Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter 1 - Batman

"How would you like your haircut this time?"

"Same as before, just a little shorter?"

Aunt Linda, working as a barber, stands at an average height of five feet one inch, turned on the electric hair clipper in her hand.

Aunt Linda started to work whilst engaging in a conversation with Charlie. "A short haircut looks honest. Girls like that these days."

Charlie didn't reply, but he thought in his heart that whether or not one can attract a partner is not directly related to hairstyle; rather, it has more to do with appearance.

Numerous examples have proved that when attracting a desired partner, as long as you are good-looking enough, certain income requirements can be relaxed. If the appearance is a little better, even the race can be ignored, and perhaps the boundary between yin and yang can be blurred.

[TL Note- apparently, if a man is hot enough, other men can fall for him .ie, (yin and yang BS) I call cap]

So for a player like Charlie, the hairstyle is of secondary importance.

After all, he is so good-looking that even flowers bloom when they see him.

A single smile from him can attract countless female fans...
...well, more accurately, countless moms and aunties.

Although Charlie has only been living in this community for a little more than a year since he entered university, he has already become acquainted with all the aunts in the nearby area.

After Charlie finished his haircut, he chatted with the Ladies for a while. Then, under the reluctant eyes of the aunts, he said goodbye and went upstairs, going straight back to his apartment.

This apartment belonged to his uncle. Because the address happened to be near the university where he was studying, his uncle gave him the apartment for four years when he entered university.

This allowed Charlie to enjoy a living environment with a large area without having to live on campus, and he could also avoid the cost of accommodation.

Many students were envious when they learned about his situation because they thought it meant that Charlie could often bring beautiful young ladies to play at home and go to bed directly when tired. After all, his home was quite big.

But no...

Because that would only affect the speed at which he, Charlie, played Video games.

A great man once said, "Women are bugs, simply a nuisance, seeming to serve no purpose other than to annoy us. They are akin to Mosquitoes buzzing around our ears, flies landing on our food, or cockroaches scurrying in dark corners. They disrupt our comfort and thought process, leading to the perception that they contribute little value to our lives. However, it's important to remember that even these pesky creatures have roles in nature, such as teaching us that humans, like all living beings, are subject to imperfections and limitations. Understanding and acknowledging these imperfections is crucial for personal growth and societal development."

[TL Note- "..."]

Although Charlie feels that the above statement is a bit extreme, he believes it has some merit.

Charlie, an undergraduate student, is also a self-proclaimed Grandmaster in the stand-alone game genre; if he had fallen prey to womanly attractions, he would not have attained his current achievements.

Now, because of his superb skills and perseverance in pursuing perfect and unharmed game clearance, his edited game recordings often have a blockbuster visual sense, allowing him to gain many fans.

As a conscientious gaming grandmaster who has never been in love, he has always put his career and fans first. He has no time to toss about with nonsensical relations.

[TL Note- to all my female readers, I'm simply an editor; I love you all and completely disagree with everything written thus far...]

Ding!

When he got home, Charlie had just entered his room, but before he had time to do anything, a clear notification sounded in his ears, making his heart tremble.

Could it be that my system has been delayed for a month and finally arrived?

That's right, Charlie is not an original native of this multiverse but a traveler hailed from "Mother Russia." He has only been on 'This' Earth for a month now.

According to the limited knowledge he obtained from fantasy works, he can very well judge that he has traveled to a body that is almost the same as his own life trajectory in a different world.

However, Although the world is similar to His Earth, it is not entirely the same.

This Earth is also a world dominated by humans, which is similar to the human civilization that Charlie is familiar with. However, human civilization in this world has an entirely different development process, and the complex evolution over the long years has finally led to the fact that this Earth has no national boundaries.

That's right. Although 'this' Earth also has continental plates and regional divisions, it has no concept of national boundaries, and it has been like this for many years.

In addition, there are many other differences in 'this' Earth, emphasized by the fact that it would take days and nights to list all the details individually. Fortunately, the direct impact on Charlie was not too great.

If traversing is compared to playing the lottery, he feels that his luck is not too bad. In past generations, some people have traveled to the end of the world, where zombies are rampant; some have traveled to the wasteland, where civilization is in ruins; and some have traveled to the world of immortals, where everywhere one can find a random passerby with the power of gods.

Compared with those high-risk planes, his side seems to be a stable society; at least from the memory he inherited, he didn't find any strange phenomena. He has no cheats and no special skills; as long as he can lie down and eat and wait for death in this life, he will be very content.

But now...

In the early days, nine of the ten internet traversers had a system, and the sound of "ding" in their minds was often the beginning of the MC's counterattack and killing everything in seconds.

Excitedly Charlie, changed his posture, then, in his heart, he called out to the system, but found no reaction.

He then realized that the voice seemed to come from the computer on the bedroom desk, which had not been turned off all night.

It sounds like the notification sounds when the game is downloaded and installed.

Charlie was greatly disappointed, and he couldn't help but be puzzled.

Last night, he was watching por...ah no, he was reading learning materials, then he went to bed without turning off the computer. Could it be that the computer caught a virus and automatically installed some weird things in the bundle when he was downloading por... reading materials?

Charlie shook the mouse, waking up the sleeping monitor.

Soon, he noticed the extra icons on his desktop.

"Avengers vs Justice League: A New Age".

Charlie "..."!?

He recognized this game because it happened to be the last game he had bought before traversing.

"I still remember that on the eve of traversing a month ago, I excitedly bought this newly released game and had it downloading in the background. Later, I went to school to attend classes.

Unexpected events occurred, and he ran into a dump truck and died.

Initially, Charlie had already forgotten about this after being in another world for a month, but when he saw this icon on the computer, he was almost petrified in place.

There is no Marvel or DC, along with other superhero-themed works, in this world, so it is impossible for a game like Avengers vs. Justice League to exist.

So, what kind of awesome black technology is this? Could it be that the Steam platform has already started to expand the business to different dimensions?

Or perhaps the Steam platform detected that he bought the game but disappeared before he had time to play it. To prevent the customer from spending money on the game and not playing it, Steam especially opened a multiverse Delivery package just for him.

Charlie sat in front of the computer, held his breath, and double-clicked to open the game icon.

According to the law of Web Novel traversing, the things you can bring with you from the original world are often overpowered. So even though he didn't know how a game downloaded from his original world would be useful, Charlie still had expectations for it.

But there is also the possibility that this is really just a game.

After the joint logo of Steam and the production company flashed one after another, the screen fell into darkness.

The screen then changes to two silver logos in the middle of the black screen. One is "A," representing the Avengers, and the other is "JL," representing the Justice League, which are divided diagonally on both sides of the screen.

The silver slender diagonal line represents the game's loading progress bar, and a line of small characters next to it shows the specific loading information.

"Hero character loaded...Role loaded successfully."

"Game map loading... Map information is missing, loading failed."

Charlie's heart skipped a beat; just as he felt something was wrong, the information changed.

"Repairing... New map system loaded."

Then, dreadful loading failure prompts occurred several times in a row, but fortunately, they were all automatically repaired without exception. The game finally finished loading and entered the title interface.

Charlie breathed a sigh of relief, but at the same time, the process of loading and repairing also gave him a faint sense of foreboding.

Without hesitation, Charlie directly clicked to start the game.

The game is a classic stand-alone action-adventure game.

This kind of game often allows players to play superheroes to complete tasks, experience movie-like main storylines, or freely explore in open maps.

"Please choose your hero."

Although he was given the option to choose a hero, Charlie found that he didn't seem to have a choice.

There are many superhero portraits on the screen, but most of them are gray and covered with a big question mark; hovering above them with the mouse, the words "invalid selection" are displayed.

All Charlie can choose is the initial hero given by the game, the top character of DC comics, also known as the world's strongest detective, the brain of the Justice League, the Dark Knight of Gotham...

Batman.

Chapter Text

In Charlie's previous life, Batman was one of the most famous superheroes in the world.

Batman is adorned with countless labels and accolades: the world's greatest detective, a top martial artist, an elite assassin, a billionaire, and, unfortunately, an orphan.

As a child, Bruce Wayne witnessed his parents being shot dead in front of him.

Growing up, he traveled the world and mastered countless skills, determined to avenge his parents by fighting crime. Thus, he became a masked vigilante, a Dark Knight, and... Batman.

The trope of the orphaned hero is common in comics and movies. However, Batman stands out because his character deeply integrates the sorrow of his parents' loss, making it a core part of his soul. This unhealed trauma fuels his relentless quest to fight crime and protect the innocent.

Some say Batman's power comes from his wealth and technology, while others attribute it to his extensive knowledge and preparation. However, at his core, Batman is still that child who witnessed his parents' murder. This trauma drives his lifelong quest for justice.

After selecting Batman as his character, Charlie's first in-game scene was the Batcave. The setting was instantly familiar yet breathtakingly rendered in astonishing detail.

As the elevator descended with the sound of chains and metal friction, bats fluttered away, disturbed by the noise. Stepping out of the elevator, a muscular figure in a carbon fiber-reinforced bulletproof suit emerged, his black Kevlar boots making a crisp sound on the metal steps.

It was Batman.

This opening scene immediately reminded Charlie of the classic game "Batman: Arkham Origins," but the modeling and rendering were leagues ahead. In seconds, Charlie was amazed by the graphical display.

Having been a veteran gamer for years, Charlie felt he had a good grasp of the industry's top production levels. Yet, even the highest-quality games he had played before paled in comparison to this first scene's modeling and effects.

Especially when the computers in the Batcave lit up, the fluorescent light from the supercomputer shone in the dark cave, the light and shadow, the reflections on the metal casing, and Batman walking to the computer and sitting down...

Charlie suddenly felt that this was almost like a real person appearing on the scene.

"The simulation training system has been activated," a voice came from the Batcomputer.

The screen went black, and when it turned on again, the Batcave had disappeared, replaced by a huge warehouse. Batman stood on the roof of the warehouse, his black cloak billowing in the night wind.

A prompt popped up on the screen: "Use WASD to control the character to move."

Charlie quickly understood. It was the tutorial level, a process that action games have to teach players basic operations.

Generally, the operation modes of this kind of action game are similar. After playing one, you can guess the key positions in other games.

In addition, he is also a dedicated player of the classic 'Batman Arkham' series. He has cleared every game in the series at the highest difficulty level without injury and has even edited gameplay videos. After trying it out, he found that Batman's operation in this game seemed to be essentially the same as that of the Arkham series, so there was naturally no obstacle to getting started.

After familiarizing himself with the basic movement on the roof, the game instructed him to control Batman to open the skylight and jump. Batman jumped into the warehouse without a sound, landing on a beam on the roof of the warehouse as lightly as a night cat.

The system then prompted him to press the "X" key to enable detective vision.

Detective vision is a powerful reconnaissance ability in the Batman series of games. It is a collection of detection functions attached to the Batman helmet.

Under the detective visual effect, Batman can have night vision in complete darkness. He can use the infrared imaging function to see through walls within a certain range. He can detect the enemy's heartbeat, pulse, and much more.

Charlie pressed the "X" key, and the screen's color changed instantly. In Batman's eyes, the huge warehouse had no secrets, and infrared imaging figures walked back and forth below.

The reconnaissance results were quickly marked on the side of the screen: seven enemies, all armed with thermal weapons.

Charlie, who has played the Batman series of games, quickly understood the purpose of this tutorial level.

Although Batman has extraordinary skills, his physical fitness is still that of an ordinary human. Even though his bulletproof vest can resist bullets to a certain extent, it doesn't mean that he can face a hail of bullets head-on.

Batman is essentially an assassin. He had to sneak under the cover of darkness and shadows, eliminating enemies one by one without being noticed.

Armed enemies must be given priority.

Charlie was very confident. He observed each gangster's patrol area below, controlled Batman to move on the beam, found a relatively open shadow, and jumped down.

Jumping from this height, a normal person would definitely be injured or worse. But Batman is not a normal person; his body is at the peak of human physical strength. He also has armor that can cushion the impact. Additionally, when he lands, his cape can be opened to increase wind resistance. Therefore, landing without injury is not a problem.

Not to mention the Batman series, Charlie has also played many stealth games, achieving the accomplishment of speedrunning without injury in all of them. Based on his experience, tutorial levels are often straightforward. It would be laughable if a high-level player like him couldn't pass it on the first try...

"Batman!"

Suddenly, a minion looked over from a long distance, exclaimed, and, while signaling his teammates, frantically fired bullets at Charlie's position.

Batman's body armor took two bullets from the automatic rifle head-on, and he fell to the ground with a muffled grunt.

Charlie was dumbfounded.

What? How can they spot me from so far away?

Aren't the NPCs in this kind of stealth game supposed to have the awareness of potatoes? Shouldn't they be unable to distinguish between a person and a statue five meters away?

The warehouse was already dark, and Charlie had intentionally chosen a shaded area to land. Logically, Batman's pitch-black outfit should be invisible, even in real life, right?

Charlie's initial plans were disrupted.

A prompt to throw a smoke bomb appeared on the screen.

Charlie immediately followed the prompt, controlling Batman to drop a smoke bomb on the spot, then quickly raising the grappling hook, firing it towards the beam in the air, and dragging Batman off the ground to jump back onto the beam.

At this moment, Charlie was still in shock.

Did these minions have 40/20 vision? Do they have detective vision?

Based on his experience with the series, usually, if you drop a smoke bomb and quickly ascend, the enemies won't be able to find the player. After waiting patiently in the shadows for a while, the minions would return to their patrols as if they had forgotten about Batman.

Because of this, Charlie felt it should be safe after controlling Batman to fly up to the beam.

However...

"He's on the roof!"

Another minion yelled, raised his gun without hesitation, and unleashed a volley of bullets.

Charlie: ?

Are all the NPCs in this game so smart?

Before he could react, Batman had already taken another bullet. Although his customized bat suit can prevent bullets from penetrating his body, the kinetic energy cannot be eliminated. Therefore, Batman swayed and fell directly from the roof.

Then, all the soldiers gathered around and fired at him. Batman fell to the ground motionless, and the word "DEAD" appeared in large font on the screen.

When the screen went black, it returned to the Batcave. The female voice of the Batcomputer's electronic prompt sounded again.

"Mission failed, the simulation ended. The simulator is preparing to restart...ready."

Then, the "Start" button appeared on the screen.

The novice tutorial had a bad start, but instead of discouraging Charlie, it aroused his fighting spirit even more.

Interesting, very interesting.

Although it was just a simulation teaching level, the game's quality far exceeded Charlie's expectations. The simulated warehouse scene felt incredibly realistic, and the minions, although minor characters, were modeled with astonishing detail.

The super-real scenes, lifelike characters, and AI modeling gave Charlie an immersive experience. It felt as if he had really transformed into a dark knight, facing truly vicious criminals across the screen.

Difficult as it was, that was also the game's charm.

Men love to conquer, and the higher the mountain, the more they desire to conquer it.

Charlie rubbed his hands, took a deep breath, and immediately clicked the "Start" button.

Let's do this!

Chapter Text

Dead

The bright red word flashed on the screen repeatedly, making Charlie almost slam his fist into the keyboard. He hesitated, however, as the cost of the keyboard flashed through his mind. With a sigh, he restrained himself and clenched his fist instead.

Poverty brings peace of mind.

Charlie was increasingly convinced that this game was completely off the mark. He had played countless games, including some notoriously difficult ones that players had dismissed as "impossible." Yet, he had managed to complete them unscathed through skill and perseverance.

It was unprecedented for him to keep failing in the novice tutorial.

This game was unlike any Charlie had played before. Its realism was so extreme that it affected his overall gameplay experience.

For instance, Charlie kept failing as a beginner. He deduced that his deaths weren't due to minions having extraordinary vision, rather it's because they could hear sounds.

Indeed, if Batman landed from a significant height, the "hula-la" wind sound from his cloak might alert nearby minions.

Additionally, the ground is also a key factor for his failures. Despite Batman's training to move silently, he could still make noise on certain materials.

For example, wooden surfaces could create loud noises. Loose metal plates might make sounds when stepped on, drawing attention.

When crouching, moving slowly was crucial. If Batman moved slowly while crouched, he would make almost no noise on most surfaces, thus avoiding unnecessary attention.

After repeatedly alerting enemies and failing missions, Charlie abandoned his initial contempt for them. The Batman he controlled had fully entered stealth mode. As soon as his boots touched the ground, he switched to a crouching position.

Using this approach, Charlie managed to stealthily position Batman behind the first armed criminal. He pressed the right mouse button, and Batman swiftly covered the man's mouth and nose, pulled him into his cloak, and choked him into unconsciousness.

He repeated this with the second enemy and approached the third.

Batman closed in quickly and was about to succeed when the gangster suddenly turned around without warning.

Batman, controlled by Charlie froze. The two sides locked eyes in a tense standoff.

"Batman!"

The gangster exclaimed. At the same time, Charlie made Batman charge forward with full force, delivering a quick punch. However, the remaining gangsters had already gathered and opened fire.

Although Charlie managed to make Batman temporarily retreat from the fight, Batman had been injured. With the remaining gangsters now alerted and searching, the difficulty level increased drastically.

After a prolonged struggle, he died again.

Charlie had initially tried to figure out the minions' positions and patrol routes like in other games but soon realized there were no patterns.

The minions' positions were completely random in each simulation, and their patrol routes were unpredictable. They mostly wandered and sometimes chatted with their buddies.

These NPCs were incredibly frustrating. They would often look up and around randomly after taking a few steps. Several times, Batman, controlled by Charlie, was crouching in a high spot, observing and planning, when a minion would suddenly look up and spot him.

They would then turn their heads erratically, making it hard to predict when they would look back. If Charlie moved Batman from a distance while crouching, he risked being caught if the enemy turned around unexpectedly.

On another occasion, while Batman was observing from above, Charlie used the claw gun to reposition. Batman fired a claw that swung to the other side of the room. Despite noise reduction, the minion below still looked up, exclaimed, "Batman," and then opened fire.

When the word "death" appeared on the screen again, Charlie felt as if he had been crushed to pieces, still struggling with a minion in the novice tutorial.

This tutorial was so unreasonable. How could anyone play with minions that seemed to have superhuman hearing?

Charlie took a deep breath and saw the word "death" again on the screen.

The character on the screen was supposed to be Batman, but the tutorial made him feel like he was playing a game with Hello Kitty dressed in black.

This wouldn't do.

With his reputation as a top player in single-player games, he had to conquer this challenge!

Charlie soon realized that the difficulty wasn't as extreme as it initially seemed. His repeated failures were more due to unfamiliarity with the game mechanics than an actual handicap.

After calming down, Charlie adopted a more cautious approach.

As a seasoned game expert, Charlie had solid basic skills. With careful attention to the game mechanics, he knew success was achievable.

First, he avoided rushing in recklessly. Charlie observed Batman's surroundings, enemy positions, and terrain before taking action.

When observing from above, he ensured Batman was hidden in shadows, using darkness to stay concealed. Otherwise, a minion below might spot him if they looked up suddenly.

When enemies were close, Charlie avoided using the claw gun. Despite noise reduction, the sound of the claw line could still alert the enemy.

When moving on the ground, he stayed hidden in shadows as much as possible. When moving out of shadows, he ensured there was no direct line of sight towards him—detective vision helped with this.

The order and method of taking down enemies were also crucial. If a gangster noticed a teammate was taken down, he would call out, and all the gangsters would begin searching.

Additionally, Charlie avoided staying exposed for too long without cover. Enemies might turn around unexpectedly. He made sure Batman's time without cover did not exceed two seconds.

Ground material was another factor. If stepping on quiet concrete, he could stand up and move faster, but on wood or metal, he had to move slowly and stealthily...

There were many details to manage. To avoid missing anything, Charlie took notes on all the necessary precautions.

Before each simulation, he reviewed his notes thoroughly to ensure nothing was overlooked.

Eventually, although it took extra time, he managed to eliminate all the enemies one by one.

But the simulation wasn't over yet. After taking down the seven armed gangsters, the warehouse door suddenly opened, and a burly man charged in.

The screen announced the next step: a fighting training program. The burly man was a combat expert, and Charlie needed to control Batman in a direct fight.

The fighting system was similar to the Batman games Charlie knew, relying on two buttons for attack and defense.

Charlie clicked the left mouse button, and Batman would automatically choose the best offensive move. Batman, a master of all martial arts, could quickly exploit the opponent's weaknesses and select the appropriate attack.

When the opponent planned to counterattack, a blue warning sign appeared above his head. Charlie just needed to click the right mouse button, and Batman would counter the attack with the most effective moves.

When facing a difficult attack, a red warning sign appeared. In this case, Charlie needed to control Batman to dodge sideways or roll to avoid the attack.

Many action games have similar controls. For Charlie, who had extensive training, this combat system felt almost instinctive.

Although the difficulty was higher than traditional Batman games, it was manageable for someone with his experience.

He quickly adapted to the controls and defeated the strong man without injury.

He thought this was the end, but it wasn't. Then a group of ninjas with knives and guns appeared, and the system instructed him to fight them all at once.

Following that were tutorials on using Batman's various advanced gadgets...

Surprisingly, Charlie spent almost the entire day stuck on the tutorial. Aside from eating, drinking, and using the restroom, he dedicated the whole weekend to this tutorial.

He swore this was the most outrageous novice tutorial he had ever encountered. It was not only extremely challenging but also incredibly long. Given his extensive gaming skills, he wondered if a less experienced player might need a day or two to get through it.

"Mission complete, all simulations ended."

The long-awaited notification finally sounded, and the warehouse screen returned to the Batcave.

Charlie exhaled deeply.

Chapter Text

Batman crouched on the edge of the rooftop, gazing at the brightly lit modern skyscraper across the street. It was an imposing structure; however, Charlie was uninterested in its architecture. What caught his attention was the striking circular bat symbol displayed above the building, reminiscent of the iconic bat signal from the comics. This symbol served a similar purpose to that of the traditional Batman series. It guided the player, paying homage to the original work by indicating that Batman's presence was needed.

Like many players, Charlie typically ignored the plot in games, focusing only on the location, targets, and enemy count. However, the tutorial taught Charlie not to underestimate the game's NPCs. It showed him that recklessness was counterproductive; charging headstrong into danger was futile and only led to failure. Stealth and strategy were essential.

So, instead of rushing in, Charlie maneuvered Batman around the perimeter, using detective mode to assess the building's situation carefully. Detective mode was highly effective. After scanning the area, Batman's analysis highlighted potential sneaking routes with different colors. The background appeared in cool ice-blue tones, while marked people or objects stood out in warm hues, making them easy to spot.

The first marked area was the building's main entrance. Two security guards were stationed at the door, and cameras were positioned in the corners. Charlie considered this option only as a last resort. Batman knocking on a door seemed absurd, even though there were instances in recent movies where Batman did just that.

In the "New Batman" film, the rookie Batman went to a bar owned by the criminal Penguin, knocking on the door to gather information. He then defeated all the bodyguards to get in. That scene felt oddly reminiscent of playing Assassin's Creed rather than a Batman movie. The new Batman seemed to have abandoned stealth for heavy armor and firearms, relying on brute strength rather than finesse.

From the tutorial, Charlie knew that this game's Batman was still a traditional assassin, not a tank. Therefore, careful planning was crucial. Engaging in direct combat would be better suited for characters like Superman, who will be available later in the game.

Charlie soon realized this game was different from other Batman games he'd played. It offered genuine freedom of choice, unlike the illusion of freedom in many other games. He explored the building's perimeter using detective mode, discovering at least seven possible infiltration routes. Charlie could choose any of these routes or opt for a more direct approach, like in the new Batman movie. However, the latter would be far more dangerous.

Considering the game's AI intelligence, Charlie decided against a berserker approach and selected one of the routes identified by Batman's analysis. Batman pried open a utility room window from the outside and entered the building through it. Detective mode revealed another camera in the corner outside the door. Charlie used the keyboard to activate one of Batman's gadgets—the universal decipher.

Batman crouched and used the decipher to disable the camera. With his black leather-gloved hands, he operated the holographic screen with impressive precision, soon hacking into and deactivating the camera. Such advanced technology was familiar to Batman fans from previous games and movies. Charlie then directed Batman to open the door and walk confidently down the corridor, now free from the camera's surveillance.

A security guard was approaching at the end of the corridor, but detective mode had already alerted him. Charlie had Batman crouch at the corner, waiting patiently for the guard to come closer. When the guard neared, Batman emerged unexpectedly from the corner. The guard saw a shadow flash by, and before he could react, Batman's powerful hand slammed his head against the wall. The guard fell to the ground, unconscious. Of course, it wasn't lethal.

Batman's code of not killing was well-known. In the games, players could be aggressive, breaking bones or using the Batmobile to knock enemies around without worrying about killing them. They would be incapacitated or, at most, left in a vegetative state but not dead. With his position secured, detective mode revealed several figures in a room upstairs.

For a stealth master like Batman, this task seemed easier than the novice tutorial. Charlie felt the NPCs in the first level were less intelligent than those in the tutorial, possibly due to his increased skill. Charlie guided Batman to the top floor, where detective mode revealed multiple heat sources in an office. A group was gathered around a long conference table, seemingly in a meeting.

Instead of taking the direct route, Charlie opted for the classic Batman approach—the ventilation duct. The game was committed to high realism, even in the ventilation pipes. The pipes were covered in exaggerated dust, mold from condensation, and various bugs crawling across the screen. The grimy scene made Charlie shiver, even through the screen. Indeed, superheroes weren't as glamorous in real life as they appeared in movies. The ducts were often pristine in games and films, but this scene made Charlie think, "As long as you don't vomit, you've succeeded."

Batman, however, remained unfazed by the dust and bugs. Charlie maneuvered Batman to the end of the duct and paused to listen. From here, he could hear the conversation in the conference room, which might be crucial to the plot. The people in suits were not speaking at the moment but seemed to be involved in some activity. A short-haired man with a cold smile stood at the end of the table with a small box placed in front of him. Each person at the table stood up, took something from the box, and returned to their seats.

Charlie used Batman's perspective to zoom in, discovering they were drawing lots. The crew-cut man glanced at what he drew and then scanned the room. "So, who is the lucky one today?" A blond man stood up. He was stocky with a typical Western appearance. Charlie noticed that about two-thirds of the people in the room had Eastern features, while only a third looked Western, which was unusual for a superhero game.

The crew-cut man took the drawn paper from the blond man, checked it, and smiled while patting him on the back. "Edge, you lucky guy," he said. Edge smiled and followed the crew-cut man to the front of the table. The crew-cut man retrieved a blade from under the table. It appeared to be a samurai sword gleaming with a mirror-like finish. The blade is about 28 inches long and curves gracefully with a sharp, single edge.

The crew-cut man handed it to Edge with a solemn expression. Edge held the handle with his right hand; everyone's eyes were on him. Charlie felt he wouldn't forget what happened next on the screen for at least a week. Edge swung the blade in a peculiar motion. Swish! The blade cut through the air with a sharp sound. Then, Edge's head fell and landed in his open left hand.

Chapter Text

To be honest, even though it was a game, Charlie was slightly startled by the scene unfolding before him. Wasn't this game advertised as PG13?

PG13 is a classification for games, films, and TV shows that indicates content that children under 13 might need to watch with their parents. Generally, it suggests an ordinary level of intensity without any particularly shocking moments. Yet here he was, watching a headless man in the conference room below, holding his own severed head. Charlie couldn't help but feel unsettled.

He now seriously questioned whether the production team had a peculiar understanding of PG13. Imagine a kid eagerly starting a new game during the weekend, dreaming of becoming a superhero, only to be greeted with such a gruesome scene. It wouldn't be surprising if such a jarring introduction turned the child away from future superhero games. What kind of children's game is this?

And it didn't stop there. Edge, the man with the severed head, not only stood firm but also walked forward step by step with his head in his hands. The head he carried dripped blood, leaving a gruesome trail on the floor. Yet, everyone in the conference room seemed indifferent, as if it were perfectly normal for someone to walk around holding their own head.

The crew-cut man stepped aside, revealing a cabinet that moved automatically, sliding apart to unveil a secret door. Behind it stood a black statue. The statue was exquisitely crafted but grotesque in form. It took the shape of an inhuman entity, with numerous arms extending from its skeletal body, twisted and gnarled like deformed tree trunks.

Charlie couldn't recall ever seeing anything quite like it. The statue's disturbing form left him feeling deeply uneasy, embedding itself in his nightmares. Although it was unsettling how Edge approached the statue while still holding his head, what was even more unsettling was that the severed head seemed conscious, displaying a pious, almost blissful expression, which looked particularly eerie.

The headless body raised its hand, holding its head towards the statue, which caused its head to quickly disintegrate into a mist of blood and flesh, being absorbed into the grotesque statue as if drawn by an invisible force. With the head gone, Edge's headless body collapsed to the ground like a puppet whose strings had been abruptly cut.

The eyes of the distorted statue glowed with a sinister red light. The crew-cut man led everyone in the room to perform a reverential bow before the statue. Then, out of nowhere, a whistling sound pierced the air. A pitch-black bat-shaped dart struck the statue with a sharp thud, lodging itself in its chest and abdomen. The crew-cut man was the first to look up in shock, seeing the dart embedded in the statue with a red light flashing dangerously.

Boom! The dart's concentrated explosives detonated, shattering the statue into countless pieces. Debris scattered everywhere. "Who!?" The crew-cut man roared in fury. A low, buzzing sound faintly followed, and the lights in the meeting room and the hallway outside went out. It was a tiny electromagnetic pulse, one of Batman's signature gadgets. Darkness is Batman's ally, and he frequently uses electromagnetic pulses to disable electronic equipment, including surveillance cameras and lights, before making his move.

The advantage of this tactic is that Batman gains the initiative in the dark, instilling fear of the unknown in his enemies, but the downside is that his presence is revealed before he acts. Everyone in the conference room stood up. But before they could identify the intruder, a small spherical flare rolled into the center of the room.

Boom. A bright flashbang erupted, flooding the room with intense light. As everyone's eyes struggled to adjust, Batman dropped from the ventilation duct and landed on the conference room floor. This was not a stealth mission but a quick takedown. Charlie finally let loose, operating the mouse and keyboard with speed. Batman moved like a whirlwind, swiftly knocking out one person and incapacitating two others.

But soon, Charlie noticed something strange about these individuals. For example, when Batman used a joint technique to twist the arm of a chubby bald man instead of incapacitating the man, leaving him writhing in pain on the ground, this man seemed unaffected, dragging his broken arm and continuing to attack without any sign of pain. It then got even stranger.

Charlie used the "quick-fire Batarang" skill, tapping the number key twice to launch a batarang. There was a danger mark on the crew-cut man, who was about to strike. Batman threw a batarang at him, hitting the crew-cut man's raised hand and pinning it to the wall. The crew-cut man, finding the batarang stuck in his hand, simply pulled out a knife with his free hand and, without changing his expression, hacked off his own palm. He remained unperturbed, continuing his assault despite the blood gushing from his severed hand.

Another man, kicked by Batman, who in turn received deformed, dislocated legs, immediately got up and resumed fighting, hopping on one foot as if nothing had happened... Blood and gore splattered across the carpet. The meeting room transformed into a nightmarish battleground, and Charlie could almost smell the foulness through the screen.

This game was intense. This group of death-defying lunatics pushed Charlie's sanity to its limits. For a moment, he wondered if he had inadvertently activated a Cthulhu-themed game instead of a superhero one. Fortunately, despite their madness, they were no match for Batman with his superior combat skills and advanced gadgets. In just a few minutes, most of the madmen in the conference room had fallen.

Only one remained. The crew-cut man struggled to rise from where he had been leaning against the wall. He had a broken left hand, a severe fracture in his right arm, and a dislocated left leg. With three of his limbs severely damaged, he still managed to stand. Charlie had to admire his tenacity. His fierce eyes locked onto Batman with a look of murderous intent.

He hopped forward on one foot, dragging his injured arms. Blood still oozed from the severed palm, making the scene quite horrifying. Charlie didn't lower his guard despite the opponent's injuries. He remained cautious, ready to continue his assault. But before he could act, the remaining man stopped.

Boom. The head of the crew-cut man exploded into a cloud of blood.

Chapter Text

Mission completed.

Charlie had to admit that he felt relieved when he saw these words appear on the screen. The immersion in this game was extraordinary, completely different from any game he had played. He felt that it wasn't just because of its realistic modeling and rendering or the player's high degree of freedom in task execution but also because of the music, visuals, and special effects. No, there were other reasons, things he couldn't quite explain, but somehow they made him feel as if he were actually there.

But now the level was over. The game screen exited the eerie meeting room and switched to the results interface. Charlie received a comprehensive assessment of the number of enemies defeated, combo smoothness, mission completion efficiency, and time taken.

Charlie felt his tense nerves finally relax. He was surprised to realize that he had been more nervous during the game than he had imagined. Looking back now, the game was quite interesting. Batman's moves were obviously more varied than before, and Charlie didn't notice any repetitive patterns. There were also more auxiliary props than before, a high degree of freedom in task completion, and many details that made the game feel fresh and engaging.

Comic book games are very abstract. Ten comic adaptations, nine of which are usually bad, have been the norm in the gaming industry for many years. Some comic games are born simply because companies don't want to let great IPs gather dust in storage. However, when they decide to adapt them into games, they are often reluctant to spend the necessary money. As a result, some poorly made games were born. These games used simplistic scenes and rough models that seemed to have been done by novice animators, treating players with disrespect. These games forced the idea of nostalgia on players and arrogantly demanded their acceptance.

However, with the arrival of high-quality works like DC's Batman and Marvel's Spiderman series, prejudices against comic games were being eliminated. IP adaptations in the game industry seemed to be heading in a healthier direction. But even so, this was the first time Charlie had encountered such an excellent comic book game. No, even in the entire gaming world he knew from his previous life, this should be a groundbreaking work.

The main plot, however, felt a bit unclear. After the first level, he still didn't understand where this building was, why Batman had sneaked in, or what was causing the madness. He speculated that this was just a prologue, an introduction. The follow-up plot should explain the story's details, perhaps involving a crisis in the multiverse, bringing together the Avengers and the Justice League from different worlds.

Charlie was really looking forward to the next plot and level, but he checked his phone and saw the time. He immediately dismissed the idea of continuing to play. Tomorrow was Monday, and he had to go to class at 8:20 in the morning. He really couldn't continue playing.

As a sophomore, he was neither like a naive freshman nor a seasoned student who stayed in the dormitory all day. He was in a transitional phase. From an overall perspective of the four years of undergraduate studies, he was probably in a delicate state of partially being engaged but not completely. Most of the time, he went to class honestly, only occasionally skipping a class or two on a whim.

Skipping another class wouldn't be a big problem, but tomorrow's first class was linear algebra, and the linear algebra teacher was strict and would notice if he missed a class. All that aside, Charlie looked back at his computer; although the style of this game was different from what Charlie expected, it still looked like a typical game without any special features. So, Charlie put his mood in check, quit the game, turned off the computer, and crawled back to bed.

For some reason, he felt unexpectedly tired after playing games all day. He closed his eyes, sank his head into the white, soft pillow, and soon fell asleep.

...

[On the other side of the city]

A cordon isolated the towering skyscrapers, and soldiers in uniforms were scattered around. A black car stopped outside the cordon, and a woman stepped out. She strode through the cordon, and the soldiers on guard saluted as she passed.

In all fairness, she had a pretty face and a good appearance. If she were to wear an elegant suit and skirt, she would look like a corporate executive. The woman walked through the cordon, with soldiers saluting her one after another. She entered the elevator in the lobby and went straight to the conference room on the top floor.

