took hold of his new partner and stepped out of the shop. He gave it a few test swings, and the wooden shaft cut through the air with a sharp whistle.
Looks like luck is on my side today, Lance thought.
Then, at the corner of the alley…
Bang.
A powerful force slammed into him, knocking him backward, and the cane flew from his hand.
Unfortunately, he was the one who got knocked down.
"Sorry, sorry, sorry. Sir, are you okay? Oh my god, you look so pale. I just… I just finished an experiment, I mean, working out. I can't quite control my strength yet. Do you need me to call an ambulance? Or the police? Or… wait, maybe not the police. I don't really want to get myself locked up. Though this probably wouldn't land me in jail, right…"
The person who had hit him was apologizing at a rapid pace.
Lance braced himself against the wall, steadying his footing, and raised a hand to stop the one reaching toward him.
"Stop. Breathe first."
The boy clamped his mouth shut as if someone had pressed a mute button.
Lance bent down to pick up the cane and inspected it. The shaft was intact. Good wood, worth every dollar he had paid.
Then he slowly straightened and sized up the teenager in front of him.
He drew in a sharp breath.
Fifteen or sixteen, brown curly hair, a baby face, and a nonstop chatterbox.
Beneath the hoodie, a hint of red showed, and the boy was trying to hide something that looked like a red mask in his hand.
Peter Parker.
"Name."
"Pe… Peter. Peter Parker. Midtown High School, science department. I didn't mean to hit you. I just turned the corner too fast, and my strength's been a little weird lately. Maybe it's puberty or…"
"Peter." Lance cut him off. "You hit me."
"Yes, sir. I'm really sorry."
"Your strength…" Lance rolled his shoulder. "That's something.. I need compensation."
Peter lowered his head in embarrassment, looking as if he wished the ground would swallow him.
He had no objection at all to Lance's demand and immediately began fumbling through his pockets.
Someone like this would be stripped clean in Gotham. Environment really did shape people.
"Sorry, sir, I don't have enough money on me today. How about you leave me your contact information, and I'll pay you back later? Please believe me, I'm definitely not the type to avoid responsibility. Even if I don't have enough money, I'll work to repay you. Or if you need someone to run errands, I can do that too. My grades are great. I can tutor. Physics, chemistry, biology, I can handle all of it."
"Alright." Lance cut him off and pulled a business card from his inner pocket, handing it over.
"Forget the compensation. If you ever need a lawyer, like if you run into someone like me again, call this number."
Peter took the card and stared at the gold-embossed name: Lance Prescott.
"I… I probably won't need this, right?"
"Won't need it?" Lance smiled. "Believe me, kid. Everyone in this world ends up needing a good lawyer eventually. And I'm the best one."
Lance gave him a slight nod, then turned and disappeared into the crowd.
Peter stood there for a long time, staring at the card in his hand before finally tucking it into the innermost pocket of his backpack.
…
When Lance woke up, he did not even need to turn over to know he was back among Gotham's so-called honest citizens.
The smell of kerosene in the air and the perpetually overcast sky outside the window told him clearly.
He had transmigrated back.
Not even a moment had passed.
He sat up and switched off the vintage alarm clock on the nightstand. The electronic calendar still showed yesterday's date, Wednesday.
In other words, he had spent an entire day in New York, while time in Gotham had been frozen in place.
Lance could not help but sigh. For a moment, he could not decide which was more dangerous, the simple, honest Gotham or the center of the universe, New York.
To be fair, New York was bright and comfortable, but Gotham was still home.
Joking about it was one thing, but in reality, who would not enjoy daily American-style gatherings with neighbors who appeared out of nowhere?
At least here, the universal mode had not been activated. Gotham was not going to randomly spawn a purple potato trying to wipe out half the population with a snap.
Now that he was back in Gotham, there was still work to do.
All the documents for suing William Earle were ready. All that remained was to wait for the court date.
Before the trial, however, Lance needed to have a proper exchange, both mentally and physically, with his client.
After all, no lawyer wanted to step into court only to have their client ruin everything over some minor detail they thought was insignificant.
Lance did not believe Bruce Wayne would make such a mistake.
But caution never hurt.
Perhaps it was some kind of telepathic connection with Bruce Wayne, because before Lance could even send a message, Bruce's call came through the next second.
"Mr. Prescott." Bruce Wayne's voice came through the receiver, faint machinery humming in the background. "I think we need to meet."
"Now?"
"Six o'clock tonight. Your hotel room."
...
When the clock struck six, there was a gentle knock on Lance's door.
After he opened it, Bruce did not immediately walk in and sit down. Instead, he took the initiative to make himself a cup of coffee, then sat across from Lance with the mug in hand.
He got straight to the point.
"Lance Prescott. Ph.D. graduate from Metropolis University School of Law. Four law-related degrees. You were the last student of Corbin Sullivan and served as a deputy on the Black Umbrella Case, the Clock Tower Murder Case, the Neon Requiem Case…"
"More importantly, last month, your mentor disappeared after brutally murdering five students. And you were the only survivor."
Bruce leaned forward, his hands clasped over his knees.
"As far as I know, this commission was originally assigned to your mentor. After the incident, the firm recommended three more qualified partners. But you personally contacted Alfred and insisted on taking over the case."
"So, Mr. Prescott," he said, "can you tell me why… you came to Gotham?"
___
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