Inside the Batcave, the giant wrap-around screens cast a cold blue light.
Bruce Wayne, who had just shown his face to the media and spent less than fifteen minutes showering before heading down to the Batcave to pull data, stared at the compiled statistics filling the screens, rapidly building a psychological profile in his mind.
Facial Scan: No match.
Iris Database: No match.
Gotham Public Medical System Files: No match.
Federal Tax Records: No such person.
He placed these four "no matches" side-by-side on the left side of the screen.
On the right side was the trajectory of Spider-Man's recent activities: the East End slums, the edges of the docks, the water towers in the shantytowns, and the streetlights outside convenience stores.
There were also early videos of Spider-Man's activities, which he had first retrieved from various civilian security cameras.
His radius of activity had never once touched the city center; it only covered the poorest neighborhoods.
It couldn't be ruled out that because the slums were quite a distance from the city center, Spider-Man--lacking a Batmobile--simply wouldn't be able to make it back and forth in time.
Alfred walked in carrying a data report, his leather shoes stepping on the steel plating with a measured, unhurried pace that sent faint echoes through the cavernous space.
Bruce didn't turn around.
He didn't drink coffee while working; caffeine would cause a fraction-of-a-second delay in his fingers.
Alfred placed the report on the edge of the console and glanced at the four large "No match" indicators on the screen.
"So, the person you are looking for does not exist in the legal sense."
Alfred's tone was as calm as ever. "An illegal immigrant, or undocumented. Considering he has never removed his mask under any surveillance, the difficulty of finding his true identity... Perhaps you should dial back your desire for control a bit, Master Bruce."
Bruce didn't reply.
He gave everyone an equal share of the silent treatment.
He pulled up the combat footage of Spider-Man from the past three days.
On the screen, the slender figure slammed a fist into a burly man's jaw with enough force to shatter molars.
Before the back of the man's head could hit the ground, Spider-Man shot out a wad of webbing to cushion the fall.
The entire sequence of movements was as fluid as a pre-choreographed routine--not a choreography of fighting, but a choreography of saving.
Oh, look at this one too. After saving a little girl, he picked up the loose change scattered in the muddy water piece by piece, stacked it neatly, and stuffed it back into her flower basket.
Then he squatted in front of the girl, tilting his head to ask something. Judging by his lip movements, he asked, "Can you lend me two bucks to buy a burger?"
The girl actually lowered her head to rummage through her coin purse, but he leaped onto the wall and ran off as if his pants were on fire.
The footage froze at the moment he climbed the wall. The crooked stitching on the shoulder of his suit faced the camera directly, a loose thread fluttering in the wind.
Bruce's fingers rested on the armrest for a moment.
He wanted to adopt him.
Alfred read those words clearly from Bruce Wayne's expression.
Bruce logged a term in his file: tactical benevolence. Every strike was controlled within a non-lethal range.
After every restraint, he would turn back to confirm whether the opponent could breathe, whether they would fall from the streetlight, and whether their posture while hanging from a sign would compress their spine.
Precise control of violence, using minimal harm to exchange for maximum deterrence, while simultaneously reducing the criminals' level of violent resistance.
Bruce leaned back against his chair, his fingers tapping twice on the armrest.
All the data on this kid pointed to one conclusion: he wasn't an ordinary vigilante. His behavioral pattern was too clean, so clean that it practically forced one to be suspicious.
From a tactical perspective, Bruce needed to assess this person's threat level, peak strength, reaction speed, combat radius, and potential weaknesses.
Every unknown variable had to be cataloged.
From a more personal perspective, this Spider-Man reminded him of a possibility he had once envisioned: a pure sense of justice entirely untrained, like some sort of innate instinct, accompanied by precise control over his own strength and a natural desire to protect others.
If one day Gotham needed someone to succeed him, it shouldn't be a Batman who judged criminals, but something brighter.
He filed this thought away for now, leaving it unlabeled.
Something in his heart was gently stirred. A kid with superpowers, wandering alone in a place like Gotham.
No organization, no logistics, no backup. Even his suit was self-sewn, with stitches that were uneven, clearly showing he had never learned tailoring.
Bruce knew this feeling all too well. In the years following his parents' death, he had stood alone in the empty hallways of the manor, hearing nothing but his own breathing.
He recalled the teenager crouching in an alley, fiercely kissing a stray dog he had just picked up, cursing under his breath while his hands held the creature as gently as if cradling an egg.
That wasn't a vigilante on duty.
That was a child comforting another life even weaker than himself. At that moment, he was no longer a threat variable that needed to be assessed.
He was a child, a child just as lonely as Bruce Wayne had been years ago standing in Crime Alley.
Bruce pulled up every single one of Spider-Man's combat records on the screen--no longer to assess a threat, but to see if the boy left safely after every rescue.
He wasn't looking at a force that needed to be countered. He was looking at a child who needed to be protected.
Dangerous individuals needed to be kept close, but an innocent, pitiful child needed to be kept close even more.
Bruce Wayne began drafting the framework of an adoption agreement in his mind, calculating what documents needed to be forged, how to explain the child's origins, and how to complete all legal procedures without exposing his identity as Batman.
Wayne Manor had enough guest rooms to run a hotel.
And this kid clearly looked like he didn't have a guardian.
The alarm on the main console rang.
"That is the fifteenth time this week, Master Bruce."
Alfred walked to the dashboard, tapped his fingertips twice on the screen, and pulled up a real-time thermal imaging map of the docks. "The frequency of friction between Falcone and Maroni is far beyond the normal range. The old Don's control has cracked; someone is stirring the pot."
"The Penguin." Bruce closed Spider-Man's data interface and stood up.
He knew it was a trap, but the rockets at the docks wouldn't wait for him.