She frowned slightly as she walked into the conference room, thinking that there might be no worse place in the world. Corpses lay on the floor in disorder, blood mixed with other substances scattered randomly about, akin to an abstract painting. There was a puddle of vomit in the corridor at the entrance, left by the cleaner who discovered the scene.

"Everyone on the board of directors was in the meeting room when the incident happened, and no one survived."

A bald man walked up to her with a cigarette in his mouth. He exhaled the smoke and said, "All of them were infected."

"Killed?" the woman asked.

"No. They were attacked, but the assailant didn't kill them." The man said, "Their infection level must have exceeded their limit, and they blew themselves up."

The woman was thoughtful. Her eyes scanned the messy room and quickly focused on the open secret door and the broken stones beside it.

"The identification department said it was that statue, possibly the source of infection," the man said. "The assailant probably destroyed it."

The woman pondered for a moment, then said: "So, someone did our job, and quite thoroughly."

"It seems so."

"Do we have any clues about this mysterious helper?"

The bald man exhaled another smoke ring, looking helpless. "The surveillance video was paralyzed, and we couldn't capture their whereabouts. We questioned the company's employees, and there was only one witness. But the clues he provided are vague..."

"I want to see him," the woman said.

A few minutes later, the woman met the unfortunate security guard. The guard seemed to have been knocked out earlier and still had an ice pack on his head. Before anyone could ask questions, he spoke impatiently, eager to recount his experience.

"I was on a routine patrol when the thing jumped out—quickly, I was caught off guard and blacked out. Later, Xiao Li found me in the corridor... Xiao Li is a member of our security team. I woke up and heard that something big happened..."

"You said 'that thing'," the woman interrupted, "wasn't it human?"

The guard shook his head resolutely, showing fear. "It happened so fast that I couldn't see clearly, but it was definitely not human. It had very pointed ears, large black wings, sharp claws... and it seemed to have fangs, like the vampire teeth in movies, very menacing. And it was huge, over two meters. When it jumped over, it looked like... yes, like a bat! To be honest, I was scared. I've never seen such a terrifying creature in my life..."

When the woman finished questioning, she looked worried. The bald man was still smoking—he had lit a new cigarette.

"What do you think?"

The woman pondered for a moment. "...I have no idea."

Chapter Text

Charlie was sitting in the classroom, resting his cheeks in his hands listlessly, yawning five times a minute on average. It wasn't until the linear algebra teacher called his name that he became more awake.

"Are you so sleepy?" His buddy, sitting beside him, glanced at him.

His buddy's name was Walter Freeman, Charlie's high school classmate. Originally, they weren't very close friends in high school, but they unexpectedly ended up in the same university and major. Over time, they started chatting together and developed into buddies. Men's friendship is that simple.

They had checked each other's schedules before choosing courses this semester, and the courses they chose were all the same. Whoever got to the classroom first would often save a seat for the other.

"I slept a little late yesterday," Charlie responded casually, yawning again.

Walter looked at Charlie's hand meaningfully as if he understood. He approached mysteriously and lowered his voice: "Any links?"

"What?"

"Don't pretend to be stupid. Look at you; the 'reading materials' must have been great last night, right? Share one with your buddy."

"...No."

Seeing Walter's disbelief, Charlie couldn't help but laugh.

"Really, no. I played games last night and didn't sleep until late," he told the truth.

Walter had a disappointed expression on his face, showing a look of, "It turns out it's a game," and leaned back in his seat to play with his mobile phone. Although Walter also played games, he had no interest in single-player games. He was only interested in competitive games—especially competitive mobile games—because there were many girls in such games.

Charlie didn't go to bed until after midnight yesterday. He tossed and turned in bed for a long time, his mind still filled with the shocking scenes from the game's plot last night. To be honest, the first level after the game's novice tutorial was indeed a striking opener. Coupled with the sophisticated production and realistic graphics, it was truly impressive.

Charlie, who had been baptized in various horror games and thriller movies, hadn't felt this way for a long time. The last time in his memory that made him feel so uneasy was the classic old movie "The Ring." At that time, Charlie hadn't had much exposure to horror movies and was not very resistant to supernatural beings. The movie left a deep shadow on his young mind. He still remembered being scared when he saw Sadako in white clothes and disheveled hair crawling out of the TV.

Although it faded away with time, "The Ring" became a source of trauma, so much so that he would still be afraid of dark TVs and computer screens when he turned off the lights at night and was alone. This sequela was not completely cured until a close friend gave him a parody book. The general plot was that Sadako appeared on the TV set of the otaku hero's house. However, the protagonist was poor. The size of the TV was too small, and Sadako's secondary sexual characteristics were too developed to fit, so she got stuck. This led to some comical situations...

Since then, the door to a new world has opened before Charlie. At the same time, his PTSD from Sadako was miraculously cured instantly. So, this kind of discomfort only appeared for a short time. But now, he didn't know whether it was simply because the game was well-made and the picture was too realistic or for other reasons, but the cut-off process of the first level still replayed in his mind, lingering as if on repeat.

"Fuck."

Walter, who was swiping away on his phone with his head down, suddenly made an improper exclamation.

Charlie poked his head curiously. "What happened?"

"...Do you know the Klein Group?"

"I don't know," Charlie shook his head.

"A company in the lower city. Seems to be a pharmaceutical company," Walter said. "I just got the news that someone said the Klein Group's board of directors died suddenly last night!"

"...Sudden death?" Charlie was taken aback.

It had been a month since he traveled to the Pole Star, and everything seemed normal. The memory inherited from the original body also told him that this was a safe and peaceful world. This kind of thing should be heavy news.

"What happened?" Charlie asked.

"See for yourself."

Walter handed the phone to Charlie while continuing to explain in a low voice.

"The person who posted said he is an employee of the Klein Group. He heard about it when he went to the company early this morning. But the specific reason is still unknown. It seems the company was attacked by unknown people last night..."

Walter kept talking, but Charlie didn't listen to what he said next. The moment his eyes fell on the picture attached to the post, he was firmly attracted like a magnet.

It was a pitch-black building, and the perimeter had been cordoned off by the authorities. Charlie stared at the photo for a while. At first, he felt it looked familiar, as if he had seen it somewhere before. After a while, his pupils shrank and he froze as if electrocuted.

Damn, why does this look so much like the building Batman sneaked into last night in the game!? Although it was night in the game and day in the photo, and only a limited part of the building was captured on the screen, Charlie had controlled Batman to circle around the building for a long time to survey. He was confident that it was impossible to mistake its appearance and structure.

Wait, the board members of the Klein Group died collectively last night... Charlie immediately thought of the game level last night. The man who raised his head in the conference room and those crazy NPCs who blew their heads after being confronted by Batman.

So is there a possibility, maybe...

...maybe they're not NPCs? Maybe what he experienced on the computer last night was not just a virtual game process?

The moment this thought came to him, he felt a chill all over his body, and at the same time, the game screen from last night flooded his mind again, making his spine even chillier. Charlie also read a lot of novels in his free time, and he had seen all kinds of weird cheats after the protagonist traversed. He immediately thought that something was wrong with the game he brought from the original world.

Maybe he transmigrated into the world set by the game? He remembered that the game loading interface last night showed that the map had failed to load at first, then the system automatically repaired the problem, and the words "The new map system has been loaded" popped up. So this newly loaded map may be the map of 'this' world. "Avengers VS Justice League: New Era" automatically analyzed the laws of this world and loaded the territory of this world as the map background...

Well, of course, it's all Charlie's speculations. He doesn't know if it's true or not. He swiped down the phone screen to load more information, but a big "Error 404" popped up on the screen, followed by a prompt: "The post you visited does not exist."

Charlie was taken aback.

Chapter Text

"Huh? Blocked again?"

Walter, still on his mobile phone, continued swiping away at the screen, looking for the previous post, but the post had disappeared like a stone sinking into the ocean.

"Why do you say again?" Charlie asked.

"Because I heard that there have been similar incidents in the past. Someone posted about people drowning in places without water or getting half-stuck in walls, and as soon as such posts appear, they get quickly blocked."

"Really?" Charlie asked.

In this information age, where the beginning of a story is all based on making things up, a few words from netizens can't really be trusted.

No, to be precise, this blame should not be placed on the Internet. Long before the Internet was popularized, various newspapers and magazines were full of strange stories. But with the popularization of mobile phone cameras, ghosts no longer come out of the mountains, UFOs no longer fly around, and water monsters no longer bubble up.

"Yes, of course," Walter said. "But this kind of post wasn't blocked before."

When Charlie thought about it, he felt that the statement was true. In the past, ghosts and alien stories were all over the Internet without being restricted by anyone. But now that these posts are being blocked, it feels suspicious.

It would be fine if it was someone else watching the fun, but Charlie was different. After all, the Klein Group building in the posted picture looked exactly like the one he saw in the game last night. Even the news matched the content of the game. It is too far-fetched to say it is a coincidence.

There must be something wrong.

After finally getting out of class, Charlie was not in the mood for the next class and wanted to go straight home to see what was wrong with the game.

As soon as the get-out-of-class bell rang, Charlie asked his good friend Walter to help him sign in for the next class. Then, he got up and squeezed out of the crowd.

As he left the teaching building, his eyes were drawn to a scene happening in the square outside.

A large group of people had gathered there; the scene was a bit chaotic, and emotional scolding could be heard inside.

Charlie leaned over, took advantage of his height of nearly 1.8 meters to look inside, and soon understood what was happening.

Surrounded by the group of onlookers were two young individuals, a man and a woman. They both looked like students and were undergoing a heated exchange of words.

"WHAT THE F*CK DID YOU SAY?! THAT GUY IS JUST A CAB DRIVER. I DON'T KNOW HIM AT ALL! CAN'T YOU UNDERSTAND ENGLISH?!"

"I don't fucking know him!"

"Wǒ tā mā bù rènshí tā!"

"Je ne le connais pas putain!"

"No lo conozco!"

"Watashi wa kare no koto o mattaku shirimasen!"

The woman's mouth seemed to be endowed with Google Translate.

"Nonsense!

"Do you take me for a fool? You hang out with dubious people all day long. You really think I'm a fool who doesn't know what's going on, right?"

"Alright, you wanna go there? I haven't exposed you for the sake of our relationship, but you don't think I don't know about your drug-dealing friends? You think I don't know about your stolen car? You say I hang around dubious people, but aren't those crackhead strippers you call "friends" dubious?

You always question why I'm no longer interested in sleeping with you; you say I'm cheating, but isn't the truth simply that you can't even last longer than a minute. Even when you take medication, what's the result? Another minute? What a joke!"

"..."

After listening for a bit, Charlie understood.

In short, it was a classic case of a couple breaking up and airing their dirty laundry.

Normally, Charlie might be interested in watching, to see how the drama ends, but today, he had something on his mind and was in a hurry to get back home to his game. He lost interest after a few glances and prepared to leave.

But what happened next was beyond his expectations.

Slap.

There was a loud, crisp sound. The man had slapped the woman on the cheek.

This sound was like the bell ringing for the start of a competition, announcing the official start of a WWE Smackdown.

The woman quickly got the upper hand, but the man's reaction was quicker. He immediately followed up with a punch, but it didn't seem to have the desired effect. The woman grabbed the man's hair with her hand, but it was too oily to grasp...

"…"

After a brief stalemate, the woman made a deadly shot. The onlookers seemed to hear the sound of something cracking...

At this moment, Charlie realized that something was a little strange.

He thought that if he took such a hit, temporarily losing mobility would be inevitable. Even watching from the sidelines, he felt a kind of indescribable pain.

However, the man took the hit firmly and immediately launched a counterattack as if nothing had happened.

Upon seeing this scene, even Charlie started to view the man in awe.

The man punched the woman in the face without holding back. Half of the woman's cheeks swelled immediately, and a trickle of blood began to ooze from her lips.

But she was also unmoved and counterattacked with her nails, leaving bloody scratches on the boy's face.

Charlie was stunned.

It was as if the altercation had suddenly escalated into a life-and-death struggle. The two young individuals wrestled together crazily as if they were mortal enemies.

What's even more strange is that as the scene slowly became increasingly bloody and out of control, the crowds of onlookers were indifferent.

No one stepped forward to dissuade them, no one called for help, no one even exclaimed, and most remarkably, no one picked up a mobile phone to take a picture.

It was as if this was an ancient arena, and the onlookers were cold judges.

Looking at these mechanically indifferent faces, Charlie suddenly remembered that he had seen similar expressions before.

It was the faces of the men in the meeting room from the game last night.

The horrified faces in the conference room overlapped with the expressions of the students watching, making Charlie feel a chill sweeping over his whole body.

He had a strong premonition that if he continued to stay here, he might also become abnormal.

He must leave quickly.

He turned his head and left the ranks of onlookers.

He needed to stay away from here and should probably call someone for help. Maybe he should contact the school security department or the sheriff's department... but this kind of thing seemed to be beyond the scope of a mere sheriff's department.

But such a thought barely had time to flash through his mind when…

Swoosh.

Suddenly, he felt a chill running down his spine.

He turned to look, only to find that the man and woman suddenly stopped fighting, and the students gathered around them suddenly stopped watching.

They were like puppets pulled by strings on a stage, and the puppeteer had just moved the strings from backstage, causing…

Crack, crack, crack.

…all the puppets to simultaneously look at Charlie, their necks snapping in his direction.

Chapter Text

MC is now named charlie, I'll go back and fix the previous chaps

enjoy

---

When he met those eyes, Charlie felt a chill in his heart.

Charlie didn't dare to look any further. He turned his head, wanting to quickly run away, but found that the escape route had been blocked. A student had already stepped forward, inadvertently blocking his way.

Just when he thought things couldn't get any worse, a black van suddenly drove up. The vehicle drifted smoothly to the sidewalk. The door was then roughly pulled open along the slide rail.

Two individuals stepped out of the van.

One of them was a striking woman wearing a long, black windbreaker that flowed elegantly with each step. The coat was cinched at the waist, highlighting her slender figure. Her hair, a rich cascade of dark waves, framed a face that could easily belong to a movie star. High cheekbones, a perfectly sculpted jawline, and full lips painted a deep, alluring red contrasted beautifully with her fair skin. Her eyes, a piercing shade of emerald, were sharp and intelligent, exuding confidence and a hint of danger.

The other, a towering figure, a bald man exuding an aura of rugged authority, stepped out of the car with practiced ease, the glowing tip of a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. The ember flared briefly, casting a warm, flickering glow over his weathered features and deep-set, piercing eyes.

"It's quite a commotion, and in broad daylight this time." The bald man exhaled a smoke ring.

"Looks like it won't be easy to cover this up."

"That's not our primary concern."

The woman shrugged. She stepped forward and pulled out a black metallic-looking stick from the sheath tied around her thigh.

She flicked a switch, and the tip of the stick sparked with a silky blue arc.

Then, with an exertion of force in her legs, she jumped into the crowd.

With the duo's appearance, the crowd staring at him lost interest and focused on the two individuals instead.

Amongst the crowd, the arguing couple who somehow squeezed to the front was particularly conspicuous. They were covered in scars; the man's face scratched and bloody, and the woman's originally pretty face bruised and swollen beyond recognition.

While none of them seemed to feel pain, their devastated faces were distorted with anger.

"Not one good thing, not one good thing," the girl said.

"Are you also here to laugh at me?! Laugh at me! Laugh at me! Me... Me... Me...

DO YOU ALSO WANT TO LAUGH AT ME?!" the boy screamed.

"DIE, DIE, ALL DIE!"

With these two leading the charge, everyone swarmed up.

The bald man threw away his cigarette and pulled out a similar electric shock baton. The two, one on the left and one on the right, rampaged in the crowd.

Charlie tried to use this opportunity to escape.

Although he wanted to stay and watch the chaos, safety was more important than curiosity.

But just as he was about to leave, a voice sounded in his ear.

"Sorry to bother you."

When Charlie turned his head, he saw a girl with short hair who seemed to have just gotten out of the van holding a small white tablet, her eyes sharp and dark.

"Look here."

The girl held a strange device that reminded Charlie of a cashier's hand-held scanner.

She pointed it at Charlie and checked the machine's monitor.

Confused, she stared at the monitor a bit longer as if waiting for something to happen while mumbling to herself. "Strange, he's not infected at all..."

At the same time, the bald man and the black-haired woman continued to cause a commotion in the crowd. The electric batons in their hands were skillfully waved around; arcs continued to crackle in the air. Almost every moment, crazed students fell.

Finally putting away the strange scanner, the girl stared at the ongoing commotion. "Don't worry; it won't take long," the girl said to Charlie. "It will be over soon."

Charlie still wanted to leave, but he was well aware that simply running away might be flagged as suspicious. Or... would it? Perhaps it would be even more suspicious if he was keen on staying.

Charlie finally decided to at least ask some questions first. Not showing curiosity would be even more suspicious, not to mention that he is, in fact, curious about the current happenings.

After a short period, the abnormal students all fell to the ground, unconscious.

After finishing their work, the two put away the electric batons and walked toward Charlie and the short-haired girl.

As soon as they got near, Charlie started bombarding them with questions: "Who are you people? Is this a hidden camera show? I don't agree to be filmed unless I get paid an appearance fee. Is that a real electric baton? Why..."

"Stop!"

"The Ninth Special Service Division, Melanie Chase."

The woman quickly interrupted while showing her ID, which had a silver badge on it.

"Ninth Special Service, Ivan Petrov." The bald man also flashed his ID, then immediately took out a new cigarette and lit it.

Considering this a signal, the girl with the tablet also introduced herself: "Tara Lane."

Solemnly, Charlie reached into his pocket, causing the trio to narrow their eyes.

Pulling out his phone and logging into his social media streaming platform. Showing them his phone, Charlie introduced himself; "world-class stand-alone gamer, Charlie."

"..."

Tara approached the two and whispered, "The infection level is below 1%, so he has no problem."

"Oh?"

Both were surprised.

"Interesting." Ivan patted Charlie's shoulder. "You seem to not be infected at all."

Charlie pretended to be shocked and nervous; if they find out that he is pretending, which is likely due to what seems to be their line of work, it should be able to hide the fact that he is, in fact, very nervous.

"What... what do you mean by infection?" Charlie glanced at the classmates lying on the ground, his lips trembling. "Is that what happened to them?"

"We can't say," Ivan replied, his flickering gaze faintly masked by the cigarette smoke. "According to regulations, we can't disclose this to the general public."

Charlie looked at the messy scene and the distant onlookers, thinking of how this might be covered up; Large-scale hypnosis?

As if reading his mind, Ivan shrugged helplessly.

"If we can't keep things secret, we simply slow down the spread of information. We can't tell you more according to the rules. We're just humble cleaners. Oh, but the degree of infection in your school is not high. It's a small-scale, mild infection accident. They will be fine."

Thinking of the chaos earlier, Charlie wondered if this was mild; what's serious?

He then remembered what he saw in the game last night, the man cutting off his own head with a knife...

At the two's request, Charlie, as the only sober eyewitness, recounted what he saw in detail. Tara Lane carefully recorded the process on the tablet with a sensor pen.

While talking, another car arrived. A team of soldiers in black uniforms jumped out, set up a cordon, and began to clean up the scene.

"That will be all for now. Thank you for your cooperation," Tara said, putting away her pen.

"One last thing, please do a physical examination today."

"Don't worry. You passed the scan, so there should be no problem. The physical exam is just in case.

Go to the central hospital today, and they'll arrange a special set of examinations for you with the document number, free of charge."

Charlie didn't like physical exams, but thinking of the crazed students, he felt it might be better to comply.

On his way to the hospital, Charlie had time to gather his thoughts and realized that he had no reason to be nervous. His unnecessary thoughts and actions might actually garner greater suspicion than if he remained calm.

Charlie is aware of why he acted that way. Knowing he now has a big secret, he subconsciously thinks of himself as important, that he is different, yet he should do everything possible not to let others see the said difference.

There's frankly nothing wrong with such a thought process; what's wrong is the fact that he executed it poorly and, like a retard, 'act nervous so they do not know you're nervous.'

"Sigh"

'Well, what's done is done. Consider me unlucky for thinking of myself clever.'

Arriving at the hospital, Charlie received the most comprehensive medical exam he had ever had.

Then, after eating dinner outside, it was almost five when he got home.

The first thing Charlie did after returning home was turn on the computer and log in to "Avengers VS Justice League: A New Era."

When the game started, the familiar "A" and "JL" Logos appeared on the screen, finally causing his tense nerves to relax a little.

Chapter Text

Charlie logged in to the game, entered the main interface, and carefully reviewed the available options. Besides the "Start Game" button, there are also "Store" and "Settings" options below.
In the settings, you can adjust the game volume, screen brightness, control keys, and other details. These are general settings and nothing out of the ordinary.
But the store is more intriguing.
Charlie visited the store yesterday when he first played the game, but it was empty at that time.
Today, there are some changes.
First, his "Owned Characters" column, which was empty yesterday, now features Batman's avatar. Selecting Batman reveals a small introduction:
"Batman, real name Bruce Wayne, is a billionaire from Gotham City. After witnessing his parents' murder as a child, he vowed to prevent such tragedies. After extensive training around the world, he returned to Gotham as Batman, the Dark Knight."
Additionally, a new option has been unlocked in the store:
"C-level Teleportation Array: Use hero points to activate this array, which randomly summons a superhero or hero's equipment from another world. Each activation costs 50 hero points."
Charlie immediately recognized this as the card-drawing mechanism common in mobile games.
The upper right corner of the store interface shows his current hero points, which are just over five hundred, allowing ten draws. This is the reward for completing the first mission last night.
Classic novice bonus: ten free draws.
It's intriguing how card-drawing games have become so prevalent. Game developers have seemingly found a winning formula: there is no need for elaborate graphics or hefty investments—just interesting character IPs, and it's a hit.
Despite complaints and criticisms, players dive in enthusiastically.
While some might think it outrageous for such games to gain popularity, Charlie finds it predictable.
It's no surprise when gambling elements are involved, and superhero themes are no exception.
However, while gambling elements can be replicated, the superhero theme adds a unique twist.
Snap!
A flash of white light appeared on the screen, and the teleportation array made a sound like an engine starting. A stunning figure materialized amidst the teleportation effects—an alluring figure in a purple-black mask and high boots, revealing long, snow-white legs and a bust reminiscent of the Mariana trench.
Charlie: "..."
It seems he underestimated the industry's approach to character design. These companies have mastered the art of attractiveness.
"Hero introduction: Huntress, formerly Helena Bettinelli, daughter of a Gotham mafia boss. Proficient in combat, marksmanship, and vehicle operation. Iconic weapons include crossbows and long sticks."
[TL Note - she seems to be flat in most of the images I've found, so I'm a little confused]
The arrival of this new hero was initially surprising, but the excitement quickly faded. After settling down, Charlie assessed the role's pros and cons.
Despite the card-drawing element, the game remains an action-adventure in which players control one character at a time. Thus, new heroes simply offer more choices.
The Huntress seemed less appealing because her role overlaps with Batman's.
Both are mortal heroes without superpowers, but Batman is the epitome of this type of hero.
She excels in combat, but not as much as Batman. She is skilled in shooting, but not as skilled as Batman. Her equipment is good, but not as good as Batman's.
Her primary advantage seems to be her physical appeal.
The panel description highlights her unique skill in vehicle operation... but does this skill have a vehicle range limit?
As a serious gamer, Charlie had no ulterior motives; he was just curious if this vehicle skill affected the player.
If he were only playing the game and got such a capable hero, he might consider it a win. However, given his suspicion that the game might be more than just a game, repeating Batman's role suggests that new heroes with low allocation could be less valuable.
With one round and nine left, Charlie took a deep breath and continued drawing.
"Thank you for participating...
Thank you for participating...
Thank you..."
He soon realized the hero shipment rate might not be high, and Huntress might be a rare pull in the first round.
After seven consecutive draws, Charlie wondered if he had bad luck and started feeling uneasy.
Fortunately, something came out of the last draw.
It was...
...Green Arrow's mask?
Charlie: "..."
What's the use of this?
The description is straightforward: an eye mask made of special fiber, concealing identity without affecting vision or movement...
Honestly, Charlie doubted its effectiveness.
He recalled a scene from the Green Lantern movie where a similar blindfold was used, and the heroine immediately recognized the protagonist, questioning the disguise's effectiveness.
Still, Charlie was curious. This item is game equipment, so maybe it adds some attributes or benefits?
Despite this, he didn't want to waste free items. Seeing a "Summon" button under the item, he clicked it, and the green eye patch appeared in his game backpack.
At the same moment, his phone dinged with a text message from an unknown number.
"Your package has been delivered to the door. Please check it as soon as possible."
Charlie was stunned.
Package? What package? Which door?
His gaze quickly shifted to the small green eye patch in his game backpack.
Could it be...
He was struck by an absurd idea and immediately got up, walked across the living room, and opened the security door.
He found a small package lying quietly in the corridor outside the door.

Chapter Text

Charlie returned to his room and carefully opened the sealed package with a paper-knife.
When he saw the green eye mask inside, identical to the one from the game, he couldn't help but be silent for a moment.
It wasn't an illusion; it was real.
He nervously picked up the small mask. It was made of a material he had never encountered before—cold, soft, and very comfortable to the touch.
He tried putting it on. Somehow, this small Mask didn't need strings to stay in place or any mechanism to secure it. It fit snugly against his skin and was the perfect size, almost as if it were tailor-made for him. Just like in the game, wearing it didn't affect his vision or movements at all. In fact, he could almost forget it was there if he wasn't paying attention.
Charlie took off the Mask and stared blankly at the empty package.
What the hell?!
A meticulously packaged parcel, without a sender's or consignee's address, without any information, had appeared in the corridor outside his door almost the moment he clicked the mouse to buy it in the game.
What is this? Interdimensional express delivery? Instant order and delivery?
The efficiency was such that even Amazon would be silenced in awe.
But at least it proved one thing: the game could indeed affect his reality.
Green Arrow, also known as Oliver Queen, was a shooter who specialized in hand-to-hand combat and was proficient in bow fighting.
As for Green Arrow's equipment, his bow, and arrows. The black-tech arrows might still be useful, but Charlie really couldn't figure out what use a simple mask would be.
However, though Green Arrow's mask seemed useless, it made Charlie wonder about the possibility of other superhero equipment being shipped from this summoning array system.
Could it include more useful equipment?
Like Batman's dart hook and uniform, Spiderman's web launcher, or even... Iron Man's armor?
If those could also be manifested in reality, they would be directly transformed into extraordinary powers he could use in the real world!
Charlie sat back in front of the computer, staring at the game on the screen, his expression becoming more complex.
He entered the simulation training module again.
This time, Charlie's mentality was different. If yesterday's tutorial was just for learning the basics, today was purely for mastering and training.
Familiarity with the fighting system, the use of stealth tactics, and the handling of various props... Suddenly, these were not just game skills for Charlie; they were real abilities he needed to learn, master, and skillfully use.
Games were Charlie's specialty, and he had never been so serious about any game in his life. His skills improved rapidly throughout the day.
He found that although the operation details of this game were more complex than those of previous Batman series games, the performance was better once he was familiar with it. With enough practice, players could almost become Batman himself through the keyboard and mouse.
The day was spent in simulation, and night finally fell.
He selected Batman on the hero selection interface and logged in directly.
After a brief black screen, Batman descended into the urban area under the night sky. He landed atop a building in the brightly lit city, his cloak undulating in the bright moonlight.
Charlie immediately recognized the location—it was opposite to the Klein Group building where he had logged off last night.
He controlled Batman to walk to the edge of the roof and moved the mouse to adjust to a bird' s-eye view. Charlie's gaze widened in interest. He could see the cordon set up at the bottom of the building and the personnel standing guard beside it.
From this angle, he could even imagine the angle from which the photo he saw in the forum during the day was taken.
After logging in, the game first reminded him that both the tutorial and the first mission had been completed. The map function had been unlocked, allowing players to explore the city freely as Batman.
Charlie pressed the M key on the keyboard, and the city map of Riverton, where Charlie lived, immediately opened on the screen.
He used the mouse to move his perspective on the map and even found his current location.
Charlie suddenly had an idea.
Could he find himself from this game?
Although this city was also called Riverton, like the city he lived in before crossing, it wasn't exactly the same. Some streets and areas were identical to Riverton in his previous life (including the area where his uncle's house was located), but many places were different.
For one, the current Riverton was more than three times larger than the city in Charlie's previous life.
As previously mentioned, there was no concept of national boundaries on 'this' Earth. In any city, there might be people with the appearance characteristics of various countries and regions from the original Earth.
However, people in the same city usually spontaneously formed different life circles based on race and living habits.
Charlie was old-fashioned in playing games. He recalled being ridiculed by viewers every day when he played Dark Souls in a live stream, saying that the biggest obstacle for someone to spread the fire was hand damage, but for him, the biggest obstacle was getting lost.
[TL Note - I don't play Dark Souls, so I don't know if I translated something incorrectly]
There's a saying that all roads lead to Rome, but it did not exist for him. He only thought that all roads were mazes.
Fortunately, this game was user-friendly enough to include traditional fool-proof navigation functions. Mark a coordinate on the map, and as long as you are not blind, you can reach the destination.
Charlie marked the coordinates on the map. Then he exited the map, and a small round Bat Mark appeared on the screen, with real-time navigation reminding the player where the route's target was.
Batman's claw gun had a load-bearing capacity of more than five hundred pounds, and the cloak behind him was not just for show—it could be shaped into a solid hang glider to help him glide.
The combination of these two pieces of equipment made him feel like he was walking on air in the concrete jungle. Charlie could feel the thrill of scaling walls even through the screen.
Especially when Batman in the game came to an area Charlie was familiar with, flying past his school, the neighborhood where he walked, and the business district he visited, it felt more and more surreal.
Of course, he did not forget to avoid unnecessary sightlines and surveillance cameras during the period.
Batman's jet-black suit was designed for stealth, which made evading detection much easier.
Coupled with the detective mode's perspective hook and a black-tech decipherer that could invade any surveillance camera, it was not difficult to avoid eyes and ears.
Seeing Batman getting closer and closer to the navigation location, Charlie found his heartbeat gradually accelerating.
He wasn't sure if he was mentally prepared for what he was about to see next.
Finally, with a shot of the claw, Batman flew into the air under the ejection of the claw gun, opened his cloak for a handsome gliding sprint, and landed on the roof of a residential building.
Charlie pressed the X button to activate detective mode, and the screen image entered the first-person perspective under Batman's helmet. The image zoomed in rapidly as he swiped the mouse wheel, finally locking onto a lighted window in the opposite residential building.
In the high-magnification screen of the detective mode, through that window, Charlie saw... himself.
That's his room.
Charlie took a deep breath.
He stood up from his seat, walked to the window, and looked at the opposite roof through the window.
Then he saw the Dark Knight standing in the moonlight, his cloak fluttering like a banner in the night wind.

Chapter Text

Standing by the window, Charlie looked at Batman with his cloak flying across the street and felt unreal for a moment.

At this point, there was no longer any doubt. Somehow, all the heroes he plays in this game are mirrored in reality. Those legendary superheroes are like his agents, his clones, who can replace him, doing things he can't.

Although he can only play Batman for now, sooner or later, new heroes will be unlocked: Spiderman, Iron Man, Green Lantern, Doctor Strange, Superman, and other top-level characters.

But at this moment, he immediately realized one more thing.

Unless necessary, he'd better keep the hero he controls as far away from him as possible.

This is a precaution against similar scenarios in DC and Marvel original comics; Spiderman is always swinging around the school he attends, leading to the guess that he may be a teacher or student there.

Some rich folk track Superman's flight trajectory on a map with high-tech instruments, only to find that this guy is always wandering around the Daily Planet.

"..."

With these lessons learned from comic predecessors, Charlie immediately realized that the heroes he controlled should stay away from him. If someday in the future, a bored guy chasing after superheroes decides to plot dots on a map, finally discovering that heroes from all walks of life love to wander around this acre of land, he risks exposure.

As long as he hides well and stays behind the scenes, all the heroes from Marvel and DC will become his powerful thugs and the foundation for him to settle down in this strange world.

Maybe he can develop into a super black and evil force, becoming the leader behind the scenes.

Thinking of this, he sat back in front of the computer and manipulated Batman to turn around and leave. His thoughts didn't stop while he wandered through the night.

It was only yesterday that he applauded the freedom this game gives to the player, but now, he feels it is a bit too free. Aside from the tutorial, the game hardly provides any guidance; there isn't even a main mission, and he has yet to learn what the game wants the player to do.

If you think about it, even yesterday's first task cannot be accurately called a task.

There is no clear concept of "mission" in the game; a bat mark is placed on the roof of the Klein Group to remind players that there may be a situation. But Charlie thought that if he ignored this sign and manipulated Batman to go shopping in the city, it wouldn't be impossible.

He felt like he had opened a Batman simulator, able to go wherever he wanted, with no missions and no main line, and the story unfolding entirely up to him.

Just as he was thinking about what to do in the game, a small exclamation mark suddenly appeared on the game screen. The GPS location had updated the destination, which was not far from Batman.

Is there a "mission" coming?

Charlie had a thought, so he manipulated Batman to walk toward the exclamation mark.

...

Emily felt that today was her unlucky day.

In the morning, the alarm clock didn't go off and she overslept, she rushed to the office on a small electric scooter. She didn't eat breakfast but was still five minutes late.

Unfortunately, she happened to bump into the boss in the elevator, who scolded her harshly. While completing her assignment, she realized that, in a hurry to leave, she had forgotten the materials she rushed to complete last night on the table. The boss once again gave her another harsh reprimand.

Initially, she wanted to go out with her two girlfriends for a free meal and have a good time to change her mood, but she tripped over nothing, chipped her teeth, and twisted her ankle.

Walking on the road, she met a group of sleazy street thugs who approached her to strike up a conversation. She ignored them and quickened her pace to leave, but she didn't expect them to drag her back.

"Why you being so rude, stupid b*tch."

"Let go!" Emily tried to get away, but one of the thugs punched her in the head.

This punch made her eyes blur, and she became a little dazed.

"You Fcking B*tch?" the thug cursed.

Although there were not many pedestrians on the road, those present were stunned by this group's arrogance. Many stopped, but no one dared to intervene.

Someone in the back took out his mobile phone and seemed to want to call the police, but a blond thug ran up to him, snatched the phone, and smashed it to pieces on the concrete floor.

"You like to be brave, don't you?" The blond boy slapped the man gently on the face.

The man, pale in fear, repeatedly shook his head.

"Good," the blondie continued with a smile. "I hate brave idiots."

Seemingly about to leave, the blondie turns around, causing the man to heave a sigh of relief. Then...

Swoosh

With a twist of his waist, the blondie rotates his torso,

Smack

He threw a backhand slap at the man, sending him sprawling on the floor

"but I hate cowards even more."

Emily lay on the ground, half her face hurting. She waved her hands and tried to stand up but was pushed back down.

The group surrounded her in a circle, and she smelled a strong scent of alcohol. One thug was still yelling something, but her dizziness made it hard for her to focus.

She gave up trying to get up and could only protect her body. She fantasized this was just an incoherent nightmare and hoped she would wake up in a cold sweat and find herself still in her warm bed, and this unfortunate day hadn't started at all.

The thug raised his fist again while cursing and about to swing it down.

Snap.

The lights went out.

Not only the street lights but even the lights in the buildings and the hanging electronic signs, as if an invisible hand cut off the light source, dragging everything into eternal darkness.

Everyone was shocked by the sudden change.

The thug stopped his fist, frowning: "What the f*ck is going..."

A spherical object drew a parabola and was thrown at their feet, exploding softly. The smoke screen quickly dominated the entire venue of darkness.

A shadow then spread its pitch-black wings, like a demon descending from the sky, and fell into the smoke.

