Marvel’s Dark Knight

Spider-Man was dead. His death left many people grieving—but just as many rejoicing.

Take, for instance, the group of thugs conducting an illegal transaction in a dimly lit alleyway. They were no longer tense or wary like they might have been before.

Even their voices had grown louder.

"Haha! That guy who used to swing around the city every day is finally dead," one of the thugs said, grinning as he stared at the news notification on his phone.

If they had any beer on hand, Wayne had no doubt they'd be raising their glasses in celebration right now.

"Alright, sure, the spider's gone. But who knows if some other freak is gonna pop up and make trouble for us?" another thug responded, clearly the more cautious one.

He remained on high alert, using his peripheral vision to scan their surroundings. Any sign of another so-called hero, and their deal would be ruined.

Better to finish the trade quickly and get out of here. A quiet night meant they could all go home and sleep easy.

"What's there to be afraid of? Who's even left to stop us? I bet all the other so-called heroes are off mourning that spider," the first thug scoffed, completely at ease.

He even tilted his head back, glancing up toward the rooftops above the alley.

"There's no—" The words barely left his lips before a shadow appeared in his vision.

A bat.

A dark blur flashed before his eyes, and the next thing he saw was a reinforced combat boot.

Wayne dropped from above, his black cape billowing out like the wings of a bat, briefly slowing his descent before snapping taut with the force of gravity.

THUD!

The heavy kick landed squarely, and the thug didn't even have time to register pain before he was knocked unconscious.

Being young had its perks—like the ability to fall asleep at a moment's notice.

The other thug didn't even think about pulling out a gun. His instincts kicked in, and his first choice was to turn and run.

Years of crime had taught him one crucial lesson when dealing with masked vigilantes:

Never fight. Never talk.

You either surrender, or you run.

And if you were lucky, maybe—just maybe—you could escape from these masked freaks.

"Where do you think you're going?"

A deep, almost demonic voice growled beside his ear.

The thug barely had time to react before he crashed headlong into something solid.

Wayne.

The impact barely made Wayne budge, but the thug was knocked off his feet, landing flat on the ground.

He scrambled backward on all fours, looking up in shock. Just moments ago, Wayne had been behind him—how had he suddenly appeared in front?

In the dim alleyway, he couldn't make out the expression in Wayne's eyes.

But he could feel them.

Wayne's gaze bore into him, shifting momentarily to the illegal goods in the thug's hands.

He hated drug dealers.

Hated them.

Taking slow, deliberate steps forward, Wayne loomed over the thug.

The fear in the man's chest doubled with every step.

His breathing became ragged. His hands shook.

Finally, he snapped. In a desperate move, he yanked a handgun from his waistband.

A wasted effort.

To Wayne, his movements were unbearably slow.

Before the thug could even raise his weapon, a sharp object whizzed through the air—

A Batarang.

But it wasn't aimed at the gun.

It struck his wrist.

"AAAAAHHHH!! MY HAND!!"

The thug screamed, clutching his arm in agony. The Batarang had pierced straight through his forearm.

Wayne merely observed coldly.

"The Batarang missed any vital nerves in your forearm," he stated flatly. "It just hurts."

His tone was indifferent, as if he were commenting on the weather.

Perhaps it was because he had inherited the abilities of a certain Batman.

When Wayne looked at an opponent, his mind instinctively analyzed every weak point—every place he could strike to disable them without being lethal.

To Wayne, this thug was no different from a dissected corpse, laid bare and exposed.

"You're a demon!"

The thug, with snot and tears running down his face, roared at Wayne.

Wayne didn't care in the slightest.

He stepped forward, grabbed the thug with one hand, and slammed him against the wall.

"Now, I ask. You answer."

Wayne leaned in close, his face hidden behind the ever-intimidating Bat-mask. To the thug, it was the most terrifying sight imaginable.

"I'll talk! Just don't drain my blood!"

The thug frantically nodded, his face filled with terror—maybe he thought Wayne was some kind of vampire who would suck him dry.

Before Wayne could say another word, a web shot out, latching onto the thug and yanking him to the center of the alley.

After all, when a man dressed like a bat-demon can lift a grown man with one hand and interrogate him in a voice dripping with menace…

Who wouldn't assume he was the villain?

At least, for the other newcomer who had just arrived in this world, the distinction was painfully obvious.

After all, superheroes weren't the only ones who wore masks.

Supervillains also covered their faces—often to make themselves appear even more terrifying.

And right now, Wayne fit Spider-Man's idea of a supervillain perfectly.

"Pretty brutal, huh, buddy?" Spider-Man remarked, glancing at the Batarang embedded in the thug's forearm. "I get it—you're a big Batman fan. But even Batman wouldn't pull something like this."

"Definitely wouldn't be out here roughing people up in an alley."

Wayne took a good look at this Spider-Man—who, to put it lightly, looked down on his luck.

He really didn't want to assume the worst about this Spidey's situation…

But the guy didn't even have shoes.

And he had a bit of a gut.

Spider-Man must have noticed Wayne's gaze lingering on his stomach because he casually waved a hand. "Probably some weird space-time anomaly or something. I used to have a perfect figure, you know."

Wayne stepped forward, stopping five meters away.

"You smell like pizza," he said quietly. "Bacon and cheese."

"Huh?" Spider-Man sniffed himself but didn't pick up any pizza scent.

"Uh-huh. You're messing with me, aren't you?" He wagged a finger at Wayne.

"That guy over there," Wayne ignored the pizza debate and nodded toward the thug, "is a dealer. Carries illegal weapons. Has blood on his hands."

Spider-Man turned to look at the thug, who immediately nodded in agreement.

The thug knew better than to lie.

After all, when you couldn't escape the clutches of masked freaks, your best bet was to find Spider-Man—he'd take you to the cops.

That way, at least you'd live.

But with this guy—this bat-clad enigma—who knew? He had already knocked one of his partners unconscious without breaking a sweat.

Would he kill?

The thug didn't dare take that gamble.

"Looks like I misjudged you," Spider-Man admitted, turning back toward Wayne.

Only—Wayne was gone.

"I hate it when they do that."

With a flick of his wrist, Spider-Man webbed up the thug, patched up the wound where the Batarang had hit, and used the guy's phone to call the police.

Then, just as quickly, he vanished.

Thanks to a certain web-slinger's interference, Wayne now had to find another target to refill his wallet.

"Should've taken back the Batarang," he muttered, frowning.

Right now, he didn't have a Batcave supplying his gear. Every Batarang was a non-renewable resource.

Precious.

"You forgot something."

A familiar, smug voice chimed in beside him.

Spider-Man had caught up.

And in his hand—Wayne's Batarang.

(End of Chapter)

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