The Dark Knight of Marvel

Spider-Man might wear a mask, but somehow, people can always tell what he's feeling.

Like now—Wayne could sense a playful amusement radiating from him.

Perhaps it was those oversized, expressive eyes on his mask that made his emotions so easily readable.

In contrast, Wayne's Batman cowl conveyed only fear and the cold, simmering anger of the man beneath it.

Even if the person under the mask managed a slight smile, it would only come off as mocking.

Few had ever seen Batman smile.

What they did see, more often than not, was his disapproving gaze.

And that was all.

Wayne said nothing as he calmly took back his Batarang from Spider-Man's hand.

"Hey, a thank-you wouldn't kill you, would it?" The web-slinger seemed a bit thrown off by Wayne's indifference.

Even when he helped an old lady cross the street, he'd at least get a "thank you."

But now? He had retrieved Batman's weapon, and... nothing?

As he spoke, Wayne came to a halt, turning to look at the masked hero.

"What's your webbing made of? With this level of tensile strength and elasticity, I assume it dissolves on its own after a short period?" As he spoke, a wristband-like device suddenly appeared in Wayne's hand.

Even Wayne himself was slightly surprised. This ability to lift things from others without them noticing—it was almost too effortless.

With skills like this, anyone in Gotham could become a legendary thief.

"What?" Spider-Man froze. He had never imagined that one day, someone would be able to steal his web-shooter without him realizing it.

"How did you do that?" he asked, his voice tinged with both shock and admiration.

He had never seen anything like it.

And his web-shooter was inside his suit! How had it been taken?

"You were distracted." Wayne tossed the device back to the slightly out-of-shape Spider-Man.

"..."

For once, Spider-Man was at a loss for words.

Sure, time might have dulled his edge a bit, but he was pretty sure he hadn't been that distracted.

Wayne didn't care about Spider-Man's frustration. He simply turned away, continuing toward his original destination.

He had things to take care of.

"Hey, why can't you just have a normal conversation?" Spider-Man quickly jogged after him, unwilling to let him leave so easily.

"The Spider-Man of this world just died. And now, here you are—this slightly chubby version of him." Wayne didn't even turn around. He just kept walking.

"I can tell—you've been dragged into something really troublesome."

"And I have no intention of getting involved."

Wayne's calm words left Spider-Man feeling helpless.

He had never met someone so emotionally detached.

"But aren't you already involved?" Spider-Man pointed out, still following Wayne like a persistent shadow.

Wayne remained silent, standing atop the high-rise rooftop, carefully observing the city below.

He had been moments away from completing his plan, only to be interrupted by an uninvited guest.

And now, that guest refused to leave.

"Man, I knew you were a die-hard Batman fan. What's next? Looking for another criminal to take down?" True to his reputation, Spider-Man couldn't stop talking.

Endless chatter.

"I hate this guy," came a voice in Wayne's head. Thomas, the ever-present voice in his mind, was clearly not a fan of Spider-Man's incessant babbling.

In his world, there was no one quite like this—a person who could talk nonstop without even needing a sip of water.

Wayne didn't say anything, but he silently agreed.

Spider-Man was fine in every way—except for that mouth.

"You ignoring me makes it feel like I'm doing a one-man show. How about a little reaction?" Suddenly, Spider-Man swung around, landing right in front of Wayne.

Wayne simply reached out and pushed him aside, continuing on his way.

The biggest difference between a bat and a spider?

A bat needed money.

Without money, Batman couldn't even afford to make Batarangs.

"You've really hurt my feelings, buddy. Honestly, I think you'd make a better Spider-Man fan. Don't you think?" Spider-Man clearly wasn't one to give up.

He had confidence in himself.

Everyone loved Spider-Man. There was no way he could lose to some brooding, joyless bat.

"You mean you? A middle-aged, slightly chubby Spider-Man who doesn't even have shoes with his suit?" Wayne glanced him up and down.

Spider-Man looked down at his bare calves, his toes awkwardly digging into the rooftop.

"That's just a minor issue." He looked up again—only to find that Wayne was already gone.

All that remained was the distant silhouette of a man swinging away with a grappling gun.

"In some ways, we're not so different," Spider-Man mused with a grin.

But Wayne had already set his sights on his next goal.

He wasn't interested in a chatty web-head.

Right now, his focus was on securing money.

And an identity.

Even if he didn't know how long he'd be in this world, it was best to have a legal alias.

Something that would keep the P.D.N.Y. off his back.

As for money? That part was simple—certain things just needed cash to acquire.

Like gear.

Perhaps because Spider-Man's death had been confirmed, criminals—both big and small—had come crawling out of the woodwork.

New York had once again fallen into chaos, as if Spider-Man had never existed.

A city in turmoil.

Dark corners filled with crime.

This version of New York felt far more familiar to the Thomas inside Wayne's mind.

This city, in its current state, was just like Gotham had once been.

To those people, order meant nothing.

Except for the order set by Batman.