The thugs didn't see anything clearly, only vaguely seeing a shadow flash before them.

Crack

The bridge of a thug's nose broke, causing a scream the next moment.

The severe pain hit him like a tide, and he howled like a pig, sobering up.

"Brother!"

His companion waved to disperse the smoke while trying to approach but felt his arms sink after two steps as if clamped by something. Before he could struggle, pain caused him to almost faint, accompanied by the sound of dislocating bones.

The darkness and smoke blinded them. No one knew what happened; only the screams of their companions echoed in the smoke, weaving a symphony of despair.

The first thug recovered from the severe pain of his broken nose, raised his head, and immediately froze.

He wasn't afraid of getting hurt or dying. He often got bruised and swollen from fights.

He is the kind of person who has nothing to worry about, and fear is a distant word for him.

After all, he doesn't even care if he dies, so what is there to fear?

It was not until today that he realized he was wrong.

He saw the looming shadow in the smoke, and his mind automatically turned it into a hideous and frightening image. Huge black wings, blood-sucking fangs, and sharp claws seemingly born for killing, things only seen in the deepest nightmares.

Then he saw the thing coming towards him again.

He froze, stuck in place like a meek schoolboy. He stared wide-eyed in horror, watching the bat-like monster cutting through the smoke, feeling his heart almost jump out of his chest, the fear paralyzing him...

The creature give him a punch to the cheek making him spit blood mixed with a few teeth. The next punch made him feel like three of his ribs were broken.

The following shots were equally ruthless; the severe pain spread all over his body under the impact—

Finally, a forward kick nearly stopped his heart and lungs. The thug broke through the smoke and flew out, landing on the opposite sidewalk, causing passers-by to scream.

At this moment, he felt like a fragile glass bottle smashed to pieces. Blood poured down his throat, nearly choking him.

The smoke cleared, and all the lights suddenly came back on.

Panting, Emily sat up and looked around blankly, seeing a group of street thugs lying on the ground. She didn't know if they were dead or alive, still muddled from the punch.

The onlookers ran far away in surprise, leaving this half of the street empty except for her.

Clutching her head, she felt dizzy and couldn't digest what she was seeing.

Chapter Text

This chapter was extremely difficult to translate/edit. It feels as if the author is jumping from point to point without trying to make a solid connection with the previous points, and if he/she does, it's done 4-5 paragraphs later. I did the best I could to fix it, but if you see any issues, don't hesitate to tell me so I can improve it.

Enjoy the chapter

---

After completing his first rescue mission, Charlie felt mildly satisfied with his swift and straightforward course of action.

In the past, he liked playing superhero-themed games with open maps, the most representative being DC's Batman and Marvel's Spider-Man.

Many titles in both series feature a superhero protagonist who lets you roam freely around the city. You can choose to follow the main storyline or perform heroic feats: see fire, go to the fire, see robbery, save people, basically experiencing the daily life of a superhero.

However, no matter how realistic it is, it is not as "real" as the one he is playing now.

Moving on, Charlie witnessed many injustices in his previous life. Every time he surfed the Internet and saw injustices, he would be filled with righteous indignation like everyone else, but what use was indignation? Can it save people, can it resurrect the dead, can it stop hunger, can it end trafficking?

But ironically, or perhaps hypocritically, if something happened right before his eyes, Charlie reckoned that he would probably stay out of it and pretend he didn't see it.

Most people are the same; at best, wait until you return home, log onto the Internet, and then launch a wave of criticism. Few have the courage to stand up for what is right, especially if it's at their own expense.

But it's different now.

He has power.

A power that would prove difficult to trace back to him.

If Charlie himself acquires the physical strength and skills of Batman, instead of going around beating street thugs, he'll most likely huddle up in a corner, pretending to be a normal person.

Call him a coward, trash, a p*ssy, or a waste, but it won't change the fact that regardless of the situation, as long as it doesn't harm the safety and interests of himself and his loved ones, becoming a bystander to cruelty is never a crime. Why place your life and future in jeopardy for a stranger?

Heroes are honorable, yes. But very idiotic.

Fortunately, "Batman" is different. Such a big bat with a height of 6'2", the face of a villain who beats, smashes, loots, burns, and tortures, doing almost everything except killing people.

The most crucial point is that Charlie can stay out of the radar while enacting "justice."

After all, if Batman is causing trouble outside, what does it have to do with me, Charlie?

Not to mention, there are additional benefits to playing hero. After beating the group of thugs, the game gives 12 hero points, seven of which are for knocking down seven enemies. The remaining five points are for rewarding him for not suffering any damage during his actions.

Just after a smoke bomb fell, Charlie pressed the left mouse button. Batman's set of combos directly knocked them all down, not a single counterattack hitting Batman.

But this is normal; after all, although Batman was forcibly labeled as an "ordinary human being" by the screenwriter, audiences who know a little bit understand that Batman has already broken the ceiling of the category of normal people. It would be a miracle if ordinary gangsters could compete with him.

After playing for several hours, Charlie roughly understood the objective of the game. In short, you manipulate superheroes to defeat spawned monsters (AKA thugs and villains) and collect points, which you can then use to unlock new heroes or draw hero equipment.

However, Charlie wondered if he really had to rely on watching the city at night, every night, to help Justice in order to earn points to upgrade, the efficiency seemed too low.

Not everywhere is as simple and honest as Gotham.

After all, the reason the original Batman in the game series can level up so fast is related to Gotham, a villain's paradise.

Batman's life can be summarized as follows: on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, stop the lunatics who want to blow up the city hall. On Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, save the city from being poisoned or destroyed. On Sunday, go on a business trip with Superman, fighting aliens and monsters for a change of pace, then return to Gotham the next day for a repeat.

But Charlie wasn't in Gotham, so what would he use to level up when there were no lunatics or criminals to defeat? Would he help the granny cross the road and save the cat that climbed the tree?

No, that seems like Superman's job.

Charlie initially thought so, but soon he found that the actual situation seemed different from what he thought. As he controls Batman to wander around the city for the night, he encounters many things that require him to take action.

For example, goons are taking advantage of the night to rob a jewelry store, creeps are following women late at night, bold individuals are stealing and vandalizing cars, etc.

Only then did Charlie realize that this other world was not as peaceful as he had thought.

It wasn't until after one o'clock in the morning when Charlie realised that he was too sleepy and exhausted to continue. He couldn't bear it anymore, so he had to turn off the game and go to bed.

Strangely, after playing the game for the past two days, he felt his body hollowed out. He was clearly just sitting in front of the computer and clicking away on the keyboard, but he felt extremely tired.

He threw himself into the soft bed without even taking off his clothes and fell into a deep sleep almost as soon as he closed his eyes.

When Charlie woke up, the sun was shining brightly.

In a daze, he stretched out his arms and grabbed his phone to check the time: " Hmm, it's 11:30 already. I've slept through all my morning classes."

scrolling through his phone Charlie opened his messages and realized that he hasent checked his phone since yesterday afternoon, various groups chats with his classmates seemed to have exploded with unread messages, they were enthusiastically discussing the accident that happened yesterday. Walter even sent several messages asking if he was still there and whether he was affected.

Although late to reply, Charlie responded to the message and told his friend that he was fine. Then he stretched himself and got up to do some hygiene.

As soon as his feet touched the ground, he almost fumbled to the floor, he felt sore all over, and nearly lost his footing.

His muscles were terribly aching as if he had been in a high-intensity training exercise with Yujiro Hanma

But the strange thing is, although there is no conclusive evidence, after a good night's sleep, he feels that he has more energy than before, and his physical condition is unprecedentedly excellent, even his waist feels more powerful than before.

But yesterday, he obviously didn't do any strenuous exercise.

Immediately, Charlie thought of the game he had played all night.

Is there such a possibility that when he manipulates Batman to run around outside, it consumes his physical energy to a certain extent?

No, not only is it consuming physical energy, but even the body seems to have been strengthened by exercise to a certain extent.

It seems that the feedback ratio isn't 1:1.

If Batman's exercise consumption is really fed back to the player on a one-to-one basis, with his standard otaku physical fitness, suddenly exercising at such a high intensity all night, he would probably be bedridden by now.

After more observations, He learned that this consumption feedback has both advantages and disadvantages.

The downside is that he can't manipulate Batman from morning to night without restriction because he risks getting sucked dry. He has reason to speculate that the burden of controlling those heroes may be even greater as the superhero abilities are unlocked and later become "super."

The good thing is that in just one night, he has vaguely felt a significant improvement in his physical fitness—this is a fantastic effect that is absolutely unimaginable by any conventional exercise method. Relying on this mechanism, as long as he sits in front of the computer without leaving home every day, his physical fitness will improve rapidly, and it will also lay a solid foundation for him to control stronger heroes in the future.

Gradually getting used to the sore muscles, Charlie got up and went to the bathroom to wash up. As soon as the toothpaste was applied, the doorbell rang throughout the apartment.

Charlie was taken aback for a moment, putting down his toothpaste and toothbrush, he came to the door, and peeked through the peephole.

Seeing who was outside, he opened the door.

Standing in front of him was Melanie Chase, the Secret Service agent he had met the day before.

"Good morning, Mr. Cooper." She said with a professional smile, "May I come in?"

Chapter Text

When Charlie saw Melanie at the door, his first reaction was panic. Could it be that his nighttime escapades as a superhero had been exposed?

But after thinking about it, he figured it shouldn't be the case. The idea of someone remotely controlling superheroes from another world was too abstract to conceive.

More likely, she was there to investigate the sudden accident at school yesterday.

"Come in and sit down?" Charlie replied politely.

"Thank you, pardon me for the intrusion." Melanie entered the apartment and took a seat.

"Our team just finished some errands and was heading back to the headquarters. We happened to pass by here." Melanie explained, "The higher-ups said they have something to talk to you about and asked us to pick you up. Is it convenient for you now?"

Were their superiors looking for him by name?

This was unexpected. Charlie wondered if it was really an investigation, wouldn't the leader need to step in? Was there something special about him?

"Okay." Charlie thought momentarily and replied, "I'll go and change first."

He returned to his room, changed his clothes, and followed Melanie downstairs. A black van was already parked outside, with the bald detective from yesterday leaning against the side of the car, smoking.

When he saw Charlie, he let out a grunt in acknowledgment.

"We meet again." He handed Charlie a cigarette, "want one?"

"Thank you, but I don't smoke." Charlie waved his hand.

"Sure... come to me whenever you feel the need for a cigarette; we will have more chances to interact with each other in the future."

"Thanks, but I really don't smoke."

Charlie refused again, wondering if his words had other meanings.

But neither Ivan nor Melanie explained. They simply let out an indifferent smile, opened the door, and took him into the van.

Tanya, the logistics girl, was also in the car, still holding onto her tablet. She greeted Charlie politely when he got in.

One thing to say—in fact, Tanya is very good-looking; although her attractiveness index is not on the level of Charlie's, she's at least pleasant to look at. Although Melanie is also a beauty, she seems old (perhaps in her late 20s) and, frankly, not Charlie's type.

Everyone has their preferences.

After Charlie sat down in the back seat, the car started.

Ivan sat in the passenger seat, still smoking, while Tanya earnestly typed away on her tablet. Melanie flipped through the documents, her long legs crossed at the ankles.

Um, wait a minute. Who's driving the car?

Only now did Charlie notice that there was another individual in the car—a young man. With the young man facing away, Charlie couldn't get a good look at his appearance. However, looking at him from the back, along with the glimpses through the rear-view mirror, he saw disheveled black hair, a pale complexion, and dark circles under his eyes, which made Charlie wonder if it was a bad idea to let this guy drive.

The man seemed to notice Charlie looking at him and raised his eyelids in greeting: "Junpei Beichuan."

Japanese?

Of course, it's just Charlie thinking so. This world has no national boundaries, and names with characteristics of any country are not surprising.

But the young man, either shy or aloof, simply mumbled a self-introduction, stopped talking, and focused on driving.

"Let me teach you some basic knowledge first."

Melanie threw the stack of documents aside and sat opposite Charlie.

"You must still be wondering what happened at your school yesterday." She said, "To be honest, your classmates were infected."

"STOP!"

Charlie immediately interrupted her, "I'm just a simple student who dreams of becoming the pirate king...

Wait... Wrong script

"I want to live a peaceful life as the world's greatest stand-alone gamer.

so, before you continue, explain why you are telling me this."

Still maintaining her professional smile, Melaine replied, "I'll answer that query at the end. Now, as I've said before, your classmates were infected."

"Infection?" Slightly disgruntled by her dismissal, Charlie still played along. "Is it a virus?"

"It's not the kind people generally understand." Melanie shook her head, "No one knows the specific source, but since a particular day, the world has suddenly stepped into an out-of-control track.

An unknown ancient existence is waking up, and it uses various media to infect humans in various hard-to-guard-against forms.

The human spirit is often the first to be affected. In this regard, we have a dedicated monitoring system to conduct targeted assessments of infected individuals.

Individuals with an infection level of less than 10% are generally considered normal but are more sensitive, irritable, or prone to depression, with greater emotional ups and downs and impulsive behaviors.

With an infection level of 10% to 50%, the target shows obvious abnormalities, becoming extremely mechanical, numb, or crazy. The infected in this range lose consciousness, show intense aggression, and have the instinct to infect others.

The degree of infection between 50% and 99% becomes more serious. The infected person's physical potential will be developed to the greatest extent, reaching the human body's limit in all aspects. At the same time, infected individuals at this level may have strong vitality; however, this varies from person to person. We have seen cases where even severe injuries, like decapitation, is unable to cause the death of an infected."

Charlie immediately thought of the scene last night, where that Edge guy beheaded himself with a knife in the conference room of the Klein Building.

So, is that the infected person whose infection level is close to 100%?

This ancient existence's awakening, affecting the body and mind, made him have some strange associations.

From the beginning of the pollution, the sanity value drops, leading to craziness. When it drops low enough, the mental state reflects on the physical body, causing unexplained changes...

So, could the ancient existence she's talking about be similar to Garmr, Helheim's blood-stained guardian, who could be calmed only by a slice of cake?

"If the degree of infection is below 50%, the individual can still be saved. The lower the infection, the less the impact, and the easier the recovery." Melanie said, "Like your classmates yesterday, although they were infected, the degree did not exceed 40%, so they are fine."

Having said this, Charlie immediately thought of something. He pondered for a moment, then asked, "What if it reaches 100%?"

"Very few reach 100% infection. At the same time, 100% marks a watershed."

She paused, emphasizing her tone meaningfully.

"A watershed moment beyond the conceptual category of 'human'."

---

[TL—Note: This is the original text after I've edited it: "So, could the ancient existence she's talking about be that the old man is named Ke and likes sugar?" I don't understand this reference, so I've changed it. However, I don't know if this is an allusion since we seem to be delving into the "true" plot. If anyone understands this reference, please post a comment here so I can fix it.]

---

Chapter Text

Melanie continued, "When the infection level exceeds 100%, the infected person may awaken extraordinary abilities. "The manifestations can be quite varied."

"Like what?" Charlie asked.

"Elemental control, enhanced perception, greater physical strength, or other more unusual abilities..."

"Superpowers," Charlie said, catching on quickly.

This is easy to understand; like superheroes in DC or Marvel comics, individuals can possess abilities ranging from incredibly useful to downright bizarre.

Charlie mused about this, thinking of the comic book heroes and their outlandish powers. He even wondered if there were any infected who could talk to fish.

"The strength of an ordinary infected person remains within the limits of modern technology and weapons. We've found that thermal weapons are particularly effective against them. But the real challenge comes from those with unique abilities. Their powers can be unpredictable and hard to defend against."

Charlie nodded. Although Modern firepower is far beyond what's shown in movies. No carbon-based life form could survive a full-on assault. But those with superpowers are different. Without knowing what kind of abilities you're facing, it becomes much harder to deal with.

"Infected individuals can be very dangerous, especially those with an infection level above 100%. They often lose mental stability, exhibiting all sorts of unpredictable behaviors. But this doesn't mean they've lost their minds completely. Many retain clear and orderly thought processes, making them even more dangerous as they can plan their actions meticulously."

Charlie understood. "A madman with a plan is far scarier than one without."

But what a coincidence, When it comes to lunatics with a plan, who dares claim to be superior to the residents of Arkham Asylum?

Unfortunately, Charlie only has access to Batman's character and not his wisdom and experiences.

Melanie nodded. "But not all infected develop mental problems. Some, despite being exposed to the infection, remain mentally unaffected. They gain physical strength, enhanced vitality, and sometimes special abilities without any mental side effects. We call these individuals 'idiosyncratic' or 'specialists'."

Charlie quickly digested the information. "So, these idiosyncratic individuals are crucial for dealing with the infected and eliminating the source of the infection?"

"Exactly. Our Ninth Special Service Division was established for this purpose. We often risk contact with infected individuals, so our team mainly consists of specialists. Even those without combat abilities are integrated as civilians within our organization."

Specialists are different from infected people. Conventional scanning equipment can roughly detect an infected person's infection coefficient, but a specialist's infection coefficient cannot be detected by a simple hand-held device. If you want to know a specific person's infection coefficient, you must conduct a detailed physical examination.

Hearing this, Charlie immediately thought of the physical examination he received yesterday. He pointed to himself tentatively: "You mean...me?"

"That's right." Melanie smiled, "through yesterday's incident, you have proved that you are an idiosyncratic individual. Although the results of the physical examination show that your infection level is below 10%, you may not have extraordinary abilities, but just by being an idiosyncratic individual, you have obtained the qualification to join the Ninth Division."

As she spoke, she leaned back, causing her graceful figure to sink into the soft cushion; her ample chest stood out, highlighted by the outline on her windbreaker.

The F*ck, is this old hag trying to seduce me? Charlie could sense that Melanie was testing him, trying to gauge his reaction. He wasn't going to be easily swayed. Of course, if the one doing it was Tara, the situation might be a little different.

"Joining is entirely your choice," Melanie continued. "But you should know that infected individuals and special people are natural enemies. Once an infected person identifies a special person, they will attempt to eliminate them."

Charlie recalled the aggressive looks he had received from the infected students on campus. could it be that they had sensed he was different.

"So, joining the organization offers protection," Charlie deduced. "But it also exposes me to greater danger."

Melanie nodded. "Exactly. It's a personal choice. Joining us provides access to more resources, intelligence, and learning opportunities. In a world as dangerous as ours, preparing for the worst is a wise decision."

Charlie considered the implications. Joining the organization would offer him a chance to better understand and navigate this extraordinary world. Plus, it would help him manage his unique abilities and potentially avoid unwanted attention.

In addition to the above benefits, Charlie has another reason for considering joining the organization.

The game

In said game, manipulating a hero to go out to do things will inevitably attract the attention of other forces—especially the so-called Ninth Special Service division.

However, if he, the manipulator behind the scenes, can sneak into the organization, he will have a better chance to know what they think of the heroes he manipulates and what actions they plan to take, which will also facilitate Charlie's preparations.

"And there's more," Melanie added. "The organization's treatment is quite good. Not to mention that we're a formal government organization, there is comprehensive insurance, and a starting salary of $50,000 a month, not including bonuses."

Charlie's eyes immediately shone with a greedy hue.

"I'm willing to shed my blood for the organization!!!" Charlie immediately expressed his loyalty. "Hail Hydra."

Melanie noted his enthusiasm. Although confused by his final declaration, She appreciated his desire for wealth, recognizing it as a manageable trait.

As they drove out of the city, Charlie had one last question. "What if I had said no to joining?"

Melanie, still maintaining her smile, replied, "We would still take you to the headquarters. According to regulations, civilians cannot know these details. If you refused, we would have to erase your memory of this encounter."

Charlie understood the seriousness of his situation. It seemed that he had made the right decision.

Chapter Text

Seeing Charlie remain silent, Melanie couldn't help laughing: "Don't worry. We have advanced memory-erasing technology that can accurately remove specific memories based on keywords. Usually, we won't accidentally delete other important information."

Charlie noticed the word "usually" and instinctively felt something was off.

"What about unusual situations?"

"Uh... Nothing is perfect, no matter how advanced the technology is. There's always a chance that something could go wrong," Melanie recalled. "If I remember correctly, there was once a pair of boys who had their memories erased, forgot they were boys, and ended up with gender identity issues..."

Charlie: "..."

"It's not a major issue," Melanie reassured him. "The chances of that happening are very small. Most operations are successful.

And I think there's nothing wrong with being a girl; boys who crossdress these days can be cuter than girls..."

"..." Charlie remained silent, his expression devoid of any changes.

Fortunately, he had already decided to join the group. The risk of this mishap had to be left to someone else.

Charlie then sized up the people who got out of the car, "are you all Superpowered individuals?"

"In a way, yes." Melanie nodded.

"What do you mean by that?"

"Getting superpowers is not that easy," Melanie continued, "relatively, the average infection coefficient of idiosyncratic individuals is far lower than that of ordinary infected people. Individuals with an infection coefficient of more than 90% are rare.

My coefficient is probably around 52%, Tara's is 30%, and Junpei's is..."

She gave a slightly embarrassed look at the driver.

"27%," the driver answered indifrently.

"Ah yes, 27%, I remember."

This made Charlie realize he was not the only one who thought the driver seemed a bit transparent.

"The highest among us is Detective Ivan; he's at 87%."

When Melanie introduced him, Charlie peeked at the bald man. Ivan was still casually smoking a cigarette, and while doing so, he appeared to be humming a strange tune.

Charlie had never heard such a melody before, but it sounded like an old song.

Turning his gaze back to Melanie, Charlie sarcastically asked, "You seem to like answering questions with answers that don't answer the question?

Ignoring his remark, Melanie continued, "This coefficient reflects the depth of our influence. The deeper it is, the more noticeable our special abilities are. So, generally, the higher the coefficient, the stronger the power.

Of course, this only refers to raw potential. Combat ability is more comprehensive. Fighting skills, weapon use, and awareness all determine the outcome.

So, with good training, even someone with a low infection coefficient can defeat someone with a higher coefficient."

"I see"

It's like a first-grader challenging a second-grader. There's a gap because second graders know multiplication, while first graders can only do addition. But the protagonist, a top first-grade student, has exceptional mental math skills and can compete with the second graders.

Plus, the protagonist has a secret weapon—a calculator that he use only in extreme situations.

Charlie nodded, roughly understanding, "You still haven't answered my question."

The car stopped quickly in front of an inconspicuous two-story building, covered by lush jungle. Charlie got out and walked toward the gate with the others.

"You seem a little disappointed?" Melanie looked at Charlie with interest. "Did you expect our building to be grander?"

"No, I expected you to answer my question."

Malaine threw Charlie an annoyed glance and continued walking.

Looking around, Charlie mused, From what Malanie said earlier, their organization sounded like the ultimate defense of peace, but this two-story building looked less impressive than a community health center.

As they walked into the building, they passed by a duty room, the guard on duty sat on a rolling chair, reading the newspaper. He lazily glanced up when they entered, then quickly resumed reading.

Through the long corridor, they reached an elevator. Charlie noticed only two buttons, 1 and 2.

But Melanie pressed a hidden mechanism, and the seemingly old metal plate separated, revealing a dial with a code. She entered a password quickly, too quick for Charlie to see clearly, the elevator started moving without indicating the number of floors.

Charlie felt the elevator going down, heading underground.

In movies, powerful organizations often hide their real headquarters underground, like the tailor shop in "Kingsman."

Just as he thought he understood, he felt the elevator stop.

Then it started moving forward.

Charlie was confused.

What the Fck? Can this sht move forward as well?

When the door opened along sliding rails, Charlie saw a long corridor with pale metal walls and LED-like lights.

It looked like a sci-fi base buried deep underground.

The automatic door slid open to reveal a more futuristic room with floating screens and people in uniforms walking around hastily.

The setting finally matched Charlie's expectations.

"Is this your base?" Charlie asked.

Melanie smiled mysteriously. "Not exactly."

"..."

A few minutes later, they arrived at an exit near a lake.

Ripples suddenly appeared on the lake.

The lake's surface rose like a mountain peak, and tons of water crashed back as if a giant black whale had broken through.

It was a giant beast of steel, shaped like an aircraft carrier.

But unlike regular aircraft carriers, this one could fly.

The fan blades of the six-turbine engines turned into afterimages, tons of water evaporated into steam. The invisible propulsion flame lifted the massive structure like an invisible palm lifting a steel cloud.

Standing near this behemoth, Charlie watched tons of water fall against the ground, and the corner of his mouth twitched.

"How is it?" Melanie looked a little proud. "This is our mobile fortress, one of only five flying aircraft carriers worldwide."

Charlie: "..."

Why does this look like the Helicarrier from S.H.I.E.L.D.

To be honest, this kind of flying fortress reminded Charlie of something bad. In the movies, Maria Hill, the deputy director of S.H.I.E.L.D., always complained that these things seem to crash often.

According to various movies, T.V. shows, and stories, powerful flying objects often crash, almost like an inevitable curse.

Maybe because he's seen too many similar plots, Charlie doesn't like this flashy flying thing. To him, it looked like a flying grave that could crash any day...

Chapter Text

"What's wrong?" Noticing Charlie's complicated expression, Melanie asked.

"It's nothing. I was just wondering about what safety precautions you guys might have." Charlie said honestly.

Melanie burst out laughing. "You can rest assured about this," she said with a smile. "The air base is very safe. In fact, this may be the safest place in the world, and no outsiders can invade."

After hearing this, Charlie's expression became more complicated.

He vaguely remembered that people in the Marvel universe also said the same thing about the Helicarrier. But as everyone knows, the helicarrier's security system is notoriously weak, like an open door inviting intruders.

Of course, that's just a stereotype, and it doesn't mean that everything flying in the sky is doomed. Charlie sincerely hoped that the giant ship could avoid the curse of crashing.

Following Melanie through the twists and turns of the complicated metal corridor, Charlie soon came to a bright office.

The office was located by the window on the ship. The room was tidy, with a clean desk, a metal filing cabinet neatly placed against the wall, and a water dispenser beside it.

Behind the desk was a man in a white coat. Charlie's first impression was that he looked meticulous.

He was neatly groomed, with a meticulously trimmed mustache and bright eyes behind thick round glasses.

When Charlie entered, he immediately raised his head and enthusiastically stepped forward: "You must be the newly discovered Specialist."

"This is Professor Miyazaki, an expert in the study of infected individuals. He will conduct a series of physical tests on you." Melanie introduced,

"Physical test? Like a medical examination? Didn't I conduct one already?"

"It's more of a fitness test," Professor Miyazaki said with a smile. "Don't worry, it's just to see if you're healthy."

"I see," Charlie said, shaking Professor Miyazaki's outstretched hand. He noticed the professor had a firm grip and a strong build. He also smelled a faint scent of cologne.

The professor's meticulous appearance, the cologne, and his enthusiastic demeanor made Charlie instinctively feel the need to keep a distance.

---

The test was basically a fitness test, as described. The main items included running, jumping, boxing, and shooting.

For the 100-meter sprint, Charlie took a deep breath and ran with all his might, finishing in 13.38 seconds. Professor Miyazaki looked at the number for a while, his expression saying, "That's it? How useless."

For the 3000-meter run, Charlie barely finished. It was good that his physical fitness improved after playing games for two days straight. Otherwise, with his usual sedentary lifestyle, he might not have made it.

The jumping and punching strength tests were also unremarkable, at the level of a reasonably fit student—good enough for a school team but still student-level.

Finally, the shooting session.

When a Professor handed Charlie a heavy pistol, Charlie said helplessly, "I've never touched one of these..."

"It's okay, just try it," Professor Miyazaki said. "According to our statistics, some infected people have a natural talent for shooting and may adapt quickly."

Charlie reluctantly picked up the gun, aimed at a target ten meters away, squinted for a long time, and pulled the trigger.

A series of gunshots echoed in the confined space.

After emptying a magazine and seeing the target on the monitor, Professor Miyazaki first fell silent, then, as if unable to help himself, commented, "Impressive, you hit everywhere but the target."

Charlie felt a little embarrassed by the result but knew it was reasonable.

After all, He had never touched a gun in his life. It was normal to struggle with shooting.

The test results disappointed Professor Miyazaki, who quickly concluded, "An incompetent Specialist. Although mentally and physically immune to the source of infection, the subject remains ordinary with no notable features."

Melanie, also a tad bit disappointed, quickly explained to Charlie that this situation was rare but not unheard of. There are others in similar situations in the Ninth Division. Although most idiosyncratic are immune to the mental effects of infection while their bodies are enhanced and may awaken special abilities, a small number are simply immune while remaining no different from ordinary people.

They are ironically called "Absolute Extraordinaries."

After the test, Tara led him through various entry procedures. The Ninth Division was efficient and handled affairs quickly. He visited several departments, signed a few forms, and soon, his position was confirmed.

"Here, your ID," Tara said, handing over the identification cards.

Charlie was surprised. "Why are there three?"

"One is our ID for the Ninth Special Service Division, while the other two are for the Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI) and the Central Intelligence Agency (CIA)."

Seeing his confusion, Tara patiently explained, "The Ninth Special Service is a hidden organization, so our IDs may not always be useful. Agents can use the appropriate IDs based on the situation to facilitate their tasks."

Got it, Charlie thought. It's like having multiple identities for convenience and to avoid blame.

"That's about it," Tara smiled. "Welcome aboard. Since you're still a student, you won't need to report to work daily. Just stay in touch."

"Then... there's nothing else for me to do?" Charlie asked.

After joining, he now had a salary of fifty thousand a month without needing to go to work daily. It felt surreal.

"We'll arrange some low-risk missions for you. You will team up with other agents so you can learn along the way. By the way, Detective Ivan seems to have a pending case, so you can start by learning from him."

---

When Charlie arrived at Ivan's office, the bald detective was absent. So, at Tara's suggestion, Charlie waited in the office.

After a brief conversation, Tara left to handle her business.

With nothing to do, Charlie casually looked around the office.

Compared to Professor Miyazaki's room, this office was smaller. The desk took up nearly half the space. Documents labeled "Restricted Clearance " were scattered haphazardly, and an open bag of potato chips lay nearby.

He noticed a framed picture on the desk. Inside was an old photo of two men in official uniforms, smiling at the camera.

"I was pretty cool when I was young, right?"

The voice came from behind Charlie. Only then did he notice that Ivan had entered the room.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to look..."

"It's okay," Ivan waved it off, glancing at the photo. "That was back when I was young and still in the FBI. Look at how fit I was, with muscles and everything..."

Charlie nodded in agreement. "And hair."

Ivan's voice trailed off, throwing Charlie a cold and indifferent glance.

Chapter Text

A few minutes later, Charlie followed Ivan on a mini-transport plane, allowing them to descend to the ground.

From what Charlie understood, this plane was like a shuttle bus, taking people from the mothership to the designated ground base at appointed times.

On the way, Ivan explained to him that most of the employees on the mothership lived there long-term and didn't often leave. If agents had urgent missions, they'd get a special plane, avoiding the shuttle bus wait.

Charlie was simply here to complete the reporting procedures on the mothership; he wouldn't need to visit often in the future.

Upon arriving at the ground base, an off-road vehicle Ivan had prearranged was already in place. They then drove out of the base and headed back towards Riverton.

As soon as they left the vicinity of the base, Ivan had already lit a cigarette. He opened the window, leaned back in the seat, and hummed a tune while puffing.

He once offered Charlie a cigarette: "Want one?"

"Again, no," Charlie shook his head.

Charlie didn't smoke or drink; He was a clean-living young man with no bad habits except occasionally staying up late at night to play stand-alone games.

Even the vending machine downstairs, filled with nothing but iced coffee and energy drinks, can acquiesce to the fact that he is very healthy.

"They say smoking is bad for your health," Ivan took another puff and exhaled the smoke out of the window. "But it doesn't matter. If there's one thing I've learned throughout my life, it's to enjoy the moment. You never know when you will die, especially in this line of work, so it's better to live for today."

"Might I ask, how exactly does smoking help you live?"

Ivan threw Charlie an indifferent glance and then proceeded to focus on the road.

"where are we going?" Charlie asked, breaking the silence.

"To find an informant," Ivan said succinctly. "We've identified a possible source of 'impulsive infection', and now we're going to..."

"What is an impulsive source of infection?" Charlie interrupted, puzzled by the new term.

"Oh, right. You don't know about infection sources yet," Ivan remembered. Well, let me explain briefly. There are many types of infection sources, but the two main sources are vector-type, which are generally objects, such as a pen, a cigarette, a chair, a portrait, or anything. Such agents infect targets in close contact; targets infected by such an entity aren't able to infect other individuals."

Charlie connected the description to the sculpture in the Klein Building conference room.

"Then there's what we're dealing with this time, an impulsive source of infection," Ivan continued. "This type is often a living organism. It's called impulsive because it can't infect others in its stable mental state. Only when one's emotions fluctuate greatly and negative emotions are strong, can they infect those around them. The strength of its infection ability is related to its negative emotions."

"So, like that time at the school? The arguing duo's negative emotions were high, so they infected those around them?"

"Exactly," Ivan said. "But the incident at your school was minor; the source wasn't strong, and the infection level was low, so it recovered quickly."

Ivan then showed a serious expression.

"The infection level of those students was low, so they easily returned to normal. But once it exceeds 50%, recovery is hopeless," Ivan said. "And once it exceeds 80%, unless it's one of our idiosyncratic individuals, the infectee's consciousness will die.

Infected individuals with an infection level above 80% are no longer human. It would be best if you kept this in mind and not treat them as humans. This is a lesson we had to learn through the blood of our comrades."

Charlie sensed a story behind said bloody lesson, but Ivan didn't intend to elaborate.

"Let's take a look at our target for this trip."

He took out a photo from his Windbreaker's inner pocket and handed it to Charlie.

"Right, I almost forgot. Do I get a windbreaker as well?"

Charlie asked as he looked at the photo. The photo shows a Hispanic-looking fat guy with a baby face; the man's lower belly is exposed under his tight T-shirt. He wore gold-rimmed glasses and had a big gold chain hanging around his neck.

"No," Ivan replied, "you want a windbreaker, go buy one yourself."

Charlie let out an indifferent shrug.

Taking a closer look at the photo, his mind started to churn. He heard that in the early days of gangs, people originally wore gold chains because they were quick to sell in case of emergency. Later, it became a simple accessory for aesthetic purposes.

"His name is Diego, a member of a local gang. His gang is suspected to have killed several people. We're going there to investigate.

If it's a simple killing, we'll proceed with formal protocol, but if it's an infection source, we'll deal with it."

"What's the protocol?" Charlie asked.

"Ignore it, anyway, it's none of our business," Ivan said matter-of-factly.

Charlie thought about it and agreed. Their organization, built on a flying ship, was essentially a lunatic asylum; as fellow lunatics, it made sense not to care about regular crimes.

This reminded him of a meme he saw in his previous life about the IRS.

Are you a murderer? It's okay; as long as you don't bother us, feel free to keep killing.

Tax evasion? You're done! Even if God comes, He can't protect you!

"Can't we at least call the police?" Charlie asked.

"No, too much paperwork."

Charlie: "..."

Well, that still sounded reasonable.

After driving for about half an hour, Ivan parked opposite a bar.

Charlie looked up through the car window and saw a signboard in flickering neon lights reading "Joe's Bar."

"This is the place?" Charlie asked.

"It should be. This is one of their dens. According to intelligence, Diego should be inside."

Ivan unfastened his seatbelt and got out.

"Stay here and wait for me," he said. I'll ask a few questions and be right back."

Understanding, Charlie nodded, staying in the car.

He sat and watched as Ivan lit another cigarette and walked across the street to the bar.

