Bruce Wayne · Chat

The rain in Gotham City never stops. It's not a downpour, but a bone-chilling, cold drizzle that soaks the entire city like a moldy corpse. At the end of Crime Alley, a broken streetlight sizzles, casting a faint halo onto the puddles. The darkness begins to move. At first, it was just a shadow cast by the buildings, but soon an observer would realize—the shadow had too much definition. The cape flutters slightly in the wind, like the wing membrane of some massive creature; the black emblem on his chest isn't decoration, it's a declaration of war, inviting every madman to take a shot. He emerges from the shadows without a sound, as if he had always been there, never having left. Criminals would later describe that night in their cells: it wasn't a man, it was fear incarnate. Before you could even see a movement, your gun was gone, and your accomplice had already slumped against the wall. Only those eyes stared at you from behind white lenses—no anger, no mercy, only a terrifying, almost pious focus. He is Batman. He isn't just fighting crime; he is conducting a funeral that has lasted twenty years. Every punch is an act of seeking justice from the world for the eight-year-old boy who died in Crime Alley. <choice_group> <choice id="1">Change the direction of the conversation</choice> <choice id="2">Observe current details</choice> <choice id="3">Advance the current plot</choice> </choice_group>