Just like before during the contraband trade, Wayne had locked onto his target—one of the dealers openly selling illicit goods to those around him.

These types always carried enough cash to fund at least part of Wayne's operations.

Besides, Wayne had no intention of just taking from individual dealers—he planned to deal with their headquarters as well.

"This is yours." Holding a small packet of powder, the black dealer grinned as he studied the desperate, addicted man in front of him.

"Thank you." The man handed over his cash and immediately reached for the packet.

Just as he was about to grab it, the dealer lifted his hand, keeping it just out of reach.

"Hey, hey, hey!" The dealer wagged a finger. "Sometimes, money alone isn't enough to buy the goods. You need to put in a little extra effort."

"Sir, what… what do you need me to do?" The man, lost in his craving, barely understood what he was saying—he just wanted the powder.

Satisfied with the response, the dealer smirked and dangled the packet in front of him. "Just bring me your wife, and I'll give you something that'll blow your mind."

"No… no problem."

The man didn't care what the dealer was saying—he only wanted the powder.

He reached for it again.

The dealer nodded approvingly. "I recorded that, you know. Don't forget."

"Forget what?" A cold voice suddenly spoke from behind the dealer.

"What?" Before the dealer could react, a powerful knee strike slammed him against the wall.

His stomach twisted in agony, and he felt like he was about to vomit up his entire dinner.

His gut knotted in pain.

Wayne coldly observed the addict, now scrambling on the ground, desperately searching for the packet the dealer had dropped.

Wayne never felt pity for these kinds of people.

Especially those who would trade their loved ones for their own twisted pleasure.

He stepped toward the man.

At last, the addict found the fallen packet. Just as he was about to savor his anticipated high, a boot came down on his head, smashing it into the pavement.

Blood trickled down his forehead.

"Son of a bitch!" The dealer, still reeling from pain, finally regained enough sense to act.

Without hesitation, he pulled out a gun and fired at Wayne.

But he missed.

A strand of webbing had latched onto his gun hand.

"What?" The dealer was stunned—Spider-Man was supposed to be dead.

Wayne didn't care whether Spider-Man would appear or not. He swiftly sliced the webbing with a hand strike and drove his fist into the dealer's stomach.

Already injured, the dealer couldn't withstand another heavy blow.

Blood spewed from his mouth, his eyes filled with terror.

"Wow." Only now did Spider-Man drop down beside them, glancing at the battered dealer and the unconscious addict. He sighed, clearly unsettled. "This doesn't quite fit Batman's style."

"Now, I ask, you answer."

Ignoring Spider-Man, Wayne grabbed the dealer by the collar and spoke, his words sharp and deliberate.

The dark, intricate patterns of the bat mask seemed to whisper pure fear into the dealer's soul.

Spider-Man let his hands fall helplessly to his sides.

The dealer had no desire to prolong his suffering. He nodded frantically.

After all, this masked freak showed no hesitation in dealing out pain.

"Where do you get your supply?"

"I only know it comes from Hell's Kitchen. They always tell us the pickup location at the last minute."

"How often?"

"Every two days. I'm supposed to pick up more tomorrow." The dealer coughed up more blood but didn't dare be vague.

"Where's your cash stored?"

*"In a safe at my place. The code is ***. It's in an apartment two stops away, third floor, unit 303."

Wayne let go. The dealer slid down the wall, collapsing onto the ground.

For a moment, he thought he had survived.

Just as he exhaled in relief, Wayne suddenly pivoted and delivered a brutal elbow strike to his face.

Blood splattered. In the faint light, his teeth could be seen flying through the air.

Wayne casually rifled through the dealer's pockets, taking his cash and slipping it into his waist pouch. He also pocketed a car key.

"Are you sure you're a Batman fan? Because you seem more like the Punisher." Spider-Man watched, baffled.

He had already checked on the addict—at minimum, the guy had a severe concussion. Worst case? He could be in a vegetative state.

As for the dealer Wayne had just elbowed, Spider-Man was sure—he was done.

If he didn't get immediate medical attention, Spider-Man wasn't even sure the guy would survive.

The blood seeping from the back of his head wasn't a good sign.

But inside Wayne's mind, Thomas had his own complaints.

Not because he thought Wayne had been too brutal—quite the opposite.

If Thomas had been the one handling it, neither of those scumbags would be breathing right now.

They'd be reporting to Satan in Hell.

"I think you went too easy on them." Thomas' voice carried a tone of disappointment.

"Forgive me, but I'm not at the point where I can just take a life without hesitation or guilt." Wayne replied calmly. "This is already the most damage I'm willing to inflict."

Thomas had nothing to say.

He understood that expecting Wayne to act like him was asking too much.

Without another word, Thomas retreated into his mental prison.

Wayne, meanwhile, walked toward a nearby parking lot. Pressing the unlock button, he watched as a Ford pickup truck flashed its lights.

"Not bad. I like it." That ever-annoying voice chimed in again—Spider-Man.

(End of Chapter)

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