Charlie sat there bored for a few minutes until he heard a mournful howl from the bar. The shrillness reminded him of Tom's heart-piercing howl in "Tom and Jerry."

It was followed by fighting, heavy objects being thrown, glass shattering, and even gunshots.

A moment later, the bar's street-side glass shattered, and a chubby guy rolled out, groaning on the sidewalk. His face bore a striking resemblance to the man in the photo, Diego.

The bar's door swung open, and Ivan came out, still with the cigarette in his mouth. Through the crack, Charlie glimpsed at the mess inside and the people lying around.

Ivan walked slowly to the person on the ground, turned him over, and stepped on his chest. "are you ready to talk now?"

---

Chapter Text

Diego moaned unceasingly when he was stepped on.
With a cigarette dangling from his mouth, Ivan pulled out a gun and fired without hesitation.
The bullet hit the ground near Diego's face, leaving a shallow bullet hole.
Diego immediately stopped crying out in pain, but his body twitched slightly due to the severe agony, and beads of sweat oozed from his forehead.
Ivan took another puff of his cigarette before speaking.
"You see, I'm not an unreasonable person," he said. "I'm really just here to ask a few simple questions. Personally, I'm not a fan of violence. I prefer peaceful means. ..."
At this time, Charlie noticed that the door of the bar behind Ivan slowly opened, and a man in a black vest with blood on his head staggered out.
The man was holding something ominous in his hand. It had sharp edges and corners; it loomed with a foreboding presence. Its rough and pitted surface bore the scars of time and weather, each crack a silent testament to the secrets it held.
It was a brick.
Although not a terrifying ancient artifact, the victorious expression of its wielder made one think otherwise.
Charlie saw that the man was about to sneak attack with the brick and wanted to warn his teammate. However, Ivan shot behind him without looking back, shattering the man's knee.
The man fell onto the ground with a howl, and the brick he held hit his forehead, knocking him unconscious.
This time, Charlie was dually surprised.
For one, he finds it impressively remarkable that Ivan can hit a target without even looking, and two, it seems that the brick was, in fact, just a brick.
But Damn, Charlie found it hard to believe how ruthless Ivan was.
Even the FBI has to think twice about shooting (although it's likely because they have to write a lengthy report afterward). But Ivan ransacked a bar in broad daylight, then began shooting without hesitation.
Diego, who was trampled underfoot, trembled all over at the sound of the gunshot. He now fully realized that Ivan was not like the authorities he usually dealt with.
Seeing that Ivan had turned the gun towards him again, Diego trembled and hurriedly said, "Wait, I'll tell you! I'll tell you!
It's the 'Snakehead'! Our boss recently meddled in his business, and he wanted revenge. The recent deaths you're investigating are our guys; they were killed by Snakehead, he's getting back at us..."
"Who is Snakehead?" Ivan asked.
"He's another boss in our area. His business usually involves trading illegal drugs..."
Without further ado, Ivan put the muzzle of the gun to Diego's waist and fired.
The shrill scream echoed throughout the street, the sound heart-piercing.
"Who is Snakehead?" Ivan once again asked, this time lazily puffing out a smoke ring.
Diego didn't know how Ivan saw through his lies nor how much information he had.
Dirt, blood, and tears covered his face, making him look miserable. "Please, if I talk, the boss will kill me. I still have family..." Diego sobbed
Ivan didn't speak; he just fired again. The bullet tore through his flesh; bone fragments splashed out along with his blood.
Another piercing scream echoed throughout.
"One thousand five hundred and forty-eight, assuming that all the bullets I fire remain logged inside your body, that's how many rounds I need to fire to cover the surface area of your body; hopefully, you're still alive by the time I reach your vital areas. After all, I still need you to answer my questions."
"You lunatic! Devil!" Diego screamed at the top of his voice.
"Maybe you're right; I probably am a lunatic, but..."
Ivan once again fired another shot.
"I'm a lunatic with a gun," Ivan slowly enunciated each word. "Now, Who is Snakehead?"
Shivering in either pain or fear, Diego didn't dare to lie anymore; he grits his teeth and endures the pain to confess: "Well, those dead people, those murders... they're not ordinary gang affairs.
It's us... we... we've seen the devil."
"It's a good start," Ivan nodded. "Go on."
"It was just an ordinary business," Diego said, enduring the severe pain.
"Just a standard transaction.
We arrived at the place agreed upon with the seller, paid the money, and delivered the goods.
But something went wrong on the way, and we were seen during our exchange."
The street where the bar was located was already quite deserted. The commotion scared away the few passers-by. Aside from Diego's heavy breathing and the words coming from his mouth, the street was eerily silent, so Charlie could hear their conversation clearly from the car.
When Charlie heard Diego's recollection, he thought the next plot point was that they would catch the person who saw them and argue about what to do with him or her.
"We didn't care who that guy was at the time. He looked like a homeless man, so dirty that I was too disgusted to remember what he looked like. He must have just been in the wrong place at the wrong time."
Diego said reluctantly.
"He begged us to let him go, but we knew that was impossible.
The guy leading our team ran over him with a car several times until he could no longer be recognized. Then, as usual, we poured him into a concrete mixture.
Anyone in our line of work knows it. If you mess up, you pay the price. No one knows how many piles of concrete hide human bones in the bustling city."
These words made Charlie feel a little uncomfortable. He felt that these words might be somewhat exaggerated.
But if he initially felt a bit insecure about Ivan's aggressive tactics, now he felt that this group of people deserved it.
"This time, Chris and Dmitri from our team handled the pouring.
They have a lot of experience in this kind of work. They know the most efficient ways to dispose of the bodies so they're not easily discovered when the concrete is being used.
They finished their work quickly, and we went to have a late-night snack together that night."
Diego paused, a look of horror plastering on his face.
"But this time, it was different," he said. "The next day, without any warning, Dmitri was killed by Chris. No... No, killed would be an understatement..."
His face contorted with pain and fear, and his voice grew thicker.
"By the time we arrived, Dmitri had turned into... a rotting flesh. Chris knelt beside him, murmuring something vaguely; we couldn't properly hear what he was saying since he was also chewing at the time. He then kept stabbing Dmitri's corpse with a knife.
He didn't stop until we got to him. Then he stood up, swallowed what was in his mouth, and turned to look at us with blood all over his mouth and face. I will never forget that look.
He then laughed and proceeded to talk to us. He said..."
Diego swallowed his saliva mixed with blood, his face pale from blood loss or fear.
" ...Do you want some food?"

Chapter Text

"We killed him," said Diego with difficulty.

"But it wasn't an easy process. Chris almost became... a complete monster; I don't know how else to describe it. He had at least a dozen knives stuck in his body; he was covered in blood, but... he only seemed to be... more alive.

Our group couldn't subdue him. Instead, he hacked several of our members to death while injuring even more.

"Then Dmitri, who we thought was dead, got up and started crawling towards us. His waist and abdomen were shattered, but he still didn't stop. He continued to crawl with a blood-soaked knife in his hand—the same knife Chris used to stab his body and carve out his flesh. We could even see the spine connecting his upper and lower body.

"What's even more frightening is..." Diego held his breath, a nightmarish hallucination clouding his vision, which already started to blur due to blood loss.

"He was laughing," Diego said. "...he was covered in blood, his broken body connected by a spine, but he was still laughing like crazy even after we smashed his head to pieces; we could still hear his mad cackles lingering in the air."

Ivan listened, flicked away a cigarette butt that was about to burn out. He put a new cigarette in his mouth, took out a lighter, lit it, and exhaled a cloud of smoke.

"We thought it was over, but it wasn't," Diego continued.

"A situation cropped up with Luke from another group. I wasn't there at the time, but I heard it happened during an unloading mission. Luke suddenly launched an attack without warning, picked up a crowbar, and smashed the head of the brother next to him.

"He killed two of the seven brothers unloading the cargo. In the end, they said he had to be riddled with bullets before finally stopping, and...

...he was still laughing until the end."

"That's when we realized there's more to this f*cked up sh*t.

The lingering laughter was like an infectious disease. You can kill those guys, crack their heads to pieces, but you can't kill that laugh.

"Sure enough, two days later, another companion went crazy, suddenly laughing wildly and picking up a wine bottle to smash it on the head of the person next to him.

"And then the next day, another person exploded without warning..."

Ivan smoked his cigarette calmly, lost in thought.

"We were going crazy. We all have to be on our toes these days, wary of everyone around us. We can't even trust our best friends. We live in fear every day. Anyone who makes even the slightest suspicious move gets knocked down by those around him...

"One unlucky guy got riddled with holes because we suspected an attack. Later, before he finally died, we found out he was just trying to get a tissue..."

"Interesting!" Ivan said, gaining a general understanding of the situation. He thought for a while and asked again.

"That homeless man, after you killed him, where did you dispose of his body?"

"If you want to find him, you may be disappointed," Diego gritted his teeth. "We took care of that a long time ago. We checked his identity and discovered that his name was Greg Hunter, an unemployed slum dweller who had just been evicted by his landlord the month before.

"Although the boss didn't allow it, I went with a few brothers to find the place where we poured the body... You know, there are always people who are more superstitious on the streets. We all felt these evil things were caused by ghosts.

"So we thought about digging him out and burying him, hoping it might help..."

"And then? Did you dig him out?" Ivan asked.

Diego swallowed. "...No," he shook his head, his eyes empty and frightened as if reliving the scene.

"We found the concrete mixture, but there was... nothing. The body was gone; no residue, no bone fragments, nothing."

"Are you sure you got the place right?"

"I'm positive we were at the right place; it was right there, that concrete mix, fourth bin on the left. The bin had 'Thug Life' spray-painted in red near the bottom," Diego said, full of fear.

"I'm telling you, it's true; it's that guy Greg. Maybe he's turned into a ghost; maybe he's become... something else. But he's after us, and he won't stop until we're all killed by each other..."

"That's the best news I've heard all day," Ivan grinned. "One last thing, I need the address of the construction site, the headquarters of your gang, and your boss's address."

Under severe pain and the fear of death, Diego became a classic villain who answered every question without hesitation. He spilled everything he knew, driven by the desire to survive. Whether the boss would tear him to pieces later was another matter. It was important to save his life first.

Finally, Ivan finished asking his questions and let go of his foot from Diego's chest.

"This was a pleasant conversation," Ivan said in a casual tone.

His tone and smiling expression made Charlie feel like he genuinely meant what he said.

"If I have any further inquiries, I'll make sure to come back for another conversation.

And by the way, you'd better be telling the truth." Ivan, already near the car, looked back and smiled softly. "Otherwise, I'll break your other leg next time we meet."

Diego was startled, thinking, What does he mean by my other leg? He didn't break my leg in the first place...

Before he could further contemplate, Ivan fired another round, hitting his knee with incomparable precision, causing blood and bone fragments to splatter throughout. Diego let out a painful hiss, finally passing out from the severe pain.

"That took a bit longer than expected," Ivan said, sitting back in the driver's seat and starting the engine.

He glanced at Charlie and smiled. "What? Do you think it's too cruel?"

Honestly, the bloody scene did make Charlie feel a little uncomfortable.

Although he had seen more thrilling scenes on screen, it was different in person. There are not many opportunities for a student who grew up in a peaceful era to see such bloodshed.

"Don't worry, those guys weren't good people," Ivan said casually while driving. "They've done worse things to others."

"That's not it," Charlie said. "I was just wondering if doing this on the street would attract unnecessary attention."

"Although this road is relatively remote, and because everyone knew the people in this bar weren't exactly 'good company,' there weren't many pedestrians nearby, but the disturbance this time was so large, it might attract the attention of, say, the FBI."

"Unnecessary attention? The FBI? Haha, don't worry." Ivan didn't care. "This kind of matter will only be handled internally by the CIA."

"Huh...why the CIA? Won't the Ninth Division take care of it?"

Taking a puff of his cigarette, Ivan continued, "If I let our division handle this—criticism reports, stating reasons for punishment, demotion, and dismissal, will be the least of what I'll have to go through... and besides, I'll probably have to do a mental evaluation. That thing always makes me drowsy. I prefer to steer clear of such matters."

"Can't help it. I'm unable to hold back when people upset me. If it weren't for that small issue, I would have been promoted long ago. Hard to change old habits."

"Did I ever tell you why I no longer work for the FBI?"

"No, you haven't," Charlie answered.

Ivan looked relatively young in the photo; it must have been quite a few years ago.

"It's because I have a problem of being unable to control my temper.

There was once a child molester who was arrested and brought to the interrogation room. After he came in, he kept acting cocky, as if he owned the place. Constantly talking sh*t and ranting about how he has 'connections' that 'we'll regret arresting him,' blah, blah, blah..."

Ivan slowly took another puff.

"Then I broke his neck," Ivan calmly exhaled.

Charlie: "..."

"Naturally, I was fired," Ivan smiled. Although he said he was fired, he seemed pleased with how the matter ended.

"Later, it was discovered that I became a Specialist individual. Naturally, I came to the Ninth Division."

He lit another cigarette and smiled.

"Fortunately, like today, the people I interact with are usually quite sensible and relatively easy to talk to. Diego answered my questions fairly positively. The ambulance came in time, and he should survive. It rarely escalates to anything serious."

Charlie was silent.

He had caught their entire conversation. Diego's expression when Ivan trampled on him could be described as mournful; there was nothing positive about it.

"Do we go to their gang's den next?"

"What are you going to do at their den?" Ivan asked.

"Our task is to follow clues and find the source.

According to Diego, said source should most likely be the homeless man they poured into the concrete mix.

We'll simply do more investigation about his identity, contacts around him, and so on?"

"We won't go after it? But won't letting it go lead to more people getting infected?" Charlie asked.

"That's the job of the Infection Prevention and Control Department, not ours," Ivan shook his head. "Our task is to investigate. Once this kind of thing is reported, the prevention and control department will naturally take care of it."

There is a Prevention and Control department...

Charlie quickly imagined a group of heavily armed personnel battling tentacle monsters and demonic life forms.

Peaceful my ass, this world is all kinds of f*cked up. I need Superman, and I need him now!

Chapter Text

Standing downstairs, Charlie watched Ivan's car disappear into the distance, and for a moment, he didn't know what to say.

Even if infection prevention and control are matters for the Prevention and Control Department, the investigation and clearance of the source of infection can't be delayed, right? Even if you're not enthusiastic enough to stay up all night, isn't it inappropriate to get off work early without a valid reason?

But, then again, this is also good. This way, Charlie could move about more freely.

He returned to his apartment room, turned on the computer, and started the game directly. After a short time, his screen displayed Batman's third-person perspective. He appeared in the same place he had logged off from the night before.

Charlie stretched his fingers, adjusted to a comfortable sitting position, and prepared snacks and drinks. The night was just beginning.

---

Charlie, who memorized the address given by Diego to Ivan during their "friendly conversation," entered said address on the game map and quickly located the mentioned 'gang den'.

On the surface, it was a casino—a dark Gothic building with a signboard displaying the luminous characters "Gang's Get Away." It was unclear whether the sign was simply a lack of creativity or a blatant taunt to the official authorities.

---

Batman landed on a nearby building.

Charlie turned on Detective Vision to scan the Casino's structure.

During the drive to Charlie's apartment, Ivan said that even if someone dies, it's just an unknown life, an additional number to the death toll statistic. As long as they're not directly related, nobody really cares. Not to mention, it's difficult to hold the culprit accountable. Especially if the culprit is, say, a toothbrush.

He was wrong, well, not entirely; Charlie would be lying if he said he cared... or at least cared enough to put 'his' life at risk. But he can certainly hold the cause accountable. If it is a person, beat them up and break their limbs; if it's a vector-type object, smash it to pieces. He can do that at least, after all...

...he's Batman

---

After two days of exploration, Charlie discovered another excellent use of detective vision.

Like traditional Batman games, the detective mode marks enemies and civilians. It succinctly and clearly tells the player which enemies must be defeated, which are innocent bystanders, and which are teammates.

Even when there is no main mission, allowing Batman to roam the streets, this feature helps players quickly scan for enemies and criminals in the nearby area. Players can easily control Batman to go to any street in the city to break a few bones at any time.

In this game, this feature helps players identify which targets can be used to earn hero points when defeated and which do not.

During the experience of operating Batman last night, Charlie saw with his own eyes that someone initially marked as a civilian in detective mode changed to an enemy while trying to steal a battery.

At that time, Charlie speculated that the game system judges the identification of an enemy's identity under detective vision by the illegal acts they have committed.

Charlie remembered he had controlled Batman to patrol near this "Gang's Get Away" Casino. During that time, while passing by this location, no enemies were marked; it seemed all the people inside were recognized as law-abiding civilians.

But today, when he came to the same address and turned on the detective vision to scan the building again, the entire area was dense with enemies.

Is it because he now knows this place is a criminal lair? Does that mean enemies aren't marked by the crimes they commit but by the crimes I'm aware they have committed?

But it stands to reason that the one with this information is Charlie, so, what does it have to do with Batman?

Or... can the game probe his thoughts for relevant knowledge?

Charlie's first reaction to this idea was that it's absurd. But then he remembered that manipulating game characters to act in reality seemed just as, if not, more absurd.

After surveying the outside of the building for a while, he quickly found a suitable entrance. Batman entered the interior through an open skylight, landing silently in a circular corridor of the building.

Charlie had never been to a real casino in either of his two lifetimes. He only had a little understanding of it from limited performances in film and television dramas.

His impression of such a location is simply champagne, roulette tables, a lot of chips, gamblers who spend a lot of money and lose their minds, and ragged croupiers dealing cards...

But today, none of the above was available. The beautifully decorated hall was quiet, with no gamblers or croupiers; only a large number of men in black sunglasses with guns scattered throughout.

There were faint shouting and cursing voices from further down the hall.

Charlie observed and memorized the scattered positions of all the men in the hall and quickly planned the attack route.

Batman fell silently against the wall behind the two on the high platform. These two had the best vision, and it was difficult to avoid their observation range for attacks on other positions, so they needed to be resolved first.

Originally, Charlie had already considered what to do if he was discovered or seen by other guards, but he realized that he was thinking too much. These two men stood guard on the surface, but they were actually chatting away happily, not paying attention at all. Not to mention a sneak attack from behind; they might not even see it if someone jumped across from them.

It took only a split second to settle the two. Before that, Charlie even hid in the shadows behind and eavesdropped on their conversation with the help of detective vision's auditory enhancement.

The content of the conversation was simple. The whole gang was frightened by the weird incident, the Casino was suspended for this reason.

At the moment, the boss was discussing countermeasures in the Casino with his top lieutenants. Judging from the current situation, they either had to collectively surrender and seek official asylum or run away, hoping to escape this curse.

From their conversation, Charlie learned that the gang leaders were in the Casino. He got the information he needed and was not interested in the gang member's plans, so he controlled Batman to step forward and instantly knocked out the two.

Charlie didn't come to find fault; he simply came because he wanted to punish evil, promote good, uphold justice, and, more importantly, gain experience along with hero points.

As they were marked as enemies in detective vision, these people changed from penniless gang members to walking experience packs. While beating them one by one, the hero points in the store skyrocketed.

Thinking back, Charlie felt more and more that the gangsters who fought in the tutorial were all elites, forming a sharp contrast with the real gangsters in front of him.

Although the enemies were inexperienced, there were quite a few in the hall. The detective mode marked twenty-two enemies, all armed with guns.

Avoiding everyone's vision and killing them all was unrealistic, but he could consider taking out a few by blocking their vision as much as possible. Once the numbers diminish to a certain extent, he can finally turn off the lights and use the cover of darkness to eliminate them all in one fell swoop.

After dealing with a few more men, Charlie was about to continue along the planned route when he suddenly froze.

In the detective's vision, a new guest appeared at the gate.

A cylindrical object was thrown into the room from nowhere, rolling to the feet of the two men patrolling the hall.

A grenade.

Boom!

Dazzling flames exploded under the bewildered expressions of the men in the hall. The two closer individuals were blown away, the shrapnel from the explosion hit several men, causing them to cry out in pain.

The door was then kicked open. From the screen on the computer, Charlie clearly saw... Ivan, who had just parted with him not long ago.

He appeared in the hall with a cigar in his mouth and a sub-machine gun in his hand.

---

Chapter Text

da da da da—

Ivan appeared swaggeringly at the door as if cosplaying Rambo. With a cigarette in his mouth, his arrogant posture seemed to silently shout, "You are all surrounded!"

The gangsters near the door were stunned by the grenade. Some were knocked down by the shock wave, while others died in a trance.

Unfortunately, Ivan only caught them by surprise. Although the hall was full of enemies, not all were concentrated. Neither grenades nor a bullet rain could suppress everyone.

After recovering, the gangsters quickly organized a counterattack. Though their aim was poor, they had numbers on their side. Many were also carrying Sub-machine guns; even without aiming, a barrage of bullets is still highly fatal. Ivan soon had to find cover; the dense gunfire blew the roulette table he hid behind to pieces.

Charlie realized that Ivan might not be as cold as he seemed. During the day, he lazily talked about casualties being nothing more than statistics, acting like he didn't care. But, not long after, here he was, with a gun, preparing to put an end to the infection.

This caused Charlie to hold Ivan in high regard.

However, feelings aside, Ivan's actions are not acceptable.

In Charlie's eyes, all the gangsters in the hall were not only criminals but also walking Hero Points. Every time one was killed by Ivan's bullets, it meant fewer Hero Points for Charlie. This was undoubtedly a significant loss.

He couldn't let Ivan have all the fun.

With Ivan attracting all the firepower, Charlie didn't have to be as cautious. Batman descended from the air while still under the cover of the shadows; he approached two gangsters at the back and took them out silently.

The dense gunfire and deafening noise covered the sound of his actions. Everyone focused on Ivan, not noticing the silent take-down in the back.

Charlie soon realized that Ivan had serious skills. Facing so many opponents, he suppressed them alone.

Ivan moved and adjusted while shooting, always finding cover to avoid enemy fire and exposing enemies in his line of sight through his movements.

Ivan seemed to anticipate every move, understand every position, and predict every attack.

In no time, everyone in the hall was either knocked down or killed.

Batman moved through the shadows, unseen by Ivan.

But just because Ivan didn't see him didn't mean he didn't notice.

All twenty-two enemies in the hall were down. With a cigarette in his mouth and a gun on his shoulder, Ivan walked through the blood-soaked hall, deep in thought.

In a shootout like this, it's usually hard to tell who killed whom. It's a confrontation with firepower. But Ivan knew exactly where each of his bullets went. There were twenty-two people in the hall. He killed nine. The remaining thirteen were taken down by someone else.

The most frightening part was that he only realized this at the end, not during the battle.

Ivan frowned.

Such a thing was almost unheard of. He was confident in his abilities, aware of every slight change in the fight. Even if the other person was skilled, they couldn't completely escape his notice.

But someone just did.

There was something else here. Like a ghost, silently moving through the battle, wielding a transparent sickle like a grim reaper.

It took down thirteen people without him realizing it.

"Interesting."

After figuring this out, Ivan laughed. He looked around the messy hall, lit a new cigarette, and continued forward, stepping on the wreckage.

He couldn't find the "ghost," so he stopped looking.

In any case, his purpose didn't change.

Ivan thought of himself as an easy-to-understand person. Some people in the city were like maggots in the gutter. If you saw them, you felt sick. If you didn't get rid of them, you couldn't sleep well.

He acted on whims, just like when he broke the neck of a criminal in the interrogation room.

Besides, while taking out these trash, he might as well clean up the infection.

Anyway, if all potential infection targets were killed, the infection wouldn't spread, right?

Even without valid reasons or evidence, such a conjecture is enough for him to implement his actions.

Ivan walked ahead, and Batman followed silently in the shadows.

Operating Batman, Charlie felt a bit strange.

Listening to the gangsters earlier, their leaders should all be inside for a meeting. The shootout was intense, with bullets almost piercing the ceiling.

They had already taken down all the personnel at the entrance, but the remaining gang members inside did nothing.

---

Finding the conference room, Ivan emptied his magazine through the door to show his "goodwill." He then kicked the door open and strode in.

But there was no one. The table was a mess, filled with half-eaten food and random cigarette butts.

Clearly, someone had been here a few minutes ago.

Ivan found a small door in the room. It seemed the gang had prepared an escape route.

---

The gang leaders, led by Nagase, were sneaking out through the back door to the underground parking lot.

Nagase cursed as he ran, complaining about his recent bad luck.

Business was sabotaged, and personal affairs were a mess; A simple killing of some tramp turned into the awakening of some bad omen.

And now, a few minutes ago, a group of lunatics attacked his lair. So unlucky, So F*cking unlucky!

But it didn't matter.

He had risen from the bottom and experienced worse times. He was confident he could make a comeback.

Click

Suddenly, all the lights in the parking lot went out, plunging it into darkness. The fleeing leaders felt their hearts tense.

Then, they heard laughter echoing in the empty parking lot.

Chapter Text

Ivan chased through the small door in the conference room to the underground parking lot. As soon as he arrived, he was hit with a strange metallic smell, the sharp tang of blood hanging heavy in the air.

The bloody scent immediately set his nerves on edge.

Walking deeper into the lot, a chill seemed to creep up from the floor and into his bones, as if he had stepped into another world.

A cold wind blew from an unseen source, whispering like the voices of ghosts and demons. The lights in the underground space flickered on and off, casting a surreal, otherworldly glow.

Long, narrow shadows danced on the walls and floor, twisting and writhing like ghosts with razor-sharp teeth and claws.

Ivan took a few cautious steps forward, soon feeling a sticky sensation under his soles.

He looked down and saw that dark red blood had overflowed his boots. The bloody quagmire, mixed with grisly human remains, was spreading, and he stood in the middle of it.

Lifting his boots from the pool of blood, Ivan walked towards the ever-shifting shadows on the walls.

Then, in the dim, flickering light, he saw them: the leaders he had been searching for.

It didn't look like they were going anywhere anytime soon, especially since they were hung from the ceiling by their intestines.

All of these people had been part of the underground world, where the lives of many could be decided by their whims, but now, those same individuals are being displayed in such a horrifying way.

As the light continued to flicker, Ivan caught a glimpse of a slender shadow standing beside him from the corner of his eye.

He was a disheveled shadow with messy hair covering half of his face, but the exposed mouth was pulled to the ears in a creepy arc, showing a horrifying smile.

Ivan aimed his gun without saying a word, shooting a barrage of bullets even before he could get a clear look at the target. The muzzle flash illuminated the flickering darkness, and loud gunfire echoed throughout, suppressing the sound of the dripping blood from the hanging corpses

With his senses stretched taut, Ivan notices that there is nothing in front of him.

Ivan frowned slightly.

An illusion?

Then he caught a glimpse of the sports car reflector beside him and saw that unsettling image again, standing in a pool of blood and grinning.

Without thinking, Ivan turned his head and shot again. The bullet landed in the pool of blood and exploded, causing blood to splatter, but there was nothing in that direction.

The gunshots stopped, and the parking lot became silent again; only the ticking sound of blood dripping remained.

Ivan held his breath, his gaze scanning slowly.

Without warning, his pupils narrowed as he noticed something. He turned around suddenly, only to find the horrific face very close, standing less than a foot away from him. The smile on his cracked mouth seemed to be mocking.

Ivan immediately tried to turn the gun but realized the barrel had been caught in the smiling silhouette's hand. Decisively, he abandoned the gun and drew out another pistol, aiming at the creep's forehead; he fired a single shot.

The impact detonated the gunpowder, and the metal bullet tore through the flesh and bone, carrying contents and bone residue through the back of the man's head.

But the man didn't react as expected; with one hand, he reached toward Ivan. His entire hand was soaked in blood.

Ivan was slightly startled.

Although highly infected people do not have pain and tenacity, in most cases, they still die from fatal head-shots or piercing the heart. But head-shots seemed ineffective on this man.

Ivan avoided the opponent's grasp, grabbed the offered arm, and twisted hard to try to remove it. But the arm was motionless as if made of steel.

The man's physical strength was incomparable.

With an even bigger smile, the opponent's arm suddenly swatted to the side, and with one sweep, Ivan was thrown away by the huge force, smashing the windshield of a Chevrolet behind him.

The man's strength was extraordinary.

Ivan stood up as quickly as he could, only to see the man approaching again and grabbing his throat. The grip was so strong it felt like his throat would be crushed, his hands instinctively grabbed the opponent's wrist desperately.

"You... are... Greg Hunter?" Ivan gritted his teeth and asked.

He had guessed.

The crazily man in front of him was probably Greg Hunter, who had accidentally witnessed a gang transaction, was poured into a concrete mix, and then mysteriously disappeared.

He was infected, with a very high degree of infection—maybe being besieged by gangsters deepened his infection. The powerful vitality of the infected kept him alive.

The loneliness of being alone, the depression of losing a job, being kicked out by the landlord, eating and sleeping in the open, and then being beaten and killed by gangsters...

All these experiences endowed him with huge negative emotions, quickly deepening the infection and granting him incomparably powerful strength.

"No, I'm not." "Greg Hunter" spoke with that grinning mouth, and there seemed to be a smile in his voice. "I'm not Greg Hunter, and neither am I anyone. I am... 'nothing.'"

"What?!"

Ivan still tried to pull away the opponent's arm, but the hand was too strong, and he seemed powerless.

"The thing people fear most, Detective Ivan, is 'nothing,' the uncertainty of the future. Force them to look, let them stare at the nothingness called life, trying to find meaning, and the result is nothing but one end..."

He leaned close, so near that Ivan could smell a rancid odor from the cracked smiling face.

"...They go crazy."

He let out a series of strange laughter; the flickering lights occasionally illuminated that bloody smiling face.

"So that's what I'm here for. I'm the embodiment of 'nothing,' the thing everyone fears. All I've done, all this..."

He looked back at the miserable wretches hanging from the ceiling.

"...This is just a preliminary test to verify my ability. Among all the boring people, you should understand this best, right, Detective Ivan?"

Ivan didn't have time to think about his words; his brain could no longer spare thought for riddles. His throat was in severe pain, his breathing was cut off, and his strength to struggle was weakening.

But just as his vision was blurring, he saw... a bat.

A huge bat spread its wings and glided in this direction.

"Greg" was caught off guard by the swooping 'bat' and was hurled away.

Chapter Text

Ivan greedily inhaled the foul air, coughing violently twice. The acrid stench of blood, rot, and decay filled his lungs. He didn't notice the shadow falling from above until he recovered, his senses momentarily dulled by the lack of air.

When he finally looked up, he saw the silhouette descending rapidly. It wasn't some bat monster, as he first thought, but a man. The figure's appearance was so bizarre that Ivan's initial confusion was understandable. This man had clearly dressed himself up as a bat, with a cape fluttering around him and pointed ears on his mask, suggesting a questionable state of mind.

What kind of psychopath would dress up like this? Ivan thought, his eyes narrowing.

The flickering lights made it difficult to see the details clearly, but from a rough glance, Ivan could tell that the equipment on this weirdo wasn't cheap. The armor looked like some kind of highly durable fiber material, with reinforced plates at crucial points. With a quick visual inspection, he felt that this outfit's bulletproof and explosion-proof performance was likely better than that of their top-tier gear.

Ivan soon remembered that the witness in the Klein Building also reported seeing a bat-shaped monster. So unless there's a second lunatic in this city who likes to pretend to be a bat and perform in the middle of the night, it should be this person in front of him.

Greg, who had been kicked away, stood up and twisted his neck joints in a grotesque posture, his movements fluid and unnaturally smooth.

"Huh? What are you?" he grinned, tilting his head as he looked at the newcomer with a predatory curiosity.

At the same time, Charlie—who was watching through the screen behind him—was also scrutinizing Greg cautiously. This grisly scene, coupled with Greg's unsettling smile and the craziness of the entire incident, naturally reminded Charlie of the infamous Joker.

If this was the true Batman, he'd probably think: 'Being Batman isn't easy; the Joker once turned Gotham upside down, putting him in a state of constant distress. Nowadays, it seems everyone wants to play the Joker, turning Batman into the enemy of the whole world.

[TL Note - I'm clueless about what the author is referencing. Can you Batman fanatics, please enlighten me]

Now, in a different world, Batman thought he could escape the daily struggle with the Joker, only for a spiritual heir to the Joker to appear out of nowhere.

Batman would have been cursing under his breath, thinking, "The Joker is still chasing me..."

"Be careful," Ivan said, his voice tinged with concern. "This guy is not easy to deal with."

Although he wasn't sure who this bat-dressed weirdo was, judging by the signs so far, it was more likely the other party was an ally. The situation, however, was still grim.

This bat lunatic might also be infected or a specialist individual. But Ivan didn't think this bat maniac was an enemy. He had just personally experienced it; he knew Greg's power was exceptional, even among the infected. Among all the agents of the Secret Service's Ninth Branch, Ivan himself had a relatively high level of infection. Except for those with special abilities, few in the Ninth Branch were better than him regarding physical prowess.

While his thoughts were racing, Greg had rushed forward. He was incredibly fast, reaching Batman in an instant and extending his blood-stained hand with a terrifying swiftness.

Batman showed no expression, only shifting slightly so that Greg's bloody fingers only brushed near his nose. He then lowered his center of gravity and suddenly extended his right hand from under his cloak, pressing his palm against Greg's chest with a calculated precision.

The next moment, under Ivan's astonished gaze, Greg flew backward with a low bang, crashing into a parked car and knocking it over. The impact was so powerful that the car's frame crumpled, and the vehicle skidded several feet before coming to a halt.

Ivan was stunned. What kind of power is this?

Even for the infected, isn't this kind of power too outrageous?

Batman stood there calmly, exuding an air of confidence reminiscent of a martial arts master.

Ivan looked at him with complicated eyes. But he didn't know that Batman wasn't infected, nor did he have superpowers. He simply had the ability to make money.

As the saying goes, the poor rely on mutation, and the rich rely on technology. Batman was undoubtedly the latter. Although he didn't wear a tin can like the playboy Tony Stark, Batman had many portable yet useful gadgets in his utility belt.

What Batman used just now was a one-time spray micro-propeller. It looked like an inconspicuous little button, but once activated, it would release a powerful thrust, propelling Greg away with astonishing force.

Despite this, Greg quickly got up, his smile still intact. His movements were unnervingly smooth as if he were a puppet on invisible strings.

"Ha, interesting little trick. But..." Greg began, his voice dripping with malice.

Batman interrupted him, throwing a small blue device that stuck to Greg; it released a powerful electric current, causing him to convulse and emit black smoke. The air was filled with the acrid scent of burnt flesh, the sound of crackling electricity was almost deafening.

Amidst a burst of convulsions, Greg continued to walk forward, once again extending his hand forward; his skin burned and cracked, his smile even more ferocious. His eyes gleamed with a manic intensity, and his steps were steady despite the damage.

Charlie's raised an eyebrow. Can you still move like this? This guy must have a thick health bar.

Batman threw another device that exploded at Greg's feet, releasing a large amount of gel that expanded rapidly, engulfing Greg in seconds. The gel quickly solidified, trapping Greg like a sculpture. He was completely immobilized, his bloody hand frozen just inches from Batman's face.

Batman stood there, expressionless, as if everything was under control.

Ivan looked at Batman, speechless.

---

Chapter Text

Ivan didn't know what to say for a while.

The strange man barely moved a step after he landed; he simply stood firm, delivering continuous blows.

"Ha, it's interesting; it's getting more and more fun."

Greg's body was stuck in a large amount of solidified gel and could not move. However, his exposed face still had a weird smile; his rolling eyes were like black pearls: dark, deep, and unpredictable.

"I see." He stared straight at Batman. "You're the opposite of nothing, like light and shadow, water and fire, and... me and you."

He seemed to think he had told a perfect joke, so he laughed wildly. The violent laughter caused his muscles, stuck in the gel, to tremble violently.

"A little too crazy, don't you think?" Ivan muttered vaguely. He stood up and walked over to Batman.

"I don't know who you are, but thanks for your help. Unfortunately, I'll still have to document your identity, so... you'll have to come with me."

His words came to an abrupt end.

At this time, both Ivan and Charlie heard even more strange, cackling laughter.

It wasn't from the madman in front of them but from everywhere. Several laughing voices were superimposed, as if a team of laughing maniacs surrounded the place, reflecting back and forth in the confined space, echoing with distorted clarity.

They sounded like a laughing orchestra. Greg, bound by the gel-like substance, was the conductor, and everyone hiding around cooperated with his melody.

Shadows appeared all around.

The lights continued to flicker with greater intensity; the tubular lights in the underground garage seemed to be dying. Phantoms continued to appear one after another under the flickering light.

Those were the infected gang members who were supposed to be dead were supposed to be dead.

Ivan immediately drew his gun and fired at an infected person who was closer to them. But the bullet only passed through the maniacally laughing mouth of the other party and went straight into the wall behind.

"Spiritual body?" Ivan was slightly startled, "Is the mental power strong enough to release a spiritual body?"

If the infected person's spiritual power exceeds the upper limit of physical endurance, the infected person's physical body will destroy itself. In this case, generally speaking, the spiritual power of the infected will be wiped out.

However, there is a minimal probability that after the physical body is destroyed, the mental power will remain, and the individual will then take the form of a spiritual body.

At this time, Ivan suddenly thought of a very terrifying possibility.

Suppose every spiritual body phantom that appears in the underground parking lot is a result of the infectious laugh. Does that mean that all the infected in this incident left their spiritual bodies after death?

But shouldn't the residual spiritual body be a small probability event?

Is it a unique ability of the infection source, or is there something more nefarious at play?

As he was thinking, he saw the laughing shadows elongate and turn into thin black lines, connecting to Greg, who was stuck in the gel.

The solid gel quickly cracked and, within three seconds, exploded into countless solidified pieces.

At this time, Greg had already lost his human form. His skin was replaced by something like jelly, and his size swelled rapidly. Spiny tentacles protruded from the slimy body.

One eye after another opened along the surface of the tentacles; the eyeballs moved strangely. The human skin was torn and chunked as if chewed, and the flesh was slowly being eliminated, leaving only the indescribable twisted monster.

The underground garage couldn't accommodate the rapidly expanding body, and the ceiling was crushed and cracked. Tons of debris and dust clattered down, and the twisted body broke through the ground and rushed up the block, frantically waving its hideous tentacles.

Its body shape was very irregular, unlike any creature on earth; it was difficult to describe its shape. Its tentacles were full of barbs, and its surface was covered with eyes; its countless eyes seemed to observe the whole world from multiple angles.

Pedestrians on the street were unprepared for this unexpected situation. After a brief moment of shock, someone soon began to scream.

Panic spread and the traffic became total chaos. What followed was madness.

It happened to a few people at first. A man on the run couldn't hold back a laugh, as if that laugh was a trigger; the laughter became louder and louder until it was out of his control.

Laughing wildly, he kicked down the terrified companion beside him, mounted his companion, and began to pummel him with fists.

Soon, more and more people were affected. Laughter spread like a terrible contagion, rapidly infecting more and more people.

A laughing child climbed on top of a man and bit off his ear.

An old man in an open-air restaurant was out of breath from laughing, picked up a wine bottle and smashed it at a random passerby on the head.

A car hit a fire hydrant, and the huge impact deformed the entire front of the car. Water rose into the sky, and the fire hydrant spun and crashed into a shop's glass window. The driver was lying on the airbag, laughing so hard he could barely breathe. While laughing, he controlled the car with a severely deformed front to reverse, preparing to aim at the next target.

The monster seemed perfectly content. It happily waved its countless tentacles as if cheering and dancing. The irregular body still had a mouth-like structure, an extremely huge mouth filled with mushy red flesh, like a smiling face carved out from the abomination with a knife.

"The situation is very grave!"

Ivan, who followed the creature out of the parking lot, pressed on his headset to communicate with headquarters.

"Several runaway spirit bodies have merged with the source of infection and become a strange and grotesque monster... What? How did it become like this? How the f*ck am I supposed to know?"

At this point, the area was in chaos. While trying to avoid the crazed crowd, Ivan approached the giant monster to keep it in his line of sight.

"Calm down detective. The fighter jet just took off from the deck," the operator explained. "It is expected to arrive at the scene within ten minutes."

"Ten minutes?"

Ivan looked at the group of people who were dying of laughter, causing chaos and targeting the yet-to-be-affected individuals and the arrogant giant beast among the buildings.

He wasn't sure if there would be anything worth saving here ten minutes later.

A sudden gust of wind nearly made it hard for him to breathe. The roar of a rumbling engine shook the sky like the roar of a beast.

Ivan turned his head and looked in the direction of the sound.

A huge pitch-black steel raptor with an advanced structure and streamlined design that resembled a massive bat, it had sharp horns and wings, light blue plasma flames spraying vertically, it looked like a huge bat with wings spread.

He was stunned to see that strange man in a bat suit walking past him, raising a gun, shooting it, and attaching the claws to the aircraft hovering in mid-air.

Ivan was stunned: "What the f*ck is going on?"

Batman ignored him. The rapid contraction of the claw gun pulled his body away from the ground and towards the hovering structure the air.

Ivan was utterly confused.

Who the hell is this bat maniac?

Chapter Text

As a well-known second-generation tech mogul in the comic circle, Bruce Wane naturally possessed an arsenal of cutting-edge gadgets. The Bat plane, Bat submarine, Bat chariot, Bat boat, Bat glider, and Bat Motorcycle all displayed his limitless ingenuity. Charlie had no doubt that if Master Wayne deemed it necessary, he might even have a Bat tricycle and Bat skates stashed away somewhere.

Airplanes were reasonably standard equipment for Batman. In past Arkham Knight games, Batman could summon chariots at will, but in this game, the options extended to aircraft and submarines. Charlie received guidance during the novice tutorial on the first day. Players could choose two types of Batmobiles, one submarine type, and two fighter jets before heading into battle. During the battle, pressing the E key summoned the specified vehicle for support.

At the moment, the scene in front of Ivan looked like something straight out of a high-octane action film.

The Bat-fighter climbed rapidly, like a black crow soaring into the sky at high speed. A gorgeous blue flame trailed behind it, and when the trajectory of the flame reflected in Ivan's retina, the fighter jet had already vanished from its previous position. The operation mode of the Bat-fighter was akin to the Batmobile in the "Arkham Knight" game but with more functions and a different operational feel.

Approaching the target at breakneck speed, Charlie activated three different weapon systems simultaneously, locking onto the target with precision thanks to the game system's shooting assistance, and went full salvo!

Wayne Group's special cannon, Bat Fighter-customized tactical missiles, and DC Universe's unique black technology penetrating bombs fired at super high speed, delivering an onslaught of utterly devastating firepower.

Despite Batman's adherence to a strict no-kill creed, his arsenal was formidable. His conventional weapons were non-lethal, designed for field control and interference. But that didn't mean he lacked lethal firepower. Batman simply refrained from killing "people."

As a member of the Justice League, Batman frequently joined his superpowered friends in battling alien fleets, space monsters, and other extraordinary threats. Against non-human entities, he was merciless, even capable of slaughtering 'true' gods.

As a mortal caught in divine battles, Batman's challenges were immense. What made it harder were his immortal teammates, whose overwhelming power was often paired with baffling incompetence. The Justice League members were like gods, capable of performing miraculous feats. They could move planets, survive the sun's core, and defy all physical laws. Yet, whenever they assembled, their collective IQ seemed to plummet.

Even Superman, beloved for his intellect, had his share of brilliant moments in personal comics. The super brain was no joke. Yet, in the Justice League, they often made decisions that left Batman facepalming in frustration. The group's dynamics forced Batman to develop his own extraordinary abilities. The lethal weapons of the Bat Fighter were designed for alien warships and super monsters, their firepower unmatched.

This wave of full-fire bombing caused the monster to emit black smoke and shrink in size. Black matter exploded from its body, disintegrating into a black mist. The continuous explosions painted the sky with gorgeous fireworks.

The crazed laughter on the street ceased abruptly. The lunatics stopped attacking, dropping to the ground and covering their heads in pain, screaming in agony. Ivan, trying to prevent further bloodshed by incapacitating attackers, saw this and felt a spark of hope.

It worked. The twisted monster was the source of the infection on this street. Attacking it directly interfered with its control over people's minds. If they waited for headquarters to send reinforcements, it might be too late.

For now, only the black bird circling the sky could achieve this. The monster's attention shifted to the Bat Fighter. Thick tentacles shot upward, piercing through the air with precision toward the Batwing.

But the Batwing, with a burst of tail flames from one side, executed an impossibly swift lateral movement. The tentacles missed, slicing through the afterimage of the fighter. Ivan was stunned. He hadn't learned to fly a plane, but he had enough knowledge to know that what he witnessed was beyond the realm of possibility. Instant propulsion, evasive maneuvers like, the f*ck... was this even an airplane? And what kind of pilot could execute such moves?

Of course, this was just his overthinking. For Charlie, it was merely a matter of pressing the arrow key and Shift. The Bat Fighter performed more gravity-defying maneuvers, dodging tentacles and launching attacks. It could halt mid-air like a helicopter, bombard targets at will, and reverse direction instantaneously.

As the battle raged, a shell exploded above the monster's head. The relentless assault had reduced it further. Endless ice crystals descended from a freezing bomb, covering the monster. In its weakened state, it could not resist becoming an ice sculpture.

Ivan was bewildered. What kind of weapon could freeze such a large target in seconds? Was this a freezing spell disguised as technology?

The technology for this warhead was sponsored by Gotham villain Freeze – though not voluntarily. Freeze had extensively researched freezing technology, even developing a freezing anti-aircraft gun capable of freezing entire cities, as shown in the 1997 Batman movie.

The Bat Fighter hovered mid-air, all machine guns locking onto the target. Frozen and defenseless, the monster was vulnerable. The final full volley expended all ammunition, shattering the frozen monster into pieces.

Ivan watched the fireworks of destruction and the Bat Fighter in awe. He should have been relieved, but his emotions were complex. What kind of airplane was that?

But it wasn't over. Ivan's tense nerves were about to relax when he noticed something. The threat wasn't eliminated yet.

Laughter echoed through the city, crazy and hysterical, mocking the world. The monster's dark phantom rose into a whirlwind, a pitch-black and transparent storm sweeping across the city streets.

It was the spiritual body. The physical monster was gone, but its spirit remained powerful and vengeful.

"Damn, truly the embodiment of a lingering ghost," Ivan cursed under his breath.

Chapter Text

The entity of the monster was wiped out, but the outbreak into its spiritual form worsened the situation again.

It generated a spiritual storm that manifested as turbulent winds.

The infected individuals stopped laughing, collapsed, and began to revert back to their previous states, but as the transparent storm rolled through. Their crazy smiles returned, and the chaos resumed.

Everyone resumed fighting and biting, and the chaotic dance of demons began anew. The brief pause was merely akin to a halftime break, but now, the referee blew the whistle to start the second half.

Ivan pulled an old man off a girl, flung him aside, shot him in the leg, and continued to communicate with the correspondent at the headquarters through his headset.

"Reinforcements haven't arrived yet?

"Help is on the way; it is expected to arrive within five minutes, please hold on a bit longer..."

"Tsk, I have an update. The situation has changed," Ivan interrupted impatiently, crushing the leg of a madman beneath his foot while talking. "The monster has been killed, but the spirit has gone berserk, forming some kind of mental storm. In terms of spreading infection, this thing seems more powerful than before; even I have been somewhat affected."

Ivan had received special training in the Ninth Division; he knew how difficult it is to infect someone of his caliber.

But now, he felt an oppressive atmosphere descending like a black cloud, almost suffocating. The crowd laughing wildly and releasing violence seemed to form a black wall, overwhelming him from all directions.

There was also that penetrating laugh that seemed to permeate his bones, echoing endlessly in his mind as if playing on a loop.

Even as a special agent, he was disturbed, and he couldn't imagine how much impact this storm would have on ordinary people.

There was a noise from the other end of the headset, followed by another voice soon after.

"Ivan, this is Professor Miyazaki from the Department of Infection Research. Can you hear me?" Professor Miyazaki's voice sounded from the other end.

"I hear you."

Crack, Crack...

Ivan broke two more legs while speaking. Infected people can't feel pain, and physical trauma can't stop them from laughing wildly, but it can effectively limit their actions.

"We've got a preliminary reading of your location.

I have only theoretically deduced the magnitude of the spiritual storm released by the source of infection. To be honest, it is the first time I have seen such readings. It is incredible. The power of these existences is really magical."

"Professor, can you get to the key points? I'm in a hurry here." Ivan interrupted, feeling a bit irritated.

For some reason, listening to the professor's voice seemed to excite him a little.

Can staying around these scientists cause infection as well?

Best to stay away from now on.

"Okay, okay, I'll get to the conclusion." Professor Miyazaki said, "In short, the mental storm cannot be perpetually maintained. To maintain such an output, there must be a source of infection at the eye of the storm. Eliminate that source of infection, and the storm will naturally subside."

"So I should just shoot it?"

"No. If a long-range strike fails to kill it in one blow, it will intensify the storm and cause even greater irreparable damage."

Ivan paused for a moment, then looked at the dark storm. The sky above seemed to twist and writhe as if it were alive, the storm's center pulsating with a malevolent energy. It was a sight both mesmerizing and terrifying.

"That means I have to go to the center to ensure the source of infection is resolved?"

"Exactly. Someone needs to go in and make sure its head hits the ground."

"But I doubt this infected individual will die even if his heads are severed, right?"

"Really?... so it's one of those... It's fine, even if decapitation doesn't kill it, it will prevent the source of infection from sustaining the mental storm, achieving the desired effect."

Professor Miyazaki paused and added, "Of course, it would be dangerous to do so. The infection intensity of the spiritual storm may be higher than that of conventional infection sources. Honestly, even if a specialist enters, I can't predict the outcome..."

Ivan was silent for a moment, then smiled lightly.

"Professor, are you suggesting that I might end up like these people?"

Looking at the crazy crowd surrounding him and the chaotic setting that seemed to turn into a distorted nightclub's dance floor, the streetlights flickered erratically, casting eerie shadows that danced with the deranged movements of the infected. As the only sober person, Ivan felt out of place on this chaotic dance floor.

"I want to remind you that even if you successfully eliminate the source of infection, it may have an irreversible impact on you," said Professor Miyazaki. "Even if you save everyone, when the support team arrives, they may not be able to save you..."

"Don't worry."

Ivan lit a cigarette, put it in his mouth, and walked toward the dark and transparent storm while changing the ammunition in his gun. The storm seemed to react to his approach, tendrils of dark energy reaching out as if sensing his intent.

"I'll save a bullet for myself if necessary."

After a pause, he grinned broadly.

"Professor, by telling me this method, you're implying that this is what I should do, right?"

"I didn't say that. I just told you the solution and the stakes. As for what measures to take, it's your own decision..."

Immediately, the line was cut, and a crisp female voice sounded in the headset.

"Wait there for backup. This is an order."

It was Melanie's voice. Although she was much younger than Ivan, she was his superior.

Ivan smiled.

"Orders? You know those can't restrain me." He lit a cigarette and continued walking toward the storm's center with slow but firm steps. The air grew colder, the laughter louder, and the world around him blurred at the edges. "If I really wanted to obediently obey orders and follow the rules, I would be your superior."

Melanie's voice softened a bit.

"Ivan, you don't need to go. The support is coming soon, and the team at the headquarters is also studying other countermeasures..."

"Even if there is, we can't wait any longer." Ivan interrupted her calmly. "Professor Miyazaki is right. This is the best solution at the moment, and I happen to be the most suitable candidate. My time has long been stagnant. I work for the Ninth Division, the only purpose of living to this day is to find a suitable end. If today is that time, it's a worthy death. I will not regret it, and no one will regret it for me."

He grinned broadly, took a deep drag on his cigarette, and tossed it aside. The embers glowed briefly before being snuffed out in the storm.

"Because the people who would feel sorry for me...are six feet under."

After speaking, he cut off the communication without giving a chance to reply.

By this time, he was already close to the periphery of the storm, greater layers of wild laughter followed. Distorted phantoms began to appear before his eyes. There were men and women, old people and children, all with horrifying and distorted smiles on their faces. Their eyes glowed with a sickly yellow light, and their movements were jerky, like marionettes on strings.

That's just at the outermost edge. He didn't know if he would be safe if he went in, but he didn't care.

Because, like coming to this casino tonight, he didn't need a reason for what he was doing; it was just a whim. Even if he was killed, he didn't care.

Ending this disaster alone and then taking a bullet sounded like a cool way to die.

The corner of his mouth hooked into a determined smirk.

Definitely a worthy death.

Unfortunately, Ivan won't get the chance to act on his whims, not this time...

He felt a tightness in his ankle. Before he had time to realize what was going on, a huge force pulled him to the ground, dragging him far from the storm. Finally, he was thrown head down and feet up, hanging upside down under a street lamp.

"What are you doing...!?"

Ivan, who looked like a tragic hero marching to his death, was interrupted mid-way and found himself hanging upside down in an undignified posture. His face twisted with frustration and anger.

He tried his best to look down toward his feet, only to see Batman standing on top of the street lamp. The Dark Knight looked down at Ivan, his black cloak billowing in the storm, his eyes hidden behind the white slits of his mask.

Batman had pulled Ivan back with a grappling gun and hung him upside down on the lamppost.

"What are you doing?" Ivan was furious. "There is no time. Someone must stop that source of infection. I have to..."

Before he could finish speaking, Batman had already jumped down. The Dark Knight didn't say a word, ignored Ivan's yelling, and strode toward the center of the storm with determination. His movements were precise and calculated as if he knew exactly what he needed to do.

Ivan was stunned.

This guy...does he intend to save me and then go into danger himself?

"Wait!" Ivan struggled desperately, trying to stop Batman. "Come back!"

But still, there was no answer.

The Dark Knight disappeared into the storm, leaving only his solid back with his cape billowing. The storm seemed to react to his presence, dark tendrils of energy reaching out as if to grasp him, but he moved forward with unyielding resolve.

This city only needs one hero...

Batman

Chapter Text

Batman had already hacked into the communication line between Ivan Petrov and the headquarters, so while they were speaking, Charlie naturally listened to their conversations. As a result, he learned how to stop this spiritual storm and Ivan's plan to sacrifice himself to complete the mission.

Of course, he couldn't just sit idly by. Charlie asked himself, 'If he stood in the position of Ivan, would he be as fearless? The answer was a decisive no.

It was precisely because of this that the detective's behavior was more admirable. Fortunately, he didn't need any noble self-sacrifice to accomplish essential tasks.

Because he's just a gamer.

Since it's just a game, he can boldly do things that his real self dared not do. Because it's a game, he can use abilities that he doesn't have. He doesn't have to worry about getting hurt or dying, and he doesn't have to worry about attracting unnecessary attention. He can do the right thing as he wants. It even faintly coincides with Bruce Wayne's idea when Batman was born.

As a human being, no matter how rich and well-trained he is, he is still flesh and blood and will be targeted and killed. But if he becomes someone else by means of a mask, becomes a symbol, he becomes indestructible. And now, relying on the operation of the keyboard and mouse, Charlie has also transformed into that indestructible symbol.

Batman calmly walked into the heart of the storm, but soon, the mentally polluted laughter became overwhelming. Charlie's earphones sounded with ear-piercing laughter as if he himself was in the scene.

That's a sign of infection. That voice will directly echo in people's minds, becoming deafeningly louder and louder. It is impossible for those who are not determined to go to the eye of the storm.

But Charlie's method of dealing with this annoying voice is also very simple. He turned down the volume on his headphones.

The weirdness of the laughter is naturally greatly reduced when the volume is turned down. In fact, if necessary, he can even directly mute the game's volume or simply turn on music software in the background playing Lofi hip-hop on a loop. This is a standard trick players use against horror games. Be it ghosts or ancient gods, those guys who like to pretend to be gods and ghosts are no match for Lofi.

It didn't take long for him to reach the middle of the storm. There, stood a man. Although he still looked like Greg, inside, he was no longer human. The irreversible deep infection had turned him into the embodiment of some ancient existence outside of humanity and a mobile source of infection.

When the figure appeared in view, Charlie had already controlled Batman to lock on the target from afar. He selected the weapon from the equipment bar and held down the right mouse button to lock it. He then tapped the left button, causing a small dart to fly out of Batman's hand like a bat piercing through the air. Unfortunately, the man seemed to have sensed the approach of the dart from afar. He tilted his head slightly, and the dart flew through the air, nailing into the wall behind him with a snap.

"Missed, huh." The man's mouth opened in a terrifying arc. "It seems that your aim is not very good." But he didn't notice the two dim red lights flashing on the dart nailed into the wall; soon, the explosives placed inside the dart detonated with a bang. The wall was blown to pieces, and the shock wave carried the fragments flying around. The man was blown to the ground in a disgraceful posture.

Batman approached quickly, but he stood up even quicker, just before Batman rushed to his face without even having time to adjust his stance. Greg attacked with a jab head-on, but Charlie skillfully let Batman slide to the flank with a step, then he manipulated Batman to punch back. The man reacted quickly, spreading the five fingers of his right palm to block Batman's punch.

But he miscalculated.

The moment Batman's black glove hit his palm, an azure blue electric current burst out suddenly, and countless electric arcs bloomed from the front of the fist, blasting the opponent's palm into a bloody mess. Charlie seemed to be able to smell the scent of barbecue through the screen. Batman's gloves are equipped with a powerful electric shock function. Although he would never use lethal power when dealing with street gangsters, he naturally didn't hold back when dealing with non-human beings, and the power was directly maxed out.

The effect was outstanding! Although the electric shock couldn't complete the kill, Greg's arms were visibly weakened, and the muscles seemed to be relaxed by the electric shock. On Charlie's side, an execution reminder popped up immediately above the opponent's head—this reminder will appear when the opponent falls into a dizziness state or freezes. You can choose different moves to let Batman complete the final blow.

Tossing a Batarang to the left, Batman Slid up behind Greg, holding him in place.

Swoosh

The Batarang came back with incomparable precision, slicing Greg's head from off his neck. The headless body twitched twice, then knelt down with both knees and fell to the ground with blood oozing from the neck.

Half a second later, the head fell to the ground; it rolled around twice, creating a swirl of blood, finally stopping in a pool of it's own creation.

The laughter suddenly ceased.

But the surrounding storm didn't mean to stop. On the contrary, it seemed to be more intense. The surrounding streets and buildings were all submerged in the boundless storm, and the overwhelming cloud made it hard to breathe. The head that had been severed turned around to face Batman.

But when it turned back, Charlie saw that it was clearly not the face of the man Greg. It was the face of a middle-aged man with distinct Western features and a mustache. From that face, one could still see traces of his past handsomeness, but his current tragic state had severely reduced his appearance.

The moment he saw this face, the Batman in the picture suddenly took two steps back uncontrollably, as if his heart had been hit hard. "Father... Father!?" Charlie's heart trembled violently. At this moment, he realized that this face belonged to Batman's father, Thomas Wayne.

But how could he possibly be here? At this time? In this kind of place? Charlie suddenly realized that at some point, the camera on the screen seemed slightly tilted by a few degrees. The screen filter also darkened, and the edges of the screen became a bit blurred. He quickly realized that this is how many single-player action games portray the protagonist as being poisoned or under hallucination.

What he saw through the screen was an illusion from the perspective of Batman? In other words, going deep into the spiritual storm, even Batman, who is a game character, can't be immune to the infection?

"Why... didn't you stop him?" Thomas Wayne's bulging eyeballs and empty eyes already clearly belonged to the dead. However, the dry and pale mouth was still talking. Charlie, who was familiar with the story of Batman, soon realized that he was referring to; the gangster who shot and killed the Wayne couple.

"You should have tried to stop him, like a man..." When Charlie heard this, he knew it was all nonsense. Batman was eight years old then, just a helpless kid. If he had tried to rush up to fight the thief, there would probably be no Batman in the world; it would not only be the Wayne Couple who died but also him.

This wasn't the real Thomas Wayne; the real Thomas would never have thought that way. This is simply Batman's inner turmoil. After so many years, he is still blaming himself. He still feels that if life could be repeated, if there had been even a little difference in his past actions, his parents would not have had to die.

"I..." The Batman in the picture was confused. He stumbled and took two steps back, no longer daring to look at the head on the ground. But when he turned his head, a new scene had emerged in the spiritual storm behind him.

There was a dark alley with a few street lights in disrepair. A broken necklace, the pearls that were originally strung on it, cracked and rolled all over the ground like the tears of a mermaid. A beautiful woman in expensive clothes fell into a pool of blood, her head tilted, staring at Batman.

"Bruce... help... us, it's dark in here... I'm so scared..." Batman shuddered again and stumbled back. "Mother..."

Charlie hurriedly manipulated Batman's perspective to move away from the illusion of the Wayne couple. The WASD of the keyboard could still control Batman's movement, but his pace was significantly slower. He could only walk but not run and jump, and the attack button did not respond.

Then he fell to his knees, the alley disappearing, and the surroundings became a chaotic storm again, as if boundless nothingness. A voice came from the depths of nothingness, a piercing laughter.

"You see, this proves me right," said the voice. "Everyone's afraid of nothingness, of uncertainty, of feeling like they're not in control of anything," it continued. "You're especially like that, aren't you? I don't know who you are, but I can feel it. You have a strong fear of certain things, more than what most people fear in their hearts. The way you choose to fight that fear is by dressing yourself up in this demonic form.

You're trying so hard to fight against the nothingness of uncertainty, to keep things under control, precisely because you're living with a fear that most people can't reach." Batman remained kneeling. A flickering exclamation mark had popped up in the upper left corner of the screen.

It was explained in the description of the beginner tutorial. The exclamation mark sign means that the hero is on the verge of the limit, whether it be the health, the stamina, or the mental gauge about to bottom out. Once the hero becomes unable to continue the mission, the system will forcibly recall him. It is basically equivalent to the death of a character in a traditional game.

Another burst of laughter echoed in the void. "You see, we are actually identical, almost carved out of the same mold," said the voice. "You put on this costume, trying to fight your fear this way, while I chose to become the direct incarnation of 'nothing.'

That's what my abilities are made for. All those people who are disturbed by the unknown, those who cannot control their own lives, my ability can make them become their own masters again. Everyone can release their true inner thoughts, tear away the rules, and no longer need hypocritical disguises. They can happily be their truest selves, and they can all become 'nothing', making those who think they have mastered the rules feel the horror of 'nothing'."

While speaking, the figure of "Greg Hunter" appeared again. He smiled wildly and strangely, holding a fire ax that came from nowhere as he walked forward. Charlie was almost slamming the keyboard at this point, but the Batman on the screen still didn't accept the input. The only change caused would be the slight shaking of the POV camera.

"Greg Hunter" stopped before Batman, lifting the fire ax with a smile. Charlie seemed to have seen Batman's fingers move. Almost in desperation, Charlie frantically tapped the right mouse button.

That is the key for defense and counterattack, and it can control Batman to counterattack at the moment of being attacked.

The fire ax fell. As the sharp and heavy ax was about to split him in half, Batman moved. He suddenly hit the opponent's wrist with a palm, changing the direction where the ax fell. At the same time, he rolled on the ground, completely avoiding the fatal strike in a thrilling manner, with only the corner of the cloak getting cut off.

"What!?" The other party seemed stunned that he had recovered his mobility under such circumstances. But it was too late for him to make another swing with the ax. An electric fist punched him twice in a row; the full-power electric current paralyzed his nerves. Batman grabbed his arm and pulled him over, fully embedding another Batarang in the man's throat.

"How?" Greg looked astonished, and his crazy smile weakened a little due to shock. "You are not even a specialist individual; how could it be that..."

He couldn't figure it out; he couldn't comprehend it. Only idiosyncratic individuals can be somewhat immune to infection, but even then, they can only resist most infections. This is something that even a Specialist individual can't do, let alone this lunatic in a bat costume.

Amidst his confusion, he only got a cold but determined answer.

"Because... I'm Batman."

The Batarang swooshed across, and a head once again fell to the ground.

This time, the storm slowly subsided.

Chapter Text

"It is finally over..."

This time, it was not a hallucination. Charlie relied on his exceptional willpower, nearly at a superpower level, to forcibly suppress the illusions created by the spiritual infection. With a final, resolute effort, he completed the counter-kill against the mental pressure.

However, as the kill was finalized, the screen in front of Charlie abruptly went black, and he was returned to the hero selection interface.

The Batman character in the column had turned grey, indicating it was no longer selectable. The only heroes available for selection were the Huntress, who had recently been featured in ten consecutive draws.

Charlie navigated the cursor back to Batman. After hovering over the character for a few seconds, a status description appeared below it, detailing:

"resting in progress; progress: 0%, estimated remaining time: 24 hours."

This meant that while the hero character Charlie had been using could be revived from its negative state, it wasn't like ordinary games where a character can instantly return to full health. Recovery required a cooldown period. For instance, Batman would need a full day to regain his full state and be ready for action again.

Charlie's gaze shifted to the Huntress, who now stood as his only alternative. He had previously thought the inclusion of such a hero, overlapping with Batman's role, was redundant. Yet, it became clear that it wasn't entirely superfluous. For the next twenty-four hours, while Batman was recovering, if any urgent situation arose requiring a fighter intervention, the Huntress would be his sole option.

In essence, she was a substitute.

---

Just moments ago, Charlie had been in a state of intense concentration, his nerves taut as he operated. Now, as he paused, he realized his entire body was drenched in sweat, his clothes clinging to him uncomfortably. The sweat-slicked fabric felt like a second skin.

It's said that with repetition comes familiarity, but despite having performed similar actions multiple times, Charlie felt more drained than ever. His hands and feet felt weak, and he nearly stumbled when he tried to stand. His eyelids drooped heavily, weighed down by exhaustion. He leaned against the wall for support, feeling his way along it until he reached his bed. As he collapsed onto the mattress, the expansive, plush surface enveloped him in a comforting embrace, drawing him into a deep, much-needed sleep.

…

While Charlie sank into restful slumber, the rest of the team remained wide awake, grappling with the aftermath of the crisis.

The Ninth Special Service team swiftly cordoned off the area and took control of the scene. All individuals suspected of being infected were taken into quarantine for thorough investigation.

Detective Ivan, who had been present throughout the entire operation, was brought back to headquarters after undergoing a series of exhaustive body checks that left him both physically and mentally drained.

Upon entering the meeting room, Ivan found the senior leaders and experts from the headquarters already assembled, waiting for his report.

Before Ivan arrived, the experts had engaged in a vigorous academic debate about the monstrous entity that had emerged in the city.

To an ordinary observer, the creature, with its grotesque tentacles, bulging eyes, and menacing barbs, might evoke images of madness or supernatural phenomena. However, for researchers, the focus was on how to replicate and harness such extraordinary capabilities. Could they create something similar in their labs?

The phenomenon of infection had been known for over two years. The Ninth Special Service Devision was a relatively new department, still in the early stages of understanding and addressing various infection incidents.

This incident marked the first time that spiritual entities from multiple infected individuals had merged to form a colossal monster. The Ninth Special Service Division had no precedent for dealing with such a situation, leaving the management, who had been blissfully unaware and asleep in their homes, stunned when they received the news.

In the past, infected individuals could be dismissed as suffering from insanity, drunkenness, or societal grievances. Larger-scale incidents could be contained or hidden from public view.

With their formidable capabilities and resources, the Ninth Special Service could have swept this incident under the rug. However, even if they managed to cover it up, there was no guarantee that similar events wouldn't occur in the future.

The escaped monster could be part of a larger pattern, and no one could predict if it would happen again.

The body of Greg had been recovered and was undergoing standard security checks. Once inspection, isolation, and observation were completed, to ensure safety, the next step would be to perform an anatomical study to determine the source of the infection.

Understanding how the infection worked was crucial.

Beyond the anomaly of the infection and the monstrous entity, the most intriguing aspect of the incident was the enigmatic bat-like figure.

This was the main issue everyone in the conference room wanted to address with Ivan.

Ivan began his account with his solo infiltration of the mafia gang's casino. The details of his mission up to this point were not particularly riveting, so he summarized it briefly. The focus intensified when he reached the part about the bat-like monster.

Fortunately, Ivan had activated the video recording equipment mounted on his body during the operation. Despite the low resolution and some less-than-ideal scenes, the footage provided first-hand data that offered a clear perspective on the events.

During the initial segment of the discussion, experts were captivated by the opponent's incredible agility and the cutting-edge technology displayed.

For instance, in the casino lobby, the figure had dispatched numerous foes almost invisibly, a feat that was only discernible through the loss of heads that occurred without anyone's awareness, including Ivan's. This highlighted not only the adversary's exceptional training but also the substantial financial resources at their disposal.

The technological prowess and intricate gadgets used were equally impressive. The sheer monetary expenditure displayed by the subject was beyond what typical wealthy individuals could afford.

Then, when the monster appeared on the screen. A jet-black bat fighter hovered in the air with an imposing presence, nearly eclipsing the wealthy patrons. The bat-like figure demonstrated its prowess by seizing and climbing up the plane with its clawed weapon, leaving an impression of its formidable power and grace.

"A hovering jet fighter."

The speaker at the end of the conference table was a man exuding calm authority. He had remained silent during the previous discussions, but his presence commanded respect.

Commander Ross, head of the Ninth Special Service Division.

"Dr. Hines, can we replicate something like this?" he asked, directing his question to a figure in a white coat beside him.

Dr. Hines, a leading expert in related fields, adjusted his glasses. "It's not impossible; there are already prototypes with similar capabilities, but the technology isn't fully matured for practical use yet."

He continued, "The technology demonstrated in this aircraft appears more advanced than our prototypes in testing. I would be very interested to study how it overcomes the technical challenges we have faced. If possible, this could greatly advance our own developments."

After a moment, he added, "However, even without it as a reference, I believe that within a year, we could develop fighter jets with comparable systems ready for combat."

While Dr. Hines admired the bat fighter on the screen, his stubborn confidence in his own technological advancements remained. However, as the video continued, the bat fighter's rapid, fluid maneuvers, including its seemingly impossible drifting and intricate aerial stunts, began to defy his conventional understanding.

The climax of Dr. Hines' shock came when the bat fighter executed a complex aerial maneuver that defied the principles of physics, making even Newton's theories appear obsolete.

Dr. Hines was left in stunned disbelief.

Is this really an aircraft?

Chapter Text

Even the most self-assured researchers, those who have spent decades in their fields, recognize that their understanding of infection events remains profoundly limited. Despite the vast amount of data collected, many phenomena defy easy explanation, leaving gaps that must be bridged through further observation, analysis, and exploration. Consequently, when an unusual source of infection and monstrous entities like the ones in this incident emerged, they weren't entirely caught off guard.

Over the past year, these researchers have been forced to expand their acceptance of the paranormal. They've witnessed things that defy conventional science, challenging their previously unshakable beliefs. The sheer frequency and variety of these events have numbed them to the point where, if someone claimed that a group of infected individuals were playing football while flying on broomsticks in the sky, they might raise an eyebrow, but they wouldn't dismiss it outright. Their skepticism has been tempered by experience.

However, this newfound openness is limited to phenomena directly linked to infection. They've become specialists in the impossible, but only within a specific domain.