Even if it was a trap, at least he knew where it was, and he was the only one who could keep casualties to an absolute minimum inside it.
He walked toward his armor, his fingers brushing past the bat emblem on his chest, and put on his cowl.
Perched on top of the East End water tower, Chen Mo was hunched over, rubbing his aching lower back.
He had already handled about forty minor incidents tonight: car thefts, phone snatches, a thief who realized the wallet he stole was empty and got chased down and beaten by the owner, and another thief who broke down into tears on the spot upon finding only an expired McDonald's coupon in his target's pocket.
Not every mugger deserved to have web-fluid wasted on them.
Some were scared off just by him sticking a Post-it note on the wall, while others automatically put the stolen goods back the moment he cleared his throat from a high vantage point.
But seriously, didn't anyone think that forty was a bit too absurd for a single night's crime count in just one district?
And that was only what he had personally seen.
"Gotham's crime rate is truly being kept down by me alone."
Chen Mo rubbed his still highly defined abs. This was probably his only piece of gear that didn't cost money to maintain.
Only the last two streets were left for tonight's patrol. Once he finished, he would head back to rush his drawing drafts.
He hadn't even opened his editor's urgent emails yet, and the storyboards for the next chapter were still stuck on page three. Fighting didn't require brains, but storyboarding did.
Then he heard a muffled thud coming from the convenience store below. A shelf had collapsed.
Chen Mo flipped down from the water tower.
...Why was he always on a water tower whenever a crime happened at a convenience store?
Inside the convenience store, a tall, thin robber was pointing a trembling knife at the checkout counter.
The knife was rusted all over, its handle wrapped in a torn piece of faded electrical tape. His hand shook as if he were carding cotton, and he was so tense that sweat was dripping from the back of his neck.
Behind the counter stood a young clerk sporting two massive dark circles under his eyes. With an expressionless face, he crossed his arms and even took his time to yawn.
"Bro, did you pick that knife out of a dumpster? Seriously, you brought that piece-of-junk knife to rob a place?"
He couldn't even be bothered to pull out the gun from under the counter, you know?
The robber froze, looking down at the rusty knife in his hand, then up at the clerk who was far too calm for someone being robbed. "Cut the crap! I want money!"
The clerk pointed at the cash register, where the LED screen displayed: Requires Manager Authorization. "The boss has the keys, and the boss is downing his sorrows at a pub near Arkham. Why don't you wait until he's done drinking and comes back? Though he usually drinks until dawn, so you'll have to wait."
Chen Mo pushed the door open, the chimes above making a crisp ringing sound.
"Hello, don't move. You know who I am, and you know what happens next. Drop the knife, and I promise not to hang you from a streetlight. I've hung too many these past two days; the streetlights in the East End are about to turn into a silkworm cocoon exhibition hall because of me. I'm getting a bit tired of the aesthetic, so can we be peaceful?"
The robber hesitated for a moment, placed the knife on the counter, and chose peace. The handle hit the surface with a very faint metallic click.
"Can I just walk out myself? The kind where I don't get hung up." Chen Mo made a gesturing motion. The robber kept his head down and walked quickly out the door, even politely pulling it shut behind him.
"How polite. The most polite robber of the week."
The clerk pushed the drawer back under the counter and casually straightened his crooked nametag.
"That's the third one this week." He leaned against the counter with his arms crossed, his tone incredibly weary. "The first two--one wanted to rob money to buy cold medicine, so I just gave him an expired box for free and then reimbursed the $450 'stolen' that night from the boss. The other came to collect protection money, claiming to be an outer-circle member of the Maroni family. He happened to run into Falcone's men buying cigarettes, and now he's tied to the bow of a ship at the docks cosplaying as a siren. I heard two big holes were blasted into his chest..."
"Alright, no need to describe it in such detail."
Chen Mo expressed that since arriving in this godforsaken place, he had really seen a bit too much of the world. Now, hearing such bloody descriptions actually made him feel nauseous, which was a huge step forward.
"Spider-Man, I'm about to off-shift here. Nobody's eating the leftover dinner. Our boss specifically gave instructions to thank you for your patrols, and left a portion just for you. Locally produced ham and bread, not imports, but absolutely fresh."
The clerk pulled out a beautifully wrapped sandwich from beneath the counter. Slices of ham peeked through the cut, the edges of the bread were slightly toasted, and tomatoes and lettuce were sandwiched in between, their colors vibrant.
Chen Mo looked at the sandwich. He looked at the creases on the wrapping paper, looked at the fine texture of the ham slices, and looked at the clerk's eyes with their dark circles.
After a moment, he took the sandwich and tucked it into his jacket. Even through the suit, he could feel the warmth of the wrapping paper. "Thanks, I'll eat it later."
The clerk smiled. "You're welcome."
Chen Mo pushed the door open, stepped out, and leaped onto the roof of the convenience store. Gotham's night wind swirled across the rooftop, carrying the faint sound of sirens echoing from the distant docks.
He pulled out the sandwich, unwrapped it, and brought it close to take a sniff.
His Spider-Sense was blaring like an air-raid siren.
Chen Mo silently tore off a small piece, pinched it into crumbs, and scattered it along the edge of the roof.
A pigeon flew down from the neighboring water tower, tilted its head, and took a peck.
A moment later, the pigeon rolled onto its side on the tiles, completely motionless.
Chen Mo looked down at the pigeon, then placed the sandwich on a spot on the rooftop where no vagrants would accidentally come by and eat it by mistake.
"Gotham. Truly won't let a person relax for a single second."
Heavy gunfire and explosions echoed from the direction of the distant docks, the fire turning half the sky red.
Chen Mo shot out a web-line and swung toward the glow of the flames.