So when faced with this plane—this utterly inexplicable black aircraft captured on the screen—they found themselves struggling to comprehend what they were seeing.

The jet-black aircraft, its shape fuzzy and indistinct even on high-resolution footage, seemed to mock the foundational principles of aerodynamics and physics. It defied everything the technicians in the room knew, especially those whose expertise lay in aviation and weaponry.

As they watched the footage, the plane hovered for a moment, its presence dark and menacing. Then, without warning, it fired a volley of freezing bullets. These weren't ordinary projectiles; they encased a massive, grotesque monster in solid ice almost instantaneously, shattering it into fragments of ice and frozen flesh. The sheer impossibility of what they were witnessing left one of the attendees unable to remain seated.

"Impossible!"

The exclamation came from Dr. Richard, the head of the equipment department. Dr. Richard was a man known for his unflappable demeanor, a rock amidst chaos. But now, his voice was tinged with disbelief, bordering on hysteria.

"No weapon can achieve such a rapid freezing effect," he declared, his voice firm but shaken. "This technology doesn't exist in our world."

"But this is exactly what I witnessed with my own eyes, and it's precisely what the video equipment recorded," Ivan responded with a calm that belied the gravity of the situation.

Dr. Richard fell silent, his frown deepening. His mind raced, desperately searching for a rational explanation, but he found none. His voice dropped to a mutter as he repeated to himself, "Impossible... unscientific... it just can't be."

As the footage reached its climax, the meeting room fell into a hushed silence. They watched, transfixed, as the enigmatic figure in the bat suit—now dubbed "Batman" by the few who had seen him—walked into the heart of the dark storm. The storm was a vortex of chaos, a maelstrom that seemed to consume all light and hope. Yet, the Batman walked into it without hesitation, his silhouette gradually swallowed by the darkness, leaving no trace behind. Though everyone present had already been briefed on the events leading up to this moment, seeing it unfold with their own eyes stirred something deep within them. It was a moment of sheer, raw human emotion—courage, sacrifice, and an unfathomable resolve.

[TL Note - Just for the sake of sh*ts and giggles, I wanna change the name to "Batboy," Who opposes and who agrees]

"Detective Petrov, you mentioned earlier that even you were affected when you neared the edge of the storm?" It was Professor Miyazaki who broke the silence, his voice measured but with a hint of urgency.

"Yes," Ivan nodded. "That storm contained one of the most potent sources of infection I've ever encountered. The pressure, both physical and mental, was overwhelming. I can't even begin to imagine what might have happened to me if I had ventured into the eye of that storm."

"Detective Petrov's infection rate is at 87%, making it the highest among the Special Service's regular agents. His resistance to infection is exceptionally strong," Professor Miyazaki said, his tone turning analytical as he shifted into the mode of a scientist dissecting a complex problem.

"And based on your account, that bat-like figure was able to enter the very center of that storm and neutralize the infection source. This raises intriguing questions about his infection level. Could he be an idiosyncratic infected at a level of 99-100% ? If he's completely immune to all forms of infection, that might explain his ability to do what he did..."

"I don't think that's the case," Ivan interrupted, shaking his head slightly as he reached into his pocket. He retrieved a sleek, silver-gray device, its design minimalist yet advanced, and placed it carefully on the conference table.

"This is a special identification device that you, Professor Miyazaki, developed," Ivan explained, his eyes locking onto the professor's. There was a weight to his words, a significance that everyone in the room could sense.

Unlike ordinary infected individuals, the degree of infection in specific people cannot be accurately measured using conventional testing equipment. These idiosyncratic individuals—people with unique, often inexplicable abilities—required a full suite of physical examinations to determine the extent of their infection. Thus, Professor Miyazaki, always at the cutting edge of technological innovation, had developed this recognition device to detect anomalies in idiosyncratic individuals.

However, the device was still in its experimental phase, its functionality limited. It was a prototype, not yet ready to be standard issue for special agents. While it couldn't measure the exact infection level of an idiosyncratic person, it could distinguish between ordinary individuals and those with these unique traits—a distinction that could mean life or death in the field.

"I managed to scan the Batman during the operation, and the results were... well, perhaps you should see for yourself," Ivan continued, his tone neutral but his words charged with an undercurrent of significance.

Someone from the table reached out and handed the device to Professor Miyazaki, who took it with a mix of anticipation and dread. He activated the monitor on the back side of the detection device, his fingers moving with the precision of a seasoned expert. The room held its collective breath as he studied the data displayed on the screen, his brow furrowing deeper with each passing second.

Then, a sound of surprise escaped his lips.

"Wait... No, it's impossible." His voice was barely above a whisper as he raised his head, his expression a mixture of confusion and disbelief. "Did you scan the wrong person?"

"My first reaction was the same," Ivan replied. "I wondered if the device was malfunctioning."

A slight smile tugged at the corner of Ivan's mouth as he continued, pleased that the professor was experiencing the same astonishment he had felt.

"But I can say with absolute certainty that I didn't make a mistake. The device was functioning perfectly. The video footage can confirm the accuracy of my actions, and you can easily verify the device's functionality yourself."

Professor Miyazaki, ever the meticulous scientist, didn't waste a moment. He inspected the device thoroughly, running a series of diagnostic checks with the efficiency of someone who had designed it. His frown deepened as he murmured to himself, "There's nothing wrong... but how? It shouldn't be, it can't be. No one can do this; no one should be able to..."

"What's the matter, Professor Miyazaki?" someone finally asked, unable to bear the suspense any longer.

Professor Miyazaki looked up, his eyes scanning the room with an expression that was almost haunted.

"That Batman... according to this device, he's just an ordinary guy."

A stunned silence fell over the meeting room.

"Wait," someone finally spoke up, their voice shaky with disbelief. "Are you saying he's not a specialist individual? He's not idiosyncratic?"

"That's exactly what the readings indicate," Professor Miyazaki confirmed, though his voice was tinged with the same confusion that everyone else was feeling. "He's an ordinary person, nothing more, nothing less."

Everyone in the meeting exchanged incredulous glances, their expressions as if they had just seen a ghost.

An ordinary person eliminated the source of infection under intense mental pressure—pressure so severe that even extraordinary individuals might not withstand it? The very idea was preposterous.

"Maybe he's an Absolute Extraordinary?" someone suggested hesitantly, referring to individuals who, despite appearing ordinary, theoretically should possess abilities or traits that defied all logic and understanding.

"No. I accounted for that scenario when designing the recognition device. This device can even identify Absolute Extraordinaries," Professor Miyazaki replied confidently. "That man is definitely an ordinary person, as real as it gets."

The room fell silent once more as everyone tried to process this impossible revelation.

"Is it reasonable for an ordinary person to withstand such an intense infection pressure and eliminate the source of infection?" one person asked after a while, their voice filled with incredulity.

"It's beyond unreasonable; it's impossible," Professor Miyazaki replied, his face etched with disbelief. The very foundation of his understanding of infection was being challenged.

"Then what do you think could explain this?" someone pressed, almost desperately.

"How should I know?" Professor Miyazaki retorted, his frustration evident as he rolled his eyes. "This defies all logic, all science!"

The room once again descended into contemplative silence.

The reason why idiosyncratic individuals are given that name is because they possess a special constitution, something in their very being that allows them to resist infection. How could a mortal, a regular human, withstand the erosion of such a potent infection?

As the entire room sat in contemplative silence, Ivan's lips curled into a faint smirk, as if he could barely contain his amusement.

Commander Ross noticed this and addressed Ivan directly. "Detective Petrov, what do you think?"

Ivan's smile broadened slightly as he met the commander's gaze. "Yes, I do have a theory. But I'm afraid you'll find it hard to believe."

"Try us," Commander Ross encouraged. "Everyone here is an authority in their field and has received professional training. No matter how ridiculous your theory might seem, we won't be easily surprised."

"Really?" Ivan's expression grew serious as he spoke, his tone thoughtful. "I believe that the reason he can fight the infection isn't due to any special ability or physique, but rather pure willpower."

"Willpower?" The experts in the room were taken aback. Willpower, as a concept, was familiar to them—important, even—but to suggest it could have such a tangible, measurable impact was beyond anything they'd considered.

"That's right," Ivan confirmed, his eyes scanning the room as he continued. "It's willpower, far beyond anything any of us here possess. It's a force that drives him, that gives him the strength to do what seems impossible."

The expressions around the room became animated, disbelief mingling with curiosity.

A mortal body relying on willpower to resist infection? And not just any infection—one of the most potent, devastating sources they'd ever encountered? It sounded like the stuff of legends, not science.

All eyes turned to Professor Miyazaki, the foremost expert in this field. Surely, if anyone could debunk this, it would be him. But even he wore an expression of incredulity, as though the very idea was laughable. Yet, beneath that disbelief, there was a flicker of something else—wonder, perhaps, or even fear.

"See? I knew you wouldn't take it seriously," Ivan shrugged, a knowing smile playing on his lips. "You may not understand because you haven't seen him in action. But let me tell you, I've always been very good at reading people, even when they're hidden behind a uniform and a mask."

"Oh?" Professor Miyazaki asked, his interest piqued. "And what kind of person do you think he is?"

Ivan took a deep breath, his demeanor shifting as he prepared to share his thoughts.

"A man with extreme calmness, someone who can walk into the storm without hesitation. He's a relentless avenger, driven by unshakable beliefs—beliefs so strong that they override the natural fear of death or pain. He's not just a madman; he's someone whose will has been tempered by unimaginable loss and pain."

He paused for a moment, letting the weight of his words settle over the room.

"In short, he's a hero."

---

[TL Note- Ivan's got it Wrong,

He's... Batman]

Chapter Text

When Charlie awoke from his slumber, his energy levels surged all at once; he felt invigorated, more so than when he usually woke up.

This wasn't the first time he noticed the peculiar effects of the game. It wasn't just about controlling the heroes of DC and Marvel; the game had also become a sort of fitness simulator, enhancing his body and physical strength in ways that defied normal expectations.

During his last visit to the Ninth division headquarters for a physical evaluation, Professor Miyazaki had been visibly disappointed. He hadn't found the extraordinary physical abilities he expected from Charlie, who, in turn, seemed unremarkable on the surface. But for Charlie, his displayed prowess was a significant breakthrough.

People have different physical conditions; some can stay awake and alert all night, while others struggle to keep their eyes open after a few hours. Charlie knew his limits well—he was the quintessential gamer, more at home in a virtual world than the real one. The only thing he excelled at, besides playing games, was consuming copious amounts of junk food. His lifestyle was more about sedentary habits than anything remotely active.

Given this, the results of the physical test were actually impressive. It was surprising that he had made such progress in such a short time, especially considering that he had only logged into the game a few times. The efficiency of this physical enhancement was nothing short of amazing.

Of course, Charlie knew that improvements would come quickly at first, given his low starting point. But he also understood that progress would eventually slow down. He wasn't sure if this game would allow him to surpass the limits of human endurance, potentially elevating him to the ranks of those rare individuals who could bend steel with their bare hands or crush boulders with their fists.

That, however, was a concern for another time.

In addition to the physical enhancements, Charlie had his eyes set on the new heroes and equipment available in the store. The new heroes he could unlock determined the strength of his roster. If he could draw someone like Superman or Hulk, it would be a game-changer.

He got up, headed to the bathroom to wash off the sweat from last night's exertions, and changed into fresh clothes. His stomach growled as he placed a quick takeout order. Despite being mentally recharged after a full night's sleep, he knew he couldn't push himself further on an empty stomach. Playing games was a high-intensity activity, and he wasn't about to risk his health by going out in his superhero persona without eating first.

Once his order was placed, Charlie sat back down in front of his computer and logged into the game.

After completing last night's mission, Batman had disappeared after exhausting his energy. Charlie had barely managed to keep his eyes open long enough to log out. He hadn't even checked his Hero Points before collapsing into bed.

Now, it was time to see what he had earned.

Last night had been intense. He had cleared out a villain's hideout, teamed up with Ivan to eliminate a dangerous infection source, and faced off against a giant tentacle monster in a battle that had him on the edge of his seat. In the end, with the memory of the Wayne couple driving him on, he managed to defeat the infection source, thus saving the world.

The rewards were far beyond what he usually got from taking down street-level criminals. When he logged back in, he saw that his Hero Points had accumulated to over 2,400 in one go, and he even received a C-level hero coupon, granting him eight single-draw opportunities in the store.

This was a significant haul, especially for someone who had been so poor during the novice period, barely scraping by with minimal rewards.

Without hesitation, Charlie headed to the bathroom to wash his hands, hoping to wash away any bad luck. Once back at his computer, he eagerly clicked on the store's C-level teleportation array and activated the first draw… only to be met with a message: "Thank you for participating."

But that was just the beginning. It took 50 points to draw from the teleportation array, and with over 2,400 points, Charlie could make forty-eight attempts. The first failed draw was just a warm-up, a small setback.

Charlie clicked again.

Draw card! "Thank you for participating."

Draw card! "Thank you for participating."

Draw card! "Thank you for participating."

After thirteen consecutive "Thank you for participating" messages, Charlie's face darkened. His hand trembled as he moved the cursor to the draw button for the fourteenth time. He needed a hero, or at the very least, some decent equipment. Anything to break the streak of bad luck.

Draw card!

Then, just as Charlie was beginning to lose hope, the screen burst into a flash of brilliance.

The new character that appeared had an impressive figure—one that might be considered exaggerated in the real world. She had a pair of long, well-toned legs and held twin sai, reminiscent of Raphael from the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Her name was Elektra, an anti-hero from Marvel and a longtime ally of Daredevil. A top-tier assassin, skilled in combat and stealth, she was at least a second-tier character in Marvel's vast roster.

But despite her impressive resume, Charlie couldn't help but feel underwhelmed. Her skillset was too similar to Batman's, who was already part of his roster. Elektra's arrival was more of a redundancy than a boon.

[TL note - can you readers verify that statement]

Still, there were plenty of points left to spend.

Charlie decided to go for another ten draws.

The results were mixed—two pieces of hero equipment, six more "Thank you for participating" messages, and two new characters.

The first new character was another woman with an enviable figure. She wore a jet-black catsuit that clung to her body, highlighting her curves in a way that seemed almost impossible. With silver hair and a mysterious air, she stood out immediately. Her name was Felicia, code-named Black Cat. An anti-hero, skilled in thievery and a member of the Defenders, she was also one of Spider-Man's more complex relationships.

Black Cat was essentially Marvel's version of Catwoman, and much like her DC counterpart, she was known for her complicated relationship with the protagonist. While her skills didn't overlap with Batman's as much as Elektra's did, she still wasn't the powerhouse Charlie was hoping for.

However, the second new character left Charlie utterly bewildered.

The character's name was Crowbar.

Charlie stared at the screen in confusion. He couldn't recall any hero or notable villain from Marvel or DC with that name. The image showed a tall, muscular black man with a shaved head, wearing a vest and bearing a skull emblem on his chest, similar to the Punisher. The man held, unsurprisingly, a crowbar.

Charlie opened the character's profile, hoping for some clarification. According to the introduction, Crowbar was a minor villain from DC Comics. He had started as an ordinary gang leader, earning his nickname because he preferred to fight with a crowbar.

One day, Crowbar was recruited by a supervillain to join a larger criminal organization. When asked about his skills, he had nervously replied that he was good with a crowbar. The supervillain, perhaps unable to think of anything more fitting, had given him a high-tech weapon—a crowbar that emitted energy waves.

Charlie couldn't believe it. The story behind Crowbar's name was both absurd and pathetic. The guy seemed like nothing more than cannon fodder, the type of villain Batman would easily dispatch on a nightly patrol.

But as Charlie read further, he discovered that Crowbar had once been a member of the Suicide Squad, a group of anti-heroes who worked for the government. Despite his humble origins, Crowbar had earned a place among the other anti-heroes, albeit as a low-ranking member.

Charlie sighed. He was beginning to understand how the game's random draw system worked. Just like the cafeteria lady who heaps a bowl full of vegetables with only a few scraps of meat, the game developers had stuffed the character pool with countless third-rate, fifth-rate, and even eighteenth-rate heroes, making it nearly impossible to get the truly powerful ones.

But Charlie wasn't ready to give up. He still had plenty of points left, and he was determined to make the most of them.

With renewed focus, Charlie prepared for the next round of draws. He was ready to keep trying until he finally pulled a hero worthy of holding down the fort.

Chapter Text

Charlie vaguely remembered reading the Captain America Civil War comics from Marvel. In that story arc, when the Superhero Registration Act was enforced to collect all superhero information, it was revealed that over 3,000 registered superheroes were active in New York alone. This didn't even take into account the countless other Marvel superheroes scattered across the globe or the growing numbers of Inhumans and mutant heroes.

[TL Note - I don't wanna change the number just in case it is actually true, but... something's fishy]

And that was just Marvel's world.

When you factor in the sheer number of heroes from the DC universe next door, the numbers become mind-boggling. From iconic characters to obscure and little-known ones, the hero pool is vast and deep, filled with both legendary figures and those who have faded into obscurity.

As Charlie considered this, the excitement he had felt about his recent draws began to dissipate. It was like being forced to wade through an entire encyclopedia when he had been eager for a thrilling adventure.

He had just drained all his remaining Hero Points in one go, hoping for something exceptional. Instead, two heroes appeared on his screen—both utterly useless in the grand scheme of things. To add to his frustration, he received a piece of equipment during the process: Hawkeye's wrist guard. It seemed like a nice piece of gear, but without the right hero to wield it, it was practically useless.

The moment his points hit zero, Charlie, who had felt so rich just moments ago, was now back at square one. He had thrown over 2,400 points into the system, and all he had to show for it was a vague sense of regret and the haunting memory of countless card games that had left him feeling just as empty.

But Charlie wasn't the type to give up so easily. After all, yesterday's mission had not only earned him points but also rewarded him with a Hero Point coupon. This coupon could be exchanged for eight single-draw opportunities—a last chance to change his luck.

A great man once said that a hero can't run away from their destiny.

Another wise man declared that it's pointless to hold onto something when it should be used.

"I must draw the card immediately!" Charlie thought, his heart pounding with anticipation as he prepared for his final draw.

When the penultimate draw was made, a burst of radiant light filled the screen. Slowly, a solid blue figure emerged from the light, standing tall and proud in the center of the screen. The character was dressed in a tight blue uniform, with a white letter "A" emblazoned on the forehead of his helmet. On either side of the helmet were small, white wings.

It was none other than Captain America—Marvel's iconic Avenger.

Captain America. The name alone carried weight, evoking images of heroism, sacrifice, and leadership. But to Charlie, what mattered more than the name was the character's abilities and how they would perform in the game.

The heroes he had drawn before were no match for the likes of Batman; they were outclassed in almost every way. But Captain America was different. While Cap might lack Batman's vast wealth and advanced technological gadgets, he more than made up for it with his physical prowess.

Batman was, after all, just a mortal—a man at the peak of human conditioning, but still human. Captain America, on the other hand, was a super-soldier.

As the embodiment of the super-soldier concept in American comics, Captain America possessed physical abilities that far surpassed the limits of ordinary humans. The exact extent of his powers had always been a topic of debate among comic book fans.

The super-soldier serum that gave Captain America his abilities was shrouded in mystery and idealism. It was said that the serum responded to the heart and will of the injector, enhancing good qualities in good people and worsening traits in those who were bad. It reflected the inner strength and character of the individual in their physical form.

This abstract nature of the serum led to some wildly varying depictions of Cap's abilities. Officially, he was said to be able to bench press 1,200 pounds—a staggering 545 kilograms.

But comic book logic is notoriously flexible. For the writers of American comics, consistency isn't always a priority.

So, while one story might show Captain America struggling against a formidable foe like Crossbones, another might depict him stopping a helicopter with his bare hands. In yet another tale, he might be seen going toe-to-toe with Thanos, one of the most powerful beings in the Marvel Universe.

In the world of comics, there's a joke about Kakashi from Naruto's Konoha Village being called the "50-50 guy," meaning that no matter how strong or weak his opponent, Kakashi always seems to fight them on even terms. Captain America had a similar reputation—his strength seemed to adjust to match that of his opponent.

Charlie couldn't help but wonder if this idealistic, passive ability could apply to the game characters as well.

In the past, he might have dismissed such metaphysical notions as pure fantasy. But after last night's intense battle, he wasn't so sure anymore. When he controlled Batman during the fight, he had witnessed the character's incredible willpower as Batman resisted the infection. There was even a poignant moment when Batman experienced a flashback to the night his parents were murdered.

This led Charlie to a startling realization: the characters he controlled in the game had more than just their abilities—they had a piece of their original spirit as well.

While it was clear that these game characters lacked true consciousness, they were far from mindless puppets. They followed Charlie's commands without question, whether it was logging out on command or charging into battle without hesitation—even if it meant certain death.

Yet, they weren't completely devoid of individuality either. Batman's reaction to the infection, the display of his superhuman willpower, suggested that there was something more at play.

Charlie began to think that the truth lay somewhere in between.

The heroes in the game were indeed just virtual characters, but they were imbued with more than just their powers and equipment. They carried with them their background, their spirit, and the core elements that made them who they were in their respective universes. For example, Batman's strict no-kill policy, his unresolved grief over his parents' deaths, and his extraordinary willpower were all integral parts of his character. These elements were perfectly preserved in the game.

It was almost as if the game characters were projections of the original superheroes from another world. They had all the characteristics of their real-world counterparts—from their abilities to their personalities—but they remained under the control of the player.

Players like Charlie drew characters from the card pool, gaining the ability to control these heroes in various missions. However, the players didn't embody these characters; they were more like commanders, directing the heroes from behind the scenes.

If Captain America could bring his 50-50 passive ability into the game, that would be a significant advantage. But even without it, his basic physical capabilities were top-notch. Combined with his world-class combat skills—skills that made him one of the best fighters in the Marvel universe—he was more than equipped to handle the infected foes Charlie would face.

Another defining feature of Captain America was, of course, his iconic vibranium shield.

This shield was a marvel of advanced technology, exclusive to the Marvel universe. While it might look like a simple star-spangled shield, it was anything but. The shield was nearly indestructible and had the unique ability to absorb kinetic energy. Cap had used this shield to block grenades, RPGs, and all manner of attacks, emerging unscathed from situations that would have obliterated anyone else.

Though in Avengers: Endgame, Thanos shattered the shield with a few powerful strikes, this did little to diminish the artifact's legendary status.

Drawing Captain America made Charlie feel more balanced. This was the first serious supercharacter he had managed to pull from the card pool, and it was a significant victory.

There were still two chances left to draw cards.

Now feeling more at ease, Charlie's mindset had shifted. The remaining two draws were taken with a sense of calm resignation; he didn't expect much from them anymore.

The next draw resulted in a simple "Thank you for participating" message, a typical result for most players.

But the final draw brought a surprising flash of light, revealing a large object in the center of the screen.

Charlie stared in disbelief.

Was that... the Bat-Signal?

---

[Lowkey though, Kakashi Vs Captain america who do you think will win

Vote here for Kakashi

Vote here for Captain America

Chapter Text

Well, according to the poll yesterday, bonus chapters will now be posted on Saturday.

According to the second poll, you guys think Kakashi will win since he has the Mangekyō Sharingan.

A bit unfortunate, but...

Tsunade Senju V.S. Spiderman

Who will win? I vote for the Webhead.

---

Within two days of the incident ending, Riverton City was abuzz with rumors and whispers. It was as if the city had erupted into a frenzy of speculation and fear.

A creature of immense size had rampaged through the streets, a nightmarish monster that defied all logic. Anyone who was nearby couldn't help but see it, their eyes widening in disbelief at the impossible sight before them. The authorities, despite their best efforts, couldn't contain the news. They worked tirelessly, but it was impossible to silence the thousands of voices that were now spreading the story like wildfire.

By the second day, it seemed that the authorities had simply given up trying to control the narrative. Posts on social media, forums, and chat groups were no longer being deleted or blocked. It was as if a dam had burst, and the flood of information was unstoppable. The internet, free from its usual restraints, became a hotbed of activity. Descriptions of the night before were everywhere, each more dramatic than the last. Everyone seemed to know someone who had been there, and the stories grew more vivid and terrifying with each retelling.

Rumors, like a devil's carving knife, carved deep into the consciousness of the city's residents. Each person who passed on the tale added their own embellishments, shaping it into something even more monstrous and unsettling.

Though the authorities appeared to have let things go, the news circulating online was still mostly text. There were no videos, no photographs—just words. And words, as they spread, took on a life of their own. People crafted elaborate tales, their imaginations filling in the gaps where evidence was lacking. It became a contest of sorts, to see who could make their version of the events the most compelling, the most believable.

But amidst all the fear and chaos, the focus naturally shifted to something else—someone else. The mysterious figure who had stopped the creature, who had prevented the disaster from spreading further.

No one knew who first released the news, but soon, everyone was talking about it. A mysterious, masked knight, dressed in dark, imposing armor, had appeared out of nowhere. This enigmatic figure had eliminated the monster and saved the city.

There was no video footage, no clear image of him, only vague descriptions that circulated online. The most common description said he looked like a bat—dark, with wings that seemed to blend into the night. Beyond that, no one knew anything about him. He was a ghost, a shadow that had stepped into the light just long enough to end the nightmare before disappearing again.

But that didn't stop people from talking. A flood of "witnesses" appeared, each claiming to have seen the mysterious hero with their own eyes.

"He can fly!" one person claimed, their voice trembling with excitement. "I saw him with my own eyes! He was up there, fighting that monster in the sky!"

"I saw it too!" another voice chimed in, filled with conviction. "He flew right past my window! And he must have superpowers—I saw him punch that creature so hard it flew back and crashed into a building!"

"He's more than just strong," a third voice insisted. "He's a mage! I swear I saw him breathe fire, freeze things with a wave of his hand, and summon storms. I'll bet you anything he's got magical powers…"

As the stories spread and gained more attention, someone began to connect the dots, pulling up reports from the past two nights that had previously gone unnoticed.

For example, there was a report of a woman being attacked while walking home. A mysterious knight had appeared out of nowhere, breaking the attacker's legs before vanishing into the night.

Or another report, where a street brawl had suddenly been interrupted. The streetlights had gone out, plunging the area into darkness. When the lights came back on, the brawlers were lying on the ground, defeated, while the mysterious figure was nowhere to be seen.

At the time, the criminals involved had ranted about vampire bats and demons, but no one had paid attention. Now, as people revisited the reports, they realized that the same mysterious hero was involved in all these incidents.

Online, someone pieced together all the information and compiled a list of the mysterious knight's abilities: he could fly, turn invisible, had the strength to overturn a car with one hand, and seemed to possess magical powers…

As night fell the next day, the authorities finally broke their silence.

A unit called Ninth Special Service Division, which no one had ever heard of, stepped forward and held a press conference. The spokesperson, dressed in a crisp suit, stood before the cameras with a solemn expression. For the first time, the public was informed about the existence of infected individuals—people who had somehow been altered, given abilities or driven mad by forces unknown. The spokesperson revealed that the official website of the Ninth Special Service Division would be launched that very night, allowing everyone to access more details about the infected.

This announcement sent shockwaves through society.

Though there had been rumors of strange events before, and conspiracy theorists had long claimed that the government was hiding the truth, no one had taken it seriously. It was easy to dismiss such claims as the ravings of the paranoid or the imaginative.

But now, the truth was undeniable. The world had changed, and fear spread through every home, every office, every street.

That night, the realization began to sink in. The world they had known was gone, replaced by something darker, something more dangerous. From now on, they would have to live in a world where caution was paramount. They would have to adapt to a new reality where anyone around them could be infected, where the shadows themselves might hide unspeakable horrors. They would have to constantly check themselves, to make sure they weren't losing their grip on reality.

Crime rates soared that night. Whether driven by panic about the future or by a twisted sense of opportunity, people began to act out. The infection became an excuse for all manner of crimes, and the city plunged into chaos.

That night, Ivan was getting ready to leave at the Riverton City office of the Ninth Special Service Division.

He stuffed his crumpled uniform into a locker, the fabric wrinkled and stained from the day's events. He changed into casual clothes, zipping up his backpack and slinging it over his back with a weary sigh.

"Ready to go?" Melanie's voice broke the silence. She was leaning against the door, her arms crossed as she watched him.

Ivan didn't bother to look back. "It's just a few days off work," he replied, his tone indifferent. "It's not the first time."

It was strictly forbidden to shoot at ordinary people who weren't infected without explicit permission. Although he may have killed those who deserved it, many of his targets had been ordinary citizens, uninfected but caught in the wrong place at the wrong time.

In truth, the suspension was more of a formality—a way to appease those higher up, who still acknowledged his significant achievements during the recent crisis.

"Maybe that guy was right," Ivan said suddenly, his voice thoughtful.

"Who?" Melanie asked, her brow furrowing.

"That madman who was laughing like a maniac," Ivan explained, sitting down and lighting a cigarette. "He said that what people are really afraid of is 'nothingness'—the unknown, the uncertain.

These fears have always been there, buried deep within everyone's heart. But the infection, the chaos, it's all brought those fears to the surface. Fear drives people to change, to reveal their true nature. The world is starting to show its true face."

"Is this more of your pessimist talk?" Melanie teased, though her smile was strained.

"It's not pessimism; it's realism. Believe me, the demons created by humans will surprise you. I've seen it all before, back when I was with the FBI."

Ivan took a deep drag from his cigarette, the smoke curling around him as he pondered his next words.

"A new era is beginning, and the extraordinary will be the catalyst," he said quietly. "People's fear of the unknown will grow like never before. Anxiety will lead them into deeper darkness.

So if you ask me, we're heading into a dark age, where the bottom line will be cheaper than ever. The days when people could sleep peacefully are over. Now, they'll need to be wary of every shadow, every dark corner. They'll have to constantly check themselves, to make sure they're still sane."

"So you definitely won't like this era," Melanie said, her tone half-joking, half-serious.

"Won't like it? Are you kidding me?"

Ivan laughed, the sound low and almost dangerous. "I love this era," he said, a slight smile curling his lips as he stubbed out his cigarette. "It means I'll have an endless supply of scum to take down.

I'll hunt them down, crush them until there's no one left. Or until I'm the last one standing.

Either way, I'm going to enjoy the process... even if I'm doing it alone."

Melanie's expression tightened for a moment, but then she burst out laughing, the tension breaking.

"Haha! Sorry, it's just the way you said that so seriously... it's a bit funny." She waved her hand dismissively. "But you're exaggerating..."

She was about to say more when a rush of footsteps echoed down the corridor, interrupting her. Both Melanie and Ivan turned toward the sound only to see Tara appear at the door, out of breath and wide-eyed.

"Did you see that?" she asked urgently, her voice breathless.

"See what?" Ivan and Melanie exchanged puzzled glances.

"Quick, look out the window."

Tara hurried across the room to the window, pulling back the curtain with a sharp clatter.

Both

Melanie and Ivan followed her, peering out into the night.

And then they froze.

The night sky stretched out before them, dark and endless. There was no moon, no stars, only the inky blackness of a cloud-covered sky.

But in the midst of that darkness, something was glowing.

A single light source, bright and golden, pierced through the thick clouds. It cast a circular field of light in the sky, illuminating the night with a warm, otherworldly glow. At the center of this light was a symbol—a bat-shaped figure, stark and unmistakable.

There was no visible beam of light leading up to it, no searchlight or projector. It was as if the symbol had simply appeared in the sky, hanging there like a full moon.

It was a beacon, a lone light in the darkness. Or perhaps it was a watchman standing vigil over the city.

It was a signal.

A signal so clear, so powerful, that anyone who saw it would understand its meaning immediately.

A new era was coming, and the world would undergo profound changes. But with the advent of this era, there wouldn't necessarily be only darkness.

When people walked at night, when they saw shadows and darkness creeping at the edges of their vision, they didn't need to be afraid.

Because in the darkness, there wasn't only evil.

There were also watchmen standing guard, always vigilant.

Chapter Text

The headquarters of the Ninth Special Service Division, an immense aircraft carrier, floated 8,000 meters above the earth, a leviathan in the sky. It was a fortress in the clouds, a moving citadel that defied both gravity and the conventional understanding of military bases. The carrier's massive structure bristled with advanced weaponry, radar systems, and the latest in defensive technologies, making it one of the most secure locations on the planet. Yet, despite its impressive stature and state-of-the-art design, Charlie couldn't help but refer to it privately as a "flying grave."

Charlie had always been wary of the carrier, finding the idea of living so far above the ground unsettling. The thought of this enormous vessel hanging in the sky, supported by nothing but the invisible forces of engineering, made his skin crawl. He had tried to avoid being aboard the carrier whenever possible, preferring the relative security of solid ground. However, his superiors and the Ninth Division clearly didn't share his concerns.

The aircraft carrier was more than just a military platform; it was a self-contained world. Thousands of personnel lived aboard the carrier year-round, rarely touching the ground below. Among them was Ross, the Ninth Special Service Division commander, who had made the carrier his permanent residence. Ross and the senior staff had everything they needed onboard—cafeterias serving hot meals, recreation areas with state-of-the-art entertainment systems, workstations equipped with cutting-edge technology, and sleeping quarters designed for comfort during long deployments.

For those onboard, the carrier was home, and no one ever questioned its safety. The vessel's altitude alone, several thousand meters above the earth at its lowest cruising point, provided a formidable defense. On top of that, its position was never static; the carrier constantly moved, following a carefully randomized flight path that made tracking it nearly impossible. Any potential threats would find themselves chasing shadows in the sky.

Dr. Hines, the lead engineer behind the carrier's design, had confidently reassured Ross on the day of its maiden flight. "Ross, you can rest easy," he had said with a grin. "I've accounted for every possible safety loophole. Suppose anyone ever manages to breach this fortress while it's in the air. In that case, I'll personally lead the charge to capture the intruder."

Ross, now seated in his spacious office with the best view on the carrier, stared out at the endless sea of clouds. The sun hung high in the sky, casting a warm, golden glow across the cloudscape, making it look like a vast, snow-white blanket stretching to the horizon. Despite the serene view, Ross's mind was anything but calm. Across the room, Professor Miyazaki was using the projection screen to explain a series of complex theories that seemed to have no end.

The professor's voice droned on, a monotonous hum filled with scientific jargon and speculative conclusions. Ross, who had heard this kind of talk many times before, struggled to follow the professor's train of thought. His mind wandered, seeking an opportunity to steer the conversation toward something more concrete. Finally, sensing an opening, Ross interrupted, his voice cutting through the professor's explanations like a knife through butter.

"So, you're still telling me that this 'Batman,' according to your analysis, is just an ordinary person?"

The name Batman had become a sensation online, circulating through forums and social media like wildfire. According to rumors, when the mysterious figure in the bat-suit had taken down a group of gangsters, he had declared, "I am the night, I am vengeance, I am Batman." The name stuck, spreading across the internet like a viral meme.

"Yes," Professor Miyazaki nodded, his expression serious. "I'm now 100% certain of it."

"But you said it's impossible for ordinary humans to resist that level of infection," Ross pointed out, recalling the professor's earlier statements.

Professor Miyazaki's eyes lit up with excitement as he leaned forward, his hands gesturing animatedly. "Exactly! That's the mystery. I've proposed several theories to explain it. It's possible that his armor employs advanced defensive mechanisms that we've only theorized about—technology that shouldn't even exist yet…"

"Okay, enough," Ross said, cutting the professor off before he could launch into another lengthy exposition.

"Everything you've said is hypothetical. It's meaningless without evidence."

"Yes, but if we can find Batman, all of these hypotheses can be tested," Professor Miyazaki responded eagerly. "Think about it—he has an advanced suit, sophisticated gadgets, not to mention that incredible plane. There aren't many people in the world with the financial resources to create something like that. Even fewer have the ability to acquire it without leaving a trace. If we narrow down the list, it should be easy to determine who he is…"

"Yes, in theory, it should be easy," Ross agreed, his tone flat. "But we've already tried that, and it got us nowhere."

Professor Miyazaki froze, confusion and disbelief spreading across his face.

"Impossible. What about the Bat-signal? Did we find out where it came from?"

"We couldn't," Ross said with a sigh. "The Bat-signal appeared in the sky without any traceable source. We used every method at our disposal, but we couldn't pinpoint its origin."

"What about his weaponry? There are only a handful of people and organizations in the world capable of developing such technology. We could have contacted each one…"

"We've already done that," Ross said, his patience wearing thin. "None of them know anything about Batman. Our agents confirmed that they're telling the truth."

"But… but…" Professor Miyazaki stammered, his mind racing to process the information. "That's impossible. A person with that kind of equipment, that level of skill, it's inconceivable that they could just appear out of nowhere…"

His voice trailed off, his thoughts spiraling into the absurdity of the situation.

"Yeah, it's impossible," Ross said, turning his chair to face the window once more.

From his vantage point, he could see the endless expanse of clouds, the sun shining down from a crystal-clear sky. It was a view that few ever saw, a reminder of the carrier's lofty position far above the chaos of the world below.

After a moment of contemplation, Ross spoke again, his voice quiet but firm. "We held a meeting about this earlier. After considering all the possibilities, we came to a conclusion: Batman can't be just one person."

"What do you mean?" Professor Miyazaki asked, his brow furrowed in confusion.

"I mean, although he appears to be acting alone, there might be an organization backing him—an extremely large, well-resourced organization that we know nothing about," Ross said.

The idea seemed preposterous at first, but as Ross explained, it made a disturbing kind of sense. In the past, they had dismissed the existence of such organizations as mere fantasy. Mysterious, hidden groups were the stuff of movies and novels, not the real world. But after ruling out all other possibilities, they were left with a single, unsettling truth.

"There's also the footage of Batman," Ross continued. "Have you seen the videos that have been circulating online?"

"I've seen some of them," Professor Miyazaki admitted.

"We've compiled every video of Batman's actions that we could find—footage from citizens' mobile phones, road surveillance, security cameras. But there's hardly any clear footage of him in action. It's like he's a ghost. He moves too fast for the cameras to catch. Sometimes the surveillance in the area goes dark before he even arrives. Other times, he uses flashbangs or smoke bombs to obscure the view. He's quick, precise, and methodical. His style is unmatched—even our best agents can't compare."

Ross leaned forward, his voice lowering to a near-whisper as he added, "And from Ivan's perspective, after the source of infection was destroyed and the mental storm cleared, Batman vanished. Our experts analyzed that video for days, but no one could figure out how he escaped. It's as if he evaporated into thin air."

Ross's gaze sharpened as he locked eyes with Professor Miyazaki.

"But the scariest part," Ross said, his voice cold and measured, "is the conclusion you just presented to me… he's just an ordinary guy."

Professor Miyazaki fell silent, his mind racing to grasp the implications of what Ross had just said. The sheer impossibility of the situation made it all the more terrifying. If Batman was just an ordinary person, what kind of organization could produce someone like him?

"The question now is," Ross continued after a pause, "are there more like him in that organization? Or worse… is he just an average member?"

A shiver ran down Professor Miyazaki's spine as the full weight of Ross's words sank in. The idea that Batman might be just one of many, a soldier in a much larger and more powerful force, was almost too much to comprehend.

Ross shook his head, deciding to change the subject. The implications of Batman's existence were troubling enough without delving deeper into the unknown.

"Let's leave Batman aside for now. What about the source of the infection?" Ross asked, his tone shifting back to a more businesslike demeanor.

Professor Miyazaki blinked, snapping back to the present as he refocused on the task at hand. "Ah, yes. The source of infection. According to the information gathered by Ivan, the infected individual was a man named Greg."

As he spoke, Professor Miyazaki tapped a few buttons on his tablet, and Greg's photo, along with his personal information, appeared on the projection screen in the office.

"According to Ivan's report and the footage from his personal equipment, Greg was indeed the source of infection at the scene, and Batman was the one who eliminated him."

Ross studied the image of Greg on the screen, a middle-aged man with a gaunt face and hollow eyes. "I know this," Ross said, still gazing at the screen. "Is there a problem?"

"There is," Professor Miyazaki said, his expression shifting to one of discomfort.

"I received a report from our investigators just before this meeting. It turns out that Greg… died over a month ago. His body was found decomposing in his apartment, killed by his landlord."

Ross's eyes widened in shock.

"If he's been dead for a month, then who was the source of infection two days ago?"

"That's the question we're trying to answer," Professor Miyazaki replied, his voice tinged with unease. "And right now, we don't have any answers."

---

[TL Note - Low-key this chapter gave me chills]

Chapter Text

Ten days ago, the Regulance Mountains.

The night crept in slowly, swallowing the last remnants of daylight as the temperature plummeted sharply. The cold was cruel, seeping into every crevice as if determined to outdo the warmth of the daylight hours. As the sun disappeared behind the jagged peaks, leaving the vast mountain range shrouded in darkness, the silence was so profound that it felt like one could almost hear the deep, resonant cracking of ice beneath the earth's crust.

The sky, devoid of moonlight, seemed an infinite void, with only the faint reflection of starlight glinting off the snow-covered slopes. The wind howled through the mountain passes, a piercing sound that cut through the air like a knife. It carried with it swirling snowflakes, delicate as feathers, which danced chaotically across the sky before settling into the growing drifts. The storm seemed to blur the line between earth and sky, creating an eerie, monochromatic landscape where the layers of snow-white mountains melded into one indistinct mass.

In the heart of this desolate wilderness, the snow-capped peaks loomed like silent sentinels, their beauty both mesmerizing and menacing. The blizzard transformed the landscape into a deadly but breathtaking panorama, where the unrelenting forces of nature ruled supreme. Any sign of life—a fleeting movement, a struggling form—was swallowed by the storm, reduced to a mere speck in the vast, unforgiving wilderness.

A lone black off-road vehicle was precariously parked halfway up one of the mountains, its sturdy frame now partially buried under several feet of snow. The vehicle, once a reliable companion on this treacherous journey, had become an icy tomb. A young man, bundled in a thick fleece-lined jacket, clung to the hope that he could still coax life back into the dead engine. His flashlight flickered as he strained to keep his hands steady in the biting cold, his fingers clumsy and numb as he worked beneath the raised hood.

Three hours had passed since the car's air conditioner had sputtered and died, leaving the occupants to the mercy of the relentless cold. Despite his best efforts, the engine remained silent. Frustration bubbled to the surface, and in a moment of helpless anger, he kicked the front tire with all his might, only to stumble back, nearly losing his balance on the slick, icy ground.

With a sigh of defeat, he climbed back into the driver's seat, slamming the door shut against the icy wind.

"Still can't start it?" The question came from the girl beside him, her voice barely a whisper. She sat huddled in the passenger seat, her head resting weakly against the frosted window. Her once-vibrant face was now pallid, lips tinged blue, and her eyes, though still bright, were dulled by the cold that gnawed at her very core. In the dim light, she looked like a ghost—fragile, ethereal, and fading.

The young man forced a smile though his heart was heavy with fear. He tried to keep his voice light, to inject some semblance of hope into the bleak situation. "It's okay, the rescue team will be here soon," he assured her, though the words felt hollow.

Her gaze drifted back to the snowstorm outside, the howling wind muffling everything else. The world beyond the window was nothing but a blur of white, an endless expanse of swirling snow and shadows. It was as if the mountains themselves were closing in, ready to swallow them whole.

Her eyelids grew heavier with each passing moment, a leaden weight pulling her into darkness. The cold had seeped into her bones, dulling her senses, and now it was as if she were sinking into a deep, icy ocean, her consciousness slipping further and further away. Even the sound of her boyfriend's voice, so close yet so distant, seemed to fade into the background.

"I'm just... a little tired," she mumbled, her words slurred, "Just need a little sleep..."

"No, no, you can't sleep now!" Panic laced his voice as he grabbed her shoulders, shaking her as if that would keep her from slipping away. "Stay with me! The rescue team is almost here, just hang on a little longer!"

His hands were trembling, not just from the cold but from the sheer terror of losing her. He could feel the life draining from her, slipping through his fingers like grains of sand. His voice grew more desperate, but it seemed to fall on deaf ears. Her eyelids fluttered, the light in her eyes dimming as she drifted towards unconsciousness.

Just then, a bright light cut through the darkness, piercing the snow-filled sky like a beacon of hope. It was a searchlight, strong and unwavering, its beam slicing through the storm as if to guide them out of the abyss. Snowflakes danced wildly in its path, sparkling like diamonds in the golden light.

"They're coming!" he cried out, his voice breaking with relief. "Did you hear that? They're coming! You did it! We're going to be okay! We're saved!"

But as he turned back to her, the realization hit him like a punch to the gut. Her eyes were closed, her breathing shallow and labored. He called her name, his voice cracking, but there was no response.

In her final moments, she heard his voice, distant and fading, along with the hum of the rescue helicopter. She felt herself being lifted, weightless and free, her spirit rising above the storm.

Are they saved?

Good...

A small, peaceful smile graced her lips as she closed her eyes, surrendering to the warmth of eternal sleep.

---

Ten days later, now.

A burst of flame shot from the muzzle of a gun, and a claw darted out, gripping the edge of a towering building. The line, made of advanced, high-tensile fibers, retracted swiftly, pulling Batman through the air in a blur of motion. His figure, cloaked in shadow, cut a dark streak against the night sky as he flew toward the point where the claw had latched on.

As he neared the edge of the building, Batman released the line and performed an acrobatic leap, propelling himself higher. His cape, a marvel of technology, stiffened instantly, transforming into a glider that allowed him to soar through the air with the grace of a bat. The dark fabric shimmered as it caught the wind, making him appear as a living shadow, flitting silently through the city.

The cape, crafted from memory fabric produced by Wayne Industries, was typically soft and flexible, but with a jolt of electricity, it became rigid, forming the perfect glider. It was one of the many gadgets at Batman's disposal—tools designed to give him an edge in his nightly patrols, where the line between man and myth blurred.

For Charlie, donning the mantle of Batman had become a nightly ritual, a way to channel his energy into something productive. Each night, he would log in, scan the city, and seek out troublemakers to hone his skills. It was a routine that brought him a strange sense of purpose, as if by stepping into the Dark Knight's shoes, he could make a difference in the virtual world.

Sometimes, for a bit of fun, he would activate the bat signal—a prop he had unlocked from a prize pool. It was a searchlight that could be triggered to shine in any part of the city for three minutes. The circular beam would appear in the sky, an untraceable symbol of Batman's presence. It served no real purpose other than to strike fear into the hearts of criminals, a reminder that the city was under his watchful eye.

But if he had his way, Charlie would have preferred to stay home during the day, skipping classes and indulging in his games. After all, earning points and experience was crucial to leveling up and unlocking new abilities. Yet, despite his desire to grind through levels, his body often betrayed him, reminding him that he was only human. Fatigue would set in, forcing him to rest and recharge for the next night's patrol.

Charlie had quickly realized that, while the game was exhilarating, it was also demanding. If he pushed himself too hard, staying up all night, he would be drained the next day, barely able to function. So, out of necessity, he began to pace himself, limiting his sessions to the cover of night when the city was most alive with opportunities for experience.

Among the heroes he had unlocked, Batman remained his favorite. The others, though powerful in their own right, couldn't match the efficiency and stealth of the Dark Knight. Some were too flashy, drawing unwanted attention, while others, though physically stronger, required more energy and left him exhausted after just a few hours.

Captain America, for instance, was formidable, with enhanced physical abilities and a near-indestructible shield. But Charlie found that even with the added strength, the effort required to wield it effectively was draining. After just half a night as Captain America, he was left more fatigued than if he had been patrolling as Batman.

For sheer energy efficiency, Charlie discovered that the crowbar-wielding character was the best option. With the crowbar in hand, he could patrol all night and still have enough stamina to make it through the next day. The character wasn't as glamorous as the others, but it got the job done.

One night, while patrolling with Crowbar, Charlie stumbled upon a group of street thugs. The leader, a burly man with a plasma iron mohawk, was leading his gang in looting a shop, hauling out a TV and other stolen goods.

To an outsider, it might have looked like a typical Gotham scene, with criminals taking advantage of the chaos; anyone else would ignore the situation and try to stay away from the area. However, armed with his crowbar, Charlie wasn't about to let them escape.

He blocked their path, the crowbar resting on his shoulder.

The leader, mistaking Charlie for another thug, grinned and said, "You're late, man. We've already cleared this place out. Maybe try the shop across the street?"

It was a reasonable assumption, given Charlie's appearance. The crowbar, his muscular build, and the skull emblem on his chest all screamed "bad guy."

But Charlie had no intention of letting them off easy. He activated the crowbar's special ability, revealing its true nature—a weapon capable of shooting laser beams.

The leader's grin faltered, but he wasn't intimidated. "Oh, a fancy toy, huh? Let's see what you've got." He signaled his men, and they brandished their own weapons, each more menacing than the last.

For a moment, it seemed like the situation might escalate into a full-blown brawl. But when the crowbar fired its first laser, cutting through the air with a searing hiss, the thugs' bravado vanished. The beam tore through their ranks, scattering them like leaves in a storm. Some were blown off their feet, while others barely managed to scramble away.

In the aftermath, Charlie looked at the crowbar with a mix of satisfaction and disappointment. It was a powerful tool, but it lacked the finesse and versatility of Batman's gadgets. After that night, he decided to retire the crowbar from active duty, sticking to what he knew best.

As he soared through the night sky, the familiar hum of the city below reached his ears. It was a symphony of sounds—the distant roar of traffic, the murmur of voices, and the occasional wail of a siren. This was his domain, a playground where he could test his limits and keep the streets safe, even if only in a virtual sense.

Suddenly, a small exclamation mark appeared on his HUD, drawing his attention. It was a signal, a sign that something unusual had been detected nearby. Charlie's instincts kicked in, and he opened the map to investigate.

The marker led him to a bank—a classic scene for a robbery.

A grin spread across his face. Finally, a real challenge. The classic bank heist scenario, where he could put his skills to the test and earn some serious experience.

With a quick tap, he plotted his course, ready to swoop in and take down the criminals. It was time to show them what Batman could do.

Chapter Text

Bank robbery is probably the most common form of crime in the comic book world, but it's rarely just that simple. It seems that every superhero encounters a group of brazen bank robbers at some point during their early days, almost as if they're there to help the hero level up.

If criminals were like wild monsters in a video game, bank robbers would have the highest spawn rate, showing up in every city again and again, as if on cue.

To be honest, Charlie always found the mindset of these criminals baffling. Why would they rob banks in cities protected by gods and superheroes?

Some say that people in the comic book world live under constant threat. Every week, whether from local villains or alien invaders, there's always some maniac trying to cause chaos. You might come back from a business trip only to discover that your entire neighborhood has been wiped off the map.

But in situations like that, you can't curse your bad luck. In fact, you might even thank your lucky stars because if you hadn't been out of town, you might not have survived either.

That said, if you're going to be a criminal, why choose the most obvious, dangerous path like robbing a bank? It seems even more desperate.

Sure, supervillains attack intermittently. There are always a few days each month when disaster strikes, like clockwork, but at least it doesn't happen every day. There are still enough peaceful days in a month to live somewhat normally.

But bank robbers have a different fate. Supervillains might take breaks, but obsessive superheroes never do. They work 24/7, always vigilant, always ready to pounce. Every day you choose to rob a bank, you risk encountering one of these tireless guardians.

If you try your luck in Gotham, you might have a slim chance of success—after all, no matter how skilled Batman is, even he can't be everywhere at once. But those who rob banks in Metropolis? They must either be hopelessly foolish or simply desperate for a meal in prison.

Charlie couldn't understand why anyone would be foolish enough to attempt robbing a bank in Superman's territory. And it's even worse in Marvel's New York, where it seems like every superhero in existence has made the city their home base. It's a miracle that any ordinary criminal in New York manages to survive in such harsh conditions.

This particular night marked the first time Charlie encountered a real bank robbery during his nightly patrols, and it was an eye-opening experience for him.

When Batman landed at a nearby observation point, he immediately assessed the situation. A van had rammed through the front entrance of the bank, its rear still protruding into the street. The security guards, who had been stationed at the entrance, were down, lying motionless on the ground. The robbers, armed and dangerous, had already breached the bank's main hall.

The front door was never Batman's first choice. Charlie, controlling Batman, activated detective mode, scanning the building's layout for a less obvious entry point. Within moments, he found an unguarded side door.

Quietly, he picked the lock and slipped inside. The interior was eerily quiet, the silence broken only by the muffled sounds of the robbers shouting commands at the hostages.

Once inside, Batman quickly used his grappling gun to ascend to a higher vantage point. From there, he could survey the entire scene.

Charlie had learned a crucial lesson in his recent nights as Batman—always take the high ground. From above, you can observe the situation with greater clarity, plan your moves more effectively, and remain hidden from the enemy's sight.

There were six kidnappers inside, four of whom were armed with guns. The remaining two wielded knives, making them equally dangerous in close quarters. To complicate matters further, fifteen hostages were huddled together in the center of the hall, under the watchful eyes of three kidnappers.

Taking down six robbers might seem like a small task—a morning workout for Batman. But the real challenge lay in ensuring the safety of the hostages.

Charlie took a deep breath, steadying his nerves. He knew this wasn't just a game. Unlike the footage he could re-record and edit, there were no second chances here. Every action he took, every decision he made, could directly impact the lives of those innocent people.

A single mistake—getting spotted too early or failing to take down all the criminals in one swoop—could result in someone getting hurt. Or worse.

But Charlie wasn't new to this anymore. If this had been him during his early days, he might have hesitated, maybe even backed off, doubting his ability to handle the situation. But after countless nights of practice, Charlie had grown confident in his ability to control Batman.

Detective mode gave him a complete overview of the bank's interior, pinpointing the exact locations of each criminal. It helped him map out his plan of attack and select the appropriate tools for the job.

The first priority was to neutralize the three kidnappers watching the hostages.

Two of them had guns; the third carried a knife. The gunmen were the primary targets.

Batman moved silently through the shadows, positioning himself at the perfect angle above the hall. He crouched down, hidden in the darkness, and began assembling a sleek, black mechanical rifle from the components in his utility belt.

Everyone knows Batman doesn't use guns, so this rifle wasn't a traditional firearm—it was a specialized tool designed for a very specific purpose.

The weapon in Charlie's hands was an "armed jammer," a device with the range of a sniper rifle but without lethal capabilities. It launched miniature jamming devices that could disable firearms by emitting an electromagnetic pulse.

Charlie was confident in his in-game marksmanship. He found the right angle, took a steadying breath, and aimed carefully. Two shots, fired in quick succession, hit their targets with pinpoint accuracy. The jamming bullets attached themselves to the guns of the two armed kidnappers.

The gunmen felt their weapons vibrate slightly in their hands. Before they could react, the guns exploded, tearing apart in their grip. The explosion sent shrapnel flying, and the robbers screamed in pain as their hands were shredded by the blast.

The remaining criminals were instantly on high alert. At that precise moment, all the lights in the hall went out with a loud buzz, plunging the entire bank into a pitch-black darkness.

The third armed robber felt something tug at his feet. Before he could react, he was yanked off the ground and dragged, upside down, into the shadows on the ceiling. His screams echoed through the hall before they were abruptly cut off as he disappeared into the darkness.

Only one gunman remained.

As the last gunman scrambled to regain control, his eyes darting frantically in the dark, a shadow fell over him. Batman, moving with silent precision, descended from above like a phantom. In one swift motion, he twisted the gunman's wrist, forcing the weapon from his grasp before the criminal could utter a sound.

The gangster cried out in pain, the gun clattering to the ground. Batman followed up with a powerful punch to the face, sending the man sprawling, blood streaming from his broken nose.

The final two robbers, who had been guarding the hostages with knives, finally snapped out of their shock. They lunged at the nearest hostages, hoping to use them as human shields. But Batman was faster. From across the hall, he threw a batarang with unerring accuracy. The razor-sharp projectile sliced through the air, embedding itself in the hand of the first robber, causing him to drop his knife with a pained yelp.

The second robber barely had time to react before Batman was upon him, disarming him with a quick strike and sending him crashing to the ground with a follow-up kick.

The entire takedown had taken mere seconds, the criminals incapacitated with the speed and force of a lightning strike. The lights flickered back on, revealing the aftermath: six criminals, either unconscious or writhing in agony on the floor, completely neutralized.

For a few moments, there was stunned silence. Then, slowly, the hostages began to stir, cautiously getting to their feet. They looked around, wide-eyed, as the realization sank in—they were safe. The nightmare was over.

High above, perched on a ledge, Batman watched silently. Charlie knew better than to leave without making sure the scene was secure. He scanned the area, his eyes narrowing as he checked for any remaining threats.

But then something caught his eye. Among the hostages, a familiar face stood out.

Charlie frowned, his curiosity piqued. He activated Batman's detective mode, zooming in on the man's face for a closer look.

Recognition hit him like a jolt. It was his good friend, Walter. But something was off—Walter looked utterly exhausted, like he hadn't slept in days. His face was pale, his eyes sunken, and his expression was one of utter defeat.

Charlie then noticed the woman standing beside Walter. She was well-dressed, with a look of concern etched on her face. There was something familiar about her too, though Charlie couldn't quite place it.

Out of curiosity, Charlie activated Batman's auditory enhancement, focusing on the conversation below.

The woman's voice was gentle, soothing. "It's all right now. Don't worry, no one will dare to bully you anymore..."

Walter looked as if he'd rather be anywhere else in the world. His expression screamed resignation, like he had nothing left, and just wanted to go home.

Charlie: "..."

It seems that... I just stumbled upon something quite unexpected.

Chapter Text

Realizing he had just overheard something serious, Charlie quickly disengaged detective mode, exiting the first-person view. He guided Batman out of the bank, the shadows closing around him as he moved silently through the night.

Charlie's thoughts raced as he retreated from the scene. He had no desire to delve further into what he had just witnessed. The tension on Walter's face, the look of someone bearing a heavy burden, was unmistakable. It reminded Charlie of someone preparing for a task they dreaded—like knowing you're about to face something terrible, yet having no choice but to go through with it.

As Batman melded into the dark, Gotham's skyline stretched before him, a vast canvas of brooding towers and glimmering lights. The night patrol was almost over, and Charlie could feel the weariness setting in, his mind craving the comfort of rest. He maneuvered Batman to a safe point, ready to log out and return to the real world.

But just as he reached the main interface, something unexpected happened. The screen erupted in a dazzling display of special effects. A large, three-dimensional "1," crackling with golden lightning, spun into view. The number flickered and sparked before exploding in a burst of light, transforming into a metallic "2" with a deep, resonant clang.

Charlie blinked, surprised. He had leveled up.

"The hero-switching function is now unlocked: Players can now select a substitute hero before entering battle. You can switch heroes at any time during combat, depending on the situation on the field. A one-minute cooldown applies after each switch."

Charlie's eyes widened with excitement.

This was a game-changer, literally. The ability to switch between heroes during combat opened up a whole new realm of strategic possibilities. It meant he could use a hero with balanced abilities and conserve energy, then switch to a more specialized hero when the situation called for it. It was like having an extra life—an invaluable advantage in any battle.

But this was just the beginning. Charlie's thoughts raced ahead, imagining what might come next. Based on his experience with other superhero games, like those centered on the Avengers or the Justice League, he knew that this new feature might just be a precursor to something even bigger: team-based combat.

In those games, players could control multiple heroes simultaneously, switching between them while the others were managed by AI. Even in the Batman game "Arkham Knight," there was a similar system where two characters could team up, allowing for powerful combo moves and coordinated attacks.

If this game followed a similar path, Charlie knew he could eventually assemble a team of superheroes, each bringing their unique abilities into battle. The thought of orchestrating such a team, blending different powers and strategies, sent a thrill through him.

And then another prompt appeared, pulling Charlie back to the present.

"Choose one of your existing heroes upon leveling up. You will randomly acquire one of that hero's skills."

Charlie's heart skipped a beat. The game was becoming more and more intriguing. First, he had been thrust into a different world after a freak accident with a dump truck. Then, he had awakened the ability to summon superhero clones through gameplay. He can even summon actual superhero equipment to arm himself.

And now, it seemed the system was offering something even more extraordinary: the potential to physically transform him, endowing him with the actual skills and abilities of a superhero.

The possibilities were mind-boggling. What could be next? Would he gain the strength of Superman? The speed of the Flash? The possibilities seemed endless.

The system offered an explanation, noting that it could adapt the player's body to any type of skill enhancement. However, it didn't go into detail about the specific skills available, leaving that as a mystery. The system merely presented him with a list of the heroes he had unlocked so far.

Charlie quickly scanned through the list, dismissing most of the heroes who didn't offer anything particularly useful to him at the moment. His focus narrowed down to two: Batman and Captain America, both of whom had proven to be the most valuable in his arsenal.

But here was the catch—the description of "hero skill" was vague, to say the least. The system didn't clarify what exactly constituted a hero skill, leaving Charlie to speculate.

Take Captain America, for instance. If he was lucky, he might draw a skill like "Super Soldier Serum Enhancement," which would grant him a significant boost in strength and agility. But there was also the possibility of drawing something less exciting, like Captain America's exceptional shield-throwing ability. While impressive, it wasn't exactly what Charlie needed right now. And then there was the worst-case scenario: acquiring Captain America's artistic skills. As much as Charlie admired Steve Rogers' artistic talents, it wasn't exactly the superpower he was hoping for.

The stakes were even higher with Batman. As a human without superpowers, Batman had an extensive array of skills, from combat and detective work to hacking, espionage, and even mastering multiple languages. The problem was that many of these skills, while impressive, might not be what Charlie needed at the moment. And with his luck, he might end up drawing something like Bruce Wayne's charm in social situations—a useful skill, no doubt, but not quite what he was looking for in a superhero battle.

After weighing his options, Charlie finally made his decision. He would go with Captain America.

The reasoning was simple: Batman, being a human, had too many varied skills, many of which might not be practical in combat. On the other hand, Captain America, with his superhuman abilities, was a pure fighter, and his skill set was likely more focused and combat-oriented.

Charlie took a deep breath and made his selection.

He chose Captain America, and in response, the screen displayed a small cartoon-style metal box falling with a thud. Brilliant golden light radiated from the box as it bounced slightly on the screen, its lid flying open with a soft click.

"Acquired the skill 'Advanced Fighting Technique (Captain America Special Edition)'!"

"Explanation: Captain America is proficient in various fighting techniques, including boxing, jujitsu, aikido, and judo. His fighting ability is world-class. He has integrated all his non-sport combat skills into a unique street-fighting version of Western boxing, creating a mixed martial arts technique that is uniquely his own."

Charlie's face lit up with excitement.

This was exactly what he needed. While it wasn't a superpower, it was a highly practical combat skill—one that could give him a serious edge in close-quarters combat.

Captain America was renowned for his hand-to-hand combat skills. In the Marvel Universe, there were countless heroes and villains stronger than him, but very few could outmatch him in terms of pure skill. His fighting technique was a blend of various martial arts, honed to perfection through countless battles. It was a skill set that could hold its own against even the most formidable opponents.

In terms of sheer combat effectiveness, Captain America's unique fighting technique was arguably his most valuable asset. The super-soldier serum was certainly impressive, but compared to the potential powers Charlie might unlock from other heroes in the future, it was just one of many enhancements.

But Captain America's fighting skills were different. Even as Charlie unlocked more advanced equipment and powers, it would be hard to find anything more effective than these combat techniques. They were versatile, powerful, and adaptable—a perfect fit for someone like Charlie, who needed to be ready for anything.

Charlie eagerly confirmed his choice, and the screen transitioned to a new interface that resembled a traditional RPG character equipment menu.

The equipment system was divided into different sections for various body parts—head, torso, arms, legs, hands, and feet. Each section had slots where he could equip corresponding items.

For example, he could now equip his hands with the wrist guards used by Hawkeye, enhancing his precision. Or he could equip his head with Green Arrow's mask, boosting his focus and awareness.

But what really caught Charlie's attention was the ability equipment section.

This section was categorized by ability type. It was here that Charlie found his new skill: "Advanced Fighting Technique (Captain America Special Edition)." He quickly equipped it, watching as the icon for the skill lit up in the corresponding slot.

The ability equipment section was organized by different categories: Strength, Speed, Defense, Spirit, Energy, Magic, and an "Other" category for miscellaneous skills.

Each slot could hold only one ability at a time, but Charlie could remove an equipped ability whenever he wanted. If he wanted to switch to a different ability within the same category, he would first need to unequip the current one.

For instance, if Charlie equipped Captain America's fighting skills but later unlocked Batman's original fighting techniques, he would have to remove Captain America's skills before equipping Batman's.

In theory, as Charlie continued to unlock more abilities, he could eventually arm himself with a wide range of skills from different heroes. This would allow him to become a well-rounded warrior with no weaknesses—a true force to be reckoned with, both in and out of battle.

The thought sent a thrill through him.

But Charlie wasn't naïve. He knew that, at least for now, these abilities and equipment were primarily for self-defense—a trump card to protect himself if he ever found himself in a dangerous situation.

Even if he gained extraordinary powers, Charlie had no intention of going out and causing trouble.

As the saying goes, "If you walk by the river, your shoes are bound to get wet eventually." If he ventured out looking for a fight, he would be more likely to get hurt or, worse, expose his newfound abilities. He could easily imagine a scenario where he wakes up one day to find something sinister lurking outside his door.

For now, sitting behind his screen, typing away, was the safest option—and it suited him just fine.

But if he ever did decide to get involved, it wouldn't be until he had a superhuman body, the speed of the Flash, the energy of Green Lantern, and was fully maxed out in every way.

In layman's terms, he'd wait until he reached the highest level before venturing out.

Charlie's excitement was palpable. He immediately equipped the newly acquired martial arts skill and stood up, eager to test it out. He needed to feel the power in his hands, the strength in his movements.

He walked over to an open area, took a deep breath, and threw two casual punches.

The difference was immediate.

It was as if a floodgate had opened in his mind, and the techniques flowed in like a torrent. Every movement, every strike, was instinctive, guided by muscle memory that wasn't his own. For someone who had only ever known how to throw basic punches, it felt like stepping into a whole new world—a world where he was no longer limited by his own physical abilities.

Each punch was precise, deadly, and fluid. The transitions between techniques were seamless as if he had been practicing them for years. It was a stark contrast to the clumsy, unrefined punches he was used to. Now, every strike had purpose, every movement was calculated.

Unable to resist, Charlie decided to try a high-roundhouse kick.

The kick was executed perfectly, his leg slicing through the air with incredible speed and accuracy. He landed with flawless balance, the motion smooth and controlled.

But as he stood still, a wave of nausea hit him. His face contorted in discomfort, as if he had just swallowed a pound of raw kryptonite. The sudden influx of new skills and abilities had taken a toll on his body, reminding him that despite the newfound power, there were still limits to what he could handle.

Chapter Text

Charlie soon realized that he had miscalculated.

While gaining the skills of Captain America sounded incredible in theory, reality quickly set in. Sure, his brain now held the knowledge and experience of one of the greatest fighters in the world, making him a first-class combat master—on paper. But there was a glaring issue: his body simply wasn't up to the task.

It was one thing for his mind to know the moves, but his hands—and the rest of his body—had their own ideas. They weren't always on the same page. The result? A disconnect between what he knew he could do and what he could actually perform. The fancy techniques were there in his head, but his body lacked the stamina and strength to execute them with the same precision and power as Captain America.

Fortunately, Charlie wasn't completely out of options. He had a unique shortcut to improving his physical fitness—playing more games.

For him, gaming wasn't just a pastime; it was a way to push his limits and enhance his physical abilities more efficiently than traditional exercise ever could. The only downside? He was progressing too quickly for his own good. But this wasn't a bad problem to have. In fact, Charlie had started to notice something remarkable: the more he played, the longer he could stay in the game without getting tired.

As his physical fitness improved, so did his endurance during gaming sessions. It created a virtuous cycle: the longer he played, the more efficient his workouts became, and the more efficient the workouts, the stronger he got. With that increased strength came the ability to play even longer and harder, further boosting his fitness.

In addition to this, Charlie stumbled upon another discovery—certain supplements actually helped him maintain this pace.

Downstairs from his apartment was Aunt Linda's pharmacy, a small, old-fashioned shop that seemed like it had been there forever. Among the dusty shelves and jars of mysterious herbal remedies, he found a particularly useful supplement called "Vitality Capsules." According to the label, it was designed to help office workers who stayed up late and students burning the midnight oil to quickly replenish their energy. Intrigued, Charlie decided to try them out. To his surprise, they worked wonders.

[TL Note - wasn't this Milf, a barber ??? The fck, Consistency Author-san

Dear readers, should I go back to Ch 1 and change the name of the barber to Aunt Bob or something]

After each night of patrolling in the game and gathering experience, Charlie would take one of the capsules before bed. The results were almost magical—he woke up each morning feeling completely refreshed as if the grueling night before had never happened.

Impressed by the capsules' effects, Charlie decided he needed more. After waking up the next day, he made a mental note to stop by Aunt Linda's pharmacy to restock. This time, he planned to keep a few extra boxes by his bedside so he could take one every night without worrying about running out.

---

The familiar scent of medicinal herbs and old wood greeted him as he entered the pharmacy. The shop was quiet, the only sound coming from the ticking of an ancient clock on the wall. Behind the counter, Aunt Linda sat with a sorrowful expression on her face, her usually bright demeanor overshadowed by whatever was displayed on the computer screen in front of her.

Charlie stepped closer, glancing at the screen. It was filled with a sea of red, numbers ticking down in rapid succession. He immediately understood—she must have taken a hit in the stock market.

It was a shame. Charlie couldn't help but think how different the situation would be if that sea of red were a 'Defeated' screen in a game. Unfortunately, real-life losses don't come with a "try again" button.

Charlie had dabbled in stock trading himself in his previous life. He quickly learned that the stock market was a fickle beast, much like a middle-aged man trying to recapture his youth with dubious tonics. Just when you thought things were starting to look up, everything would crash before you could even take advantage of the upswing. You'd feel disappointed, ready to give up, only for the market to show signs of life again, luring you back in.

After a year of being jerked around by the unpredictable market, Charlie had developed a golden rule: cherish life and stay away from stocks.

Aunt Linda, her frown quickly replaced by a warm smile, greeted him as soon as she noticed him. "Oh, Charlie, heading to class today?"

"Yeah," Charlie nodded, returning the smile. "By the way, do you still have those Vitality Capsules from last time? They worked really well. I'd like to order three more boxes if you have them."

"So soon?" Aunt Linda's eyes widened in surprise. Though her memory wasn't what it used to be, she remembered Charlie buying a large box of capsules not too long ago. Had he already gone through all of them?

"You know," she added kindly, "even though this medicine isn't toxic and has no side effects, taking too many supplements isn't good for you. Too much energy can be 'hard' for your body to handle. she said, enunciating the word 'hard."

Charlie chuckled softly, appreciating her concern, albeit ignoring the teasing. "Don't worry, Aunt Linda. I know my limits, and I'm managing just fine."

But as the words left his mouth, Charlie realized how it might sound. It was as if he were bragging about his stamina, assuring her that he could handle even stronger supplements. The thought of this getting out made him inwardly cringe—he could already imagine the neighborhood gossip if word spread that he was overindulging in such supplements.

"All right," Aunt Linda said with a nod. "You came at just the right time. I don't have many capsules left, though. We didn't get much stock this month, and another young man came by a few days ago and bought a lot. Let me check how much is left."

She turned and disappeared into the back room, leaving Charlie to lean against the counter and wait. The pharmacy was as quiet as ever, with only the faint hum of the old refrigerator and the creak of the wooden floorboards to keep him company.

A few minutes later, the sound of footsteps drew Charlie's attention to the door.

"Charlie?"

He turned and saw his good friend, Walter, standing hesitantly at the entrance. But something was off—Walter's complexion was much paler than usual, and his eyes had dark circles beneath them. He looked as if he hadn't slept well at all, which only made Charlie more curious about what had happened to him last night.

"Are you here to buy medicine?" Charlie asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Uh, I… no, I'm not… I just happened to be passing by," Walter stammered, his face flushing slightly as he tried to come up with a believable excuse.

Passing by the pharmacy? Charlie could believe a lot of things, but this was stretching it. Maybe Walter was on autopilot, his muscle memory guiding him here out of habit.

Realizing that his excuse wasn't convincing in the slightest, Walter began to panic, quickly searching for a way out of the situation. But before he could think of anything, Aunt Linda returned, holding the last three boxes of capsules.

"Well, you're in luck! These are the last three boxes, and they're all yours," she said with a bright smile, handing them to Charlie.

Charlie: "..."

Walter: "..."

A few minutes later, the two friends walked side by side on their way to class. The morning sun was just beginning to rise, casting long shadows across the quiet streets of Riverton City.

Charlie glanced at Walter, who was staring straight ahead, looking both embarrassed and slightly uncomfortable. "I don't really need all of these right away. Why don't you take two boxes back with you?"

"No, no, I'm fine," Walter insisted, waving his hands as if the capsules were cursed. "You keep them."

"Uh, okay. But you don't look well," Charlie said, concern creeping into his voice as he noticed the paleness of Walter's face. "Did you stay up late last night?"

"What? Oh, no, it's just that… um, I was playing video games late last night," Walter replied quickly, stumbling over his words. His eyes darted nervously, avoiding Charlie's gaze.

Charlie raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. "Playing video games?"

"Yeah, that's it," Walter said firmly, as if trying to convince himself as much as Charlie. "I was up late playing video games, so I'm just a bit tired."

Charlie decided not to press further. Sometimes it was better to let things slide, especially when your friend was clearly not telling the whole truth. He knew Walter well enough to sense when he was hiding something, but he also knew when to back off.

As if eager to change the subject, Walter quickly shifted the conversation away from himself.

"Hey, what's up with your leg?" he asked, noticing Charlie's slightly awkward gait.

"Oh, I was exercising at home last night and strained a muscle," Charlie explained, trying to sound nonchalant.

Walter: "?"

Exercising at home and straining a muscle? That didn't quite add up.

Walter looked at Charlie's odd posture, then at the bag of capsules in his hand, and suddenly, something clicked. His eyes widened as the pieces fell into place. Was his friend secretly pushing himself harder than he let on? Walter had thought he was the one working to the limit, but now he realized that Charlie was on another level entirely. It seemed like everyone was pushing their limits these days…

Charlie notices the subtle change in Walter's expression and has a pretty good idea of what he is imagining. His face darkened.

Seriously, I'm the one who's actually playing video games here, okay? Don't lump me in with you!

"Ahem," Walter cleared his throat, sensing that they shouldn't dwell on this topic any longer. He quickly changed the subject again, his face lighting up with excitement.

"By the way, you won't believe what happened yesterday…"

He leaned in closer to Charlie, lowering his voice to build suspense.

"I met Batman!"

Charlie: "..."

Chapter Text

Seeing his friend's intense and serious expression, Charlie couldn't help but find the situation amusing.

For a brief moment, he struggled to suppress a smile. He watched Walter's earnest face, who, in turn, clearly expected Charlie to be as awestruck as he was. But when Charlie didn't react with the astonishment Walter anticipated, a flicker of anxiety crossed Walter's features, and he quickly doubled down on his story.

"I really did meet Batman! The real one, not some cheap knockoff," Walter insisted, his voice a mix of excitement and desperation to be believed.

The need to clarify came from a recent incident in Riverton City, where several people had started mimicking Batman's iconic persona. Inspired by the idea that anyone could be a hero, a particularly enthusiastic citizen had cobbled together a surprisingly decent Batman costume and taken to the streets at night. He hadn't gotten far in his vigilante career, though, as the local security guards had promptly intervened, preventing what could have been a disaster.

"I didn't say I didn't believe you," Charlie replied, unable to keep the amusement out of his voice. After all, how could he not believe it when the Batman Walter had encountered was him?

Walter, however, didn't seem reassured. Eager to convince Charlie of the gravity of what he had experienced, he launched into a vivid recounting of the previous night's events. His words tumbled out in a rush, each sentence more dramatic than the last as he painted a picture of the harrowing bank robbery he had witnessed—from the perspective of a terrified hostage, of course.

Charlie listened with half a mind, finding some amusement in Walter's increasingly animated gestures. He couldn't help but notice the discrepancies between the story Walter was telling and what had actually happened. It wasn't surprising, given that Walter had probably spent most of the time with his head down, too scared to move. Charlie knew his friend well enough to doubt that he had observed the scene as closely as he claimed.

So, which eye did you use to observe all this, buddy? Charlie thought, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"I'm telling you, Batman is amazing! I saw him in action—he was so quick! The gangsters tried to fight back, but he blocked everything. The whole fight was over before anyone could even react.

If you'd seen it with your own eyes, you'd understand. He blew in like a gust of wind, took everyone down, and all we could see was a blur. I've never seen anyone move so fast..."

Charlie nodded along, though he found it increasingly difficult to keep a straight face. Walter's description made it sound like Batman had the speed of The Flash, when in reality, Charlie distinctly remembered taking a calculated and precise approach. He had jumped from the roof, using the element of surprise to take down the criminals swiftly. If he'd barged in through the front door as Walter described, the situation might have ended very differently—and not in their favor.

As Walter continued, clearly enjoying the rapt attention of his small audience, Charlie's mind wandered. He couldn't help but think about how easily The Flash could be mistaken for the fastest man alive, at least according to the show's iconic opening line. But anyone who's watched enough seasons knows that there's always someone faster waiting in the wings, ready to upstage Barry Allen. It's just part of the narrative, after all.

Charlie's amusement began to wane as Walter's story grew more and more embellished. He decided it was time to steer the conversation back to reality. "You still haven't said—what were you doing at the bank yesterday?" Charlie asked, cutting through the dramatics.

"Depositing money," Walter replied, the words slipping out casually before he realized his mistake.

"Oh? Came into some cash, did you?" Charlie raised an eyebrow, his tone laced with curiosity.

Walter's eyes widened slightly as he realized his slip-up, and he quickly scrambled to cover it. "Oh, uh… I've been talking about opening that virtual store for a while now. I've been trying to save up, you know, to start a business…" His voice trailed off, and he forced a nervous laugh, hoping Charlie wouldn't press further.

Selling what, exactly? Happy-go-lucky charms for rich ladies? Charlie wondered, though he kept his thoughts to himself. There was no need to embarrass Walter further. Instead, he simply nodded, letting the matter drop. Walter, sensing that he had narrowly avoided disaster, visibly relaxed, though he wisely kept quiet.

As they approached the school's main building, the hum of the morning bustle filled the air. Students milled about, chatting in groups, their voices blending into a low, constant murmur. The sun was still low in the sky, casting long shadows across the sidewalk and bathing the campus in a soft, golden light.

Amid the usual hustle and bustle, a striking blue sports car slowly pulled up to the curb, drawing everyone's attention. The sleek, aerodynamic lines of the car gleamed under the morning sun, turning heads as it smoothly came to a stop. The scissor-style doors slid open with a quiet hiss, and a tall boy stepped out from the driver's seat with an air of casual confidence.

He had the kind of fair skin that seemed to glow in the sunlight, the kind that would make any girl envious. He stood over six feet tall, his height only adding to his commanding presence. Even without the flashy sports car, he would have turned heads wherever he went.

His outfit was deceptively simple—a crisp white shirt paired with well-fitted jeans. But there was an elegance to his look, a subtle sophistication that hinted at something more. To the untrained eye, it might have seemed like just another casual ensemble, but those in the know would recognize the understated luxury of his clothing, each piece a high-end designer brand.

In a world where appearances often spoke louder than words, someone like him was a standout, the kind of person who naturally drew attention. If those luxury brands were swapped for women's clothing, the effect would be devastating—a true head-turner.

Charlie recognized him immediately. Felix, a senior at their school, was a year ahead of them and the son of the Grove Group's owner. He was more than just another rich kid—he was something of a celebrity within the academy, known for both his looks and his wealth.

As Charlie walked by, he overheard a group of girls behind him, their voices filled with barely-contained excitement.

After all, everyone appreciates beauty, and when faced with someone as striking as Felix, even gender seemed to become a secondary consideration.

Nearby, a group of boys were having a hushed conversation, their eyes fixed on Felix as he walked by.

"Wouldn't it be amazing if this senior were a girl? Then I wouldn't have to be ashamed of being so hard," one of them muttered, his voice tinged with a mix of envy and admiration.

Another boy, catching the playful tone, grinned. "Aren't men even better?…"

"Shut up, you perv," the first boy retorted, shoving his friend playfully.

"Don't make me stay up all night disciplining you..."

Hearing this, Walter shook his head, his pale face betraying his exhaustion and a touch of sympathy.

There was a time when he naively thought that skipping sleep and overworking himself wasn't a big deal, that it was just part of the grind. But now he knew better.

You might think you're living the high life, skipping the struggle, and reaping the rewards, but in reality, you're just burning out faster. Sure, young people are full of energy, but that's not an excuse to waste it recklessly, as he was now learning the hard way.

[TL Note - if the above paragraphs sound weird and make no sense, blame the author for being gay. I tried to remedy it the best I could]

When they finally reached the classroom, the atmosphere inside was abuzz with the usual chatter. Desks were scattered with books and papers, and groups of students huddled together, discussing everything from last night's homework to the latest gossip.

It didn't take long for their classmates to start gathering around Charlie and Walter. Soon, a small crowd had formed, all eager to hear the latest news. The excitement was palpable, the air thick with curiosity and anticipation.

The first to approach was a chubby boy named Bing, who leaned in close, his voice barely above a whisper as he addressed Walter. "Hey, I heard you met Batman?"

It was only then that Charlie realized Walter must have posted about the incident on social media. That explained the sudden surge of interest. Unlike Charlie, who was too busy leveling up in his game to check the news, the other students had already heard all about it.

No boy could resist the temptation to brag, and with everyone's attention on him, Walter lit up with excitement. He eagerly retold the story he had just shared with Charlie, adding even more flair and drama this time around. His hands gestured wildly as he described the action, his voice rising and falling with the excitement of a natural storyteller.

Charlie couldn't help but notice that the story seemed to have evolved in the ten minutes between tellings. The upgraded version 2.0 now included new scenes, additional details, and even more exaggerated descriptions.

At this rate, Charlie speculated that in a few days, when the story reached version 10.0, it might even include Walter fighting side by side with Batman, taking down six gangsters with ease.

The rest of the morning passed in a blur of excitement as more and more people came over to hear Walter's tale. He was in his element, recounting his thrilling experience over and over again, each time with more gusto. His audience was captivated, hanging on his every word as he painted a picture of danger and heroism.

Every man harbors a secret dream of being a hero, and in times like these, the figure of Batman has become a symbol—someone who could stand against the darkness. It was no wonder everyone was so fascinated by him.

Charlie could see how much Batman had been deified in people's minds. They wanted to believe he was an all-powerful being cloaked in shadows, the brightest beacon of hope in a dark world. The mythos surrounding him had grown, turning him into a legend.

Although Charlie wasn't particularly interested in the content of the conversation, he couldn't deny that there was something satisfying about hearing Walter's exaggerated tales.

If there's anything more enjoyable than boasting about your own accomplishments, it's listening to someone else boast—and knowing that they're actually talking about you.

As Charlie enjoyed the moment, a small smile playing on his lips, he casually checked his phone, scrolling through the notifications. Among the usual updates and messages, a new friend request caught his attention.

"Felix Grove has requested to be your friend."

Attached to the request was a brief note:

"Meet me on the roof of the Bishop's Building if you're free."

Charlie blinked, his brow furrowing in surprise as he reread the message.

Charlie: "?"

Chapter Text

Charlie was a bit perplexed when he saw the friend request.

This wasn't just any message from a typical social media platform; it came through a specialized app used exclusively by the Ninth Special Service Division. The tech department had boasted about the app's security, claiming it was on a level unmatched by any other software. Every piece of data entered by users was stored securely in the databases of the Nine Aerospace Satilites of the Service Division—impenetrable and immune to any kind of data breach, or so they claimed.

The encryption technology was described as cutting-edge. Even if an agent's phone were lost or stolen, the data within would self-destruct before anyone could crack it, ensuring that sensitive information remained secure. It was supposedly foolproof.

But Charlie wasn't one to accept such assurances without a healthy dose of skepticism. From his perspective, the Ninth Special Service Division was more like a floating mental asylum than a serious intelligence agency. The external appearance of the agency seemed to pay homage to the frequently downed S.H.I.E.L.D. Helicarriers, while the internal chaos reminded him of the infamous Arkham Asylum.

Whether it was the Helicarrier or the madness of Arkham, both had something in common: security that was laughably unreliable. And even public restrooms had more reliable security features, with separate sections for men and women—something these two institutions apparently hadn't mastered.

Charlie's doubts extended to the app's encryption technology. He had once toyed with the idea of using Batman's unscientific portable universal decoder to test the app's security, just to see if it was as impenetrable as advertised. But after a bit of thought, he decided against it. The last thing he wanted was to get caught hacking into his own agency's app and draw unnecessary attention from his superiors.

For security reasons, the app didn't send notifications to the phone's main interface. If you wanted to see any incoming messages, you had to manually open the app and check. It was a small inconvenience, but it served as a reminder of how seriously the agency took its secrecy.

This friend request was intriguing for several reasons.

First, the only people who would have access to this app were insiders of the Ninth Special Service Division. So, the request itself was a clear indication that Felix, the senior student, wasn't just another rich kid—he was a colleague, a member of the Ninth Special Service Division, just like Charlie.

The message was brief and direct, simply asking Charlie to meet him on the rooftop.

After accepting the friend request and sending a quick greeting, Charlie got straight to the point. "Now?" he typed.

Felix's response was almost instantaneous and just as succinct: "Yes."

The rooftop of the school building was a place filled with potential—at least, that's how it was portrayed in the anime and manga that Charlie had devoured over the years. It was a spot where anything could happen, from quiet, introspective moments over lunch to epic battles against hordes of zombies. And in some cases, it was a place where things could get deeply personal, a locale where the boundaries of the ordinary could blur into the extraordinary—Charlie couldn't help but give a mental thumbs-up to the idea.

Without hesitation, Charlie stood up and left the classroom, his mind already racing with possibilities.

Walter, noticing his friend's sudden departure, looked up in surprise. "Class is about to start," he pointed out, his voice tinged with concern.

"Oh, I've got something to take care of. If they pass around a sign-up sheet, just sign my name," Charlie replied, his tone casual as he waved his phone dismissively. He was already halfway out the door, not even slowing down as he spoke.

Walter watched Charlie leave, his curiosity piqued. He had seen Charlie receive a message and then rush off as if something urgent had come up. But what could be so important that it would make Charlie skip class without a second thought?

As he pondered this, Walter's thoughts drifted back to the morning's events at the pharmacy. He thought he might have a clue about what was going on.

A complex expression crossed Walter's face, a mixture of confusion and something else—perhaps a touch of awe. He had joined the...

"...No Need to Work Hard" alliance, hoping for an easier life, but now he was beginning to realize that even in this seemingly laid-back lifestyle, there were people who were pushing themselves far beyond what he was willing to do. Maybe this path wasn't right for him after all...

Leaving Walter behind, Charlie made his way to the rooftop of the main building. The cool morning air brushed against his face as he climbed the final set of stairs. When he pushed open the door to the rooftop, the city's skyline greeted him, a panoramic view of Riverton City stretching out in every direction. The sounds of the bustling school below seemed distant, almost muted, as if this elevated space were a world unto itself.

Felix was already there, leaning against the railing, his posture relaxed yet alert. The breeze ruffled his neatly styled hair, adding to the air of effortless cool that seemed to follow him wherever he went.

Even without considering his background and mysterious status, Felix was an impressive figure. He had a clean, handsome face that could easily belong to a model, and he stood at an imposing height that only added to his presence. Despite his fair complexion, there was nothing soft about him; he carried himself with the calm confidence of someone who knew exactly who he was and what he was capable of.

In short, Felix was the kind of person who would stand out in any crowd, whether among ordinary people or the more extraordinary.

As Charlie approached, Felix turned to face him, offering a slight nod in greeting. His expression was serious, but there was a hint of warmth in his eyes—a sign that, despite his composed exterior, he was glad to see Charlie.

Felix didn't waste time on small talk. He was direct, getting straight to the point, his voice steady and controlled.

"I have something to discuss with you," Felix began, his tone measured. "First, let me explain who I am and why I reached out to you."

He started by revealing that he did, in fact, possess psychic abilities—an admission that came with significant weight. Psychic abilities were rare, and those who had them were often viewed with a mix of fear and fascination. Felix explained that he had been recruited into the Ninth Special Service Division because of these abilities. His degree of psychic infection wasn't severe, but his talent for learning practical combat techniques was unusually high. He had already earned the status of an official field agent.

Felix's body had been enhanced by the psychic infection, giving him physical and mental capabilities beyond those of an average person. After undergoing systematic training and completing real-world missions, he was leagues ahead of Charlie, who had no mutations, no training, and no experience—a true rookie in comparison.

Charlie was genuinely surprised by Felix's revelations. In his mind, most wealthy individuals preferred the "I pay, you risk your life" approach to problem-solving. A capitalist willing to get his hands dirty, much like Bruce Wayne, was a rarity—a bug in the system, so to speak.

It was Charlie's first time encountering a rich kid who enjoyed going to the front lines and fighting alongside lunatics.

"The Ninth Division has assigned a task," Felix continued, his voice steady. "Our target appears to be a student at our school."

He paused, letting the information sink in before continuing. "Since we're the only two members of the Ninth Special Service Division in the school, the task has been assigned to us. I'm the team leader."

"Then I'm the deputy leader?" Charlie quipped, his tone light as he tried to inject a bit of humor into the situation.

Felix paused, then smiled lightly, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. "Sure. From now on, you're the deputy leader. Just remember, you have to follow the leader's orders."

Charlie couldn't help but chuckle, appreciating the easy rapport that was developing between them. Despite Felix's serious demeanor, there was a sense of camaraderie that made him seem more approachable than Charlie had expected.

"Although I'd like to chat with you more," Felix continued, glancing at his watch, "I don't have much time. My car is waiting downstairs. So, take this first." He handed Charlie a sleek, black folder that he had been holding.

Charlie took the folder, feeling the weight of its importance. "This is the briefing from our superiors. It contains information about the investigation target and the statements they've made. Go through it this afternoon to familiarize yourself with the details of our mission.

I've also reserved a table at Walgarh for dinner tonight—my treat," Felix added with a small smile.

Charlie took a deep breath, processing everything that had just been laid out in front of him.

He'd never been to Walgarh, but he'd heard of it. It was one of the city's most exclusive restaurants, known for its impeccable service, fine dining, and the kind of clientele who didn't flinch at dropping a small fortune on a single meal.

Initially, Charlie wanted to decline the invitation, thinking it might be too much, but then he remembered the current dynamic: Felix was the leader, and he was the deputy. Following orders was part of the job. And if the order was to enjoy a fancy meal, who was he to refuse?

So, Charlie patted his chest in agreement. "Don't worry, I'll be there on time."

Felix nodded, satisfied. "Don't worry; the first stage is just to gather information. If things get difficult, we can pass the investigation on to someone else. But it's probably nothing major. If all goes well, we might wrap this up tonight."

Charlie thought for a moment, considering the possibilities. "So why don't we start in the afternoon?"

"The afternoon?" Felix gave him a puzzled look as if the answer were obvious. "I have class in the afternoon."

Charlie: "..."

For a moment, Charlie was stunned into silence. He had expected Felix to be all business, ready to dive headfirst into the mission. But instead, here he was, prioritizing his afternoon classes as if they were the most important thing on his agenda.

Felix caught Charlie's surprised expression and chuckled, a rare, lighthearted sound that momentarily broke through his otherwise composed demeanor. "Hey, just because we're in the Service Division doesn't mean we get to skimp out on our education. Besides, I'd rather not give our professors a reason to suspect anything."

Charlie couldn't help but laugh along, nodding in agreement. "Fair point. I guess even secret agents have to worry about their grades."

"Exactly," Felix said, his smile lingering as he glanced at his watch again. "But once classes are over, we'll get to work. In the meantime, take a look at the briefing, and we'll discuss it more over dinner."

Charlie nodded, tucking the folder under his arm. "Got it. I'll see you tonight."

As Felix turned to leave, Charlie watched him for a moment, still processing everything that had just happened. The rooftop meeting had been brief but packed with information—far more than Charlie had expected when he'd first received that mysterious friend request.

Chapter Text

Seeing Felix's retreating figure, Charlie pushed his stray thoughts aside as he considered what to do next. He had no classes in the afternoon, so after grabbing a quick bite to eat, he returned to his apartment, the documents Felix had handed him still neatly tucked under his arm. He settled into his chair. With the room dimly lit by the soft afternoon light filtering through the blinds, he began to delve into the files.

The first document outlined an incident from the previous day. Ethan Ward, a student from the same university as Charlie, had walked into the Riverton City FBI office in a state of visible distress. According to the agents who interviewed him, Ethan's face had been as pale as freshly painted drywall, his expression so unsettling that it left even the hardened agents feeling uneasy.

He had stumbled into the office, his breath ragged and uneven, as though he had just finished a long-distance sprint. Despite the sheen of sweat on his brow, Ethan was trembling uncontrollably, as if a deep, bone-chilling cold had seeped into his very being. When he first sat down in front of the agents, he had struggled to form coherent sentences, his words coming out in broken, fragmented gasps.

One of the agents, sensing the urgency of the situation, had guided Ethan to a small, heated room in the back of the office. There, they had sat him down, handed him a cup of steaming hot French Vanilla coffee, and gently coaxed him to take his time. It had taken a good deal of patience, but eventually, Ethan had calmed down enough to start explaining what had brought him to the FBI in such a state.

Through his halting words, the agents pieced together a disturbing tale. Ethan was a student at the local university, just like Charlie. He and his girlfriend, Emma Heart, had recently experienced a catastrophic event that had shaken him to his core.

More than ten days ago, they had embarked on a long-anticipated trip to a snow-covered mountain. It had been a journey they had planned meticulously, hoping to create unforgettable memories. The pristine white slopes, the crisp mountain air, and the promise of adventure had made the trip seem like a dream come true. But that dream had quickly turned into a nightmare.

They had underestimated the treacherous conditions of the mountain, and their timing couldn't have been worse. The weather had taken a sudden turn for the worse, catching them completely off guard. A massive blizzard swept over the mountain, bringing with it howling winds and blinding snow that erased the world around them. To make matters worse, an error in the meteorological forecast meant that the warning of the incoming storm had come too late. Before they knew it, they were trapped in the storm's relentless fury.

The situation escalated when a rare avalanche was triggered by the storm, burying them in a lethal cascade of snow and ice. They had been caught completely unprepared, with no chance of escape from the deadly avalanche that engulfed them.

It wasn't until several hours later that the rescue teams managed to reach them. By then, the storm had finally subsided, but the damage had been done. Ethan and Emma were found buried under the snow, unconscious but alive—barely. They were rushed to the nearest hospital, where doctors worked tirelessly to stabilize them.

Ethan's injuries, while severe, were not life-threatening. He had suffered from hypothermia and minor frostbite, but with medical attention, he recovered relatively quickly. However, his girlfriend, Emma, had not fared as well.

When the doctors informed Ethan that Emma had succumbed to her injuries despite their best efforts, it felt like the ground had been ripped out from under him. He had thrown himself onto her hospital bed, clutching her cold, lifeless hand, and wept until he had no tears left to shed.

Time lost all meaning for him as he remained by her side, his world reduced to the small, sterile room that held his most precious person. The bustle of the hospital faded into the background, and the sounds of doctors and nurses moving about became distant echoes. It was as if he and Emma were the only two people left in the world, suspended in a timeless, frozen moment.

She looked so peaceful as if she were merely sleeping. Her long eyelashes rested delicately on her pale cheeks, and her face, though devoid of color, was still as beautiful as he remembered. The sunlight filtering through the blinds cast a soft, dappled glow over her, making it seem as though she might wake up at any moment, ready to greet him with a sleepy smile.

Then, something impossible happened—her eyelashes fluttered.

Ethan's heart skipped a beat, his breath catching in his throat. He stared at her, his eyes wide with a mixture of fear and desperate hope. Could it be real? Could she really be waking up?

He held his breath, afraid to move, afraid to blink, lest this fragile hope be shattered.

But it wasn't an illusion.

With great effort, Emma's eyelids slowly lifted, revealing her eyes. Her gaze was unfocused and cloudy, as though she were struggling to emerge from a deep, disorienting sleep.

A tidal wave of emotion crashed over Ethan. Overwhelmed with relief, he threw his arms around her, sobbing uncontrollably. She was alive. Somehow, against all odds, she had come back to him.

Dr. Li, the attending physician, was equally stunned when he heard that Emma had miraculously regained consciousness. He rushed back to the ward, where he carefully examined her, checking her vital signs and looking for any indication of what had just occurred.

As Dr. Li completed his examination, his expression turned strangely unreadable.

"What's wrong, doctor?" Ethan asked, his voice trembling with both hope and anxiety as he held onto Emma.

Dr. Li hesitated, glancing at the girl in Ethan's arms as if weighing his words carefully. There was something in his eyes, something that suggested he wanted to say more, but in the end, he chose not to.

"She's fine," Dr. Li finally said, though there was an odd tone to his voice. "She can be discharged today."

Ethan, still riding the high of seeing his girlfriend miraculously recover, didn't notice the subtle hesitation in the doctor's words or the way his eyes lingered on Emma a little too long. All that mattered to him was that she was alive and that they could go home.

As Ethan recalled these events, he realized that there had been signs—small, almost imperceptible clues—that something wasn't quite right. But at the time, he had been so consumed by joy and relief that he had brushed them aside, too eager to embrace the miracle of her survival.

The day they returned to their shared apartment, Ethan noticed that Emma was still very weak. Her complexion was unnervingly pale, almost as if the blood had been drained from her body, and her skin was cold to the touch. Though she still had the soft, delicate texture that he associated with her, there was an unsettling quality to it, like the chill of marble.

But considering what they had been through, Ethan thought it was perfectly normal for her to be in such poor health. Dr. Li had mentioned that she was recovering from a severe illness, after all, and needed time to regain her strength. He was determined to take care of her, to nurse her back to health, no matter what it took.

That evening, he went out to the market and bought a wide variety of ingredients—everything from fresh vegetables to the finest cuts of meat. He wanted to make sure she had everything she needed to recover, and he spared no effort in preparing a lavish meal, pouring all his love and care into each dish.

But when dinner was served, Emma barely touched her food. After only a few bites, she pushed her bowl aside, apologizing with a soft, tired smile that she had no appetite and couldn't eat any more.

Ethan was concerned, but he didn't dwell on it. He figured that after everything she had been through, it was only natural for her to be too exhausted to eat.

That night, however, something strange happened.

In the middle of the night, Ethan awoke with a start. He had turned over in his sleep, instinctively reaching out to embrace her, only to find that the bed beside him was cold and empty.

It took him a few moments to fully wake up, the fog of sleep slowly lifting as he sat up in the darkness.

His hand rested on the cool, vacant side of the bed, a shiver running down his spine. He called out her name, his voice echoing through the quiet apartment like a small stone dropped into a vast, empty ocean.

There was no answer.

A sense of unease began to creep into his mind, gnawing at the edges of his consciousness. He stood up, his heart pounding in his chest as he made his way out of the bedroom, straining his ears for any sound.

Then he heard it—a strange, distant sound, almost like laughter.

The sound was faint, yet it seemed to come from all directions at once, filling the apartment with an eerie, unsettling presence. It was a high-pitched, distorted laughter mingled with a buzzing noise that circled around his head, making his anxiety spike.

He followed the sound down the hallway, his steps slow and cautious, his breath shallow. The closer he got to the kitchen, the louder the sound became, until it was almost unbearable.

His hand trembled as he reached for the kitchen door, his fingers curling around the handle. He took a deep breath, steeling himself, and then pushed the door open.

There she was, standing barefoot on the cold tile floor, her white lace pajamas flowing around her like a ghostly shroud. Her long black hair hung down her back, and she was facing the open refrigerator, its harsh light casting an eerie glow across the room.

What struck Ethan as most disturbing was the way she turned to look at him—her head moved stiffly, almost as if she were a marionette on strings, her eyes dull and lifeless as they met his.

"I'm hungry," she said, her voice flat, devoid of any emotion. "I'm getting something to eat."

For a moment, Ethan felt a chill run down his spine. But then, he forced himself to relax, convincing himself that she was simply feeling weak and disoriented.

"Is that all?" he asked with a sigh of relief, walking over to her. The girl closed the refrigerator door with a soft click, the sound echoing in the silent kitchen.

He reached out to ruffle her hair affectionately, the familiar gesture bringing him some comfort. "I told you to eat more at dinner. You wouldn't be hungry now."

Emma didn't respond. When Ethan asked if she still wanted something to eat, she shook her head and said she wasn't hungry anymore. Together, they turned off the lights and returned to the bedroom.

As they lay back down, Ethan suddenly realized that the eerie laughter that had filled the apartment had vanished without him noticing. The apartment was silent once more, but the unease lingering in his mind refused to dissipate.

Since that night, Ethan's anxiety had only grown.

Two days later, his unease reached a breaking point when a mysterious package arrived at their door.

The package was plain and unassuming, with no return address or sender's information. Ethan's name was the only detail written on it. It was a small, tightly sealed square box, the rough texture of its exterior giving nothing away about its contents. Yet, despite its innocuous appearance, the package exuded an inexplicable sense of dread.

Overcome by a growing sense of foreboding, Ethan reluctantly opened the package.

The moment he saw what was inside, his hands began to tremble uncontrollably. The package slipped from his grasp, its contents spilling out onto the floor with a soft thud. Ethan's scream pierced the air, a sound of pure, unadulterated terror.

Inside the package was a severed hand.

Chapter Text

Ethan immediately called the police, his hands still trembling as he clutched the phone, relaying the horrifying details of what he had just discovered.

Within the hour, security officers arrived at his apartment. Their footsteps echoed ominously in the hallway as they approached his door, their faces set in a serious expression reserved for the most unsettling cases. Ethan's mind raced as he led them into the living room, where the package sat ominously on the coffee table, its mere presence a source of anxiety.

With a mixture of dread and anticipation, Ethan watched as the lead officer carefully peeled back the package's flaps, expecting the worst. But when the officer's gloved hands finally reached inside, Ethan's heart nearly stopped as he braced himself for the confirmation of his nightmare.

Only to be met with empty space.

The box was empty.

Ethan's breath caught in his throat as he stared at the empty package, his mind struggling to comprehend what he was seeing or, more accurately, not seeing. The sight of the officer pulling out nothing but air sent a wave of disbelief crashing over him. He had been so sure, so utterly convinced of what he had seen. How could it be gone?

"There was a hand!" Ethan's voice cracked as he spoke, the panic rising in his chest. "I swear, there was a severed hand in there, I'm not making this up!"

The officers exchanged glances, their expressions shifting from concern to skepticism. The lead officer, trying to maintain a professional demeanor, gave Ethan a sympathetic look that did little to mask his doubt. "Sir, are you absolutely sure? Sometimes the mind plays tricks, especially under stress..."

Ethan's frustration boiled over. He could see the doubt in their eyes, the way they subtly exchanged looks as if to say, "Another false alarm." He wanted to grab the officer by the shoulders, to shake him and make him understand that he wasn't imagining things, that he wasn't crazy.

But all he could do was watch helplessly as the officers packed up their gear. The lead officer offered him a stern warning before leaving. "If you make another false report, you could be facing serious consequences."

[TL Note - WTF? How unprofessional]

As the officers exited the apartment, Ethan stood frozen in place, his mind reeling. He watched through the balcony window as the squad car pulled out of the driveway, its flashing lights disappearing into the distance. The realization of his isolation hit him like a ton of bricks.

Turning away from the window, Ethan's eyes landed on Emma, who was standing quietly at the doorway to the bedroom. Her face was still pale, her expression as unreadable as ever. There was something off about the way she stood there, something that sent a chill creeping up Ethan's spine.

He tried to push the feeling away, to rationalize it as his nerves getting the better of him. But as he took a step toward her, a sudden thought struck him, freezing him in his tracks.

The hand he had seen in the package... it looked just like Emma's.

His mind whirled with confusion and fear. He tried to convince himself that it was all just an illusion, a figment of his overwrought imagination. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't shake the gnawing doubt that something was terribly, terribly wrong.

As the days went by, Ethan's behavior became increasingly erratic. His once vibrant personality dulled into a shadow of its former self. He felt as if he were living in a waking nightmare, trapped in a world that no longer made sense. The vibrant love he had once felt for Emma was now tainted by a creeping dread that he couldn't explain.

At night, sleep eluded him. He would lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, hyper-aware of Emma's presence beside him. Every time she shifted in her sleep, his heart would skip a beat. His imagination conjured terrifying images—visions of her lying next to him, her eyes wide open, staring at him with an unnatural intensity, a twisted smile playing on her lips, blood trickling down from the corners like some macabre lipstick.

But whenever he worked up the courage to turn and look, she was always peacefully asleep, her breathing soft and steady. It should have been comforting, but it wasn't. The peace of her slumber felt wrong, like a calm that preceded a storm.

Ethan couldn't bear it. The nights stretched on endlessly, a torturous cycle of fear and exhaustion that left him feeling like a hollow shell of the man he once was.

It was during one of those sleepless nights that Ethan remembered Dr. Li. The memory of the doctor's strange behavior when Emma was discharged resurfaced with startling clarity. Ethan recalled how Dr. Li had seemed hesitant, as if there was something he wanted to say but couldn't. At the time, Ethan had been too overwhelmed with relief to question it, but now, in the cold light of hindsight, the moment seemed full of unspoken significance.

Determined to find answers, Ethan decided to visit the hospital. Early the next morning, he told Emma that he had to meet a classmate, but instead, he headed straight to Dr. Li's office.

The hospital was as busy as ever; the bustle of patients and staff did little to soothe Ethan's frayed nerves. After a brief wait, he managed to see Dr. Li, who recognized him immediately. The doctor's expression tightened as soon as their eyes met. With a quick glance around, he motioned for Ethan to follow him into his office.

Once inside, Dr. Li closed the door behind them, his movements tense and deliberate. The air in the room was thick with unspoken tension as Ethan took a seat, his heart pounding in his chest.

"Doctor," Ethan began, his voice barely above a whisper, "is there something wrong with Emma? Something you didn't tell me?"

Dr. Li's eyes flicked to the door and then back to Ethan. There was a long, heavy silence before he finally nodded, his expression grave. Ethan's stomach churned with anxiety as he braced himself for the worst.

"She's fine," Dr. Li said slowly, each word carefully measured.

Ethan blinked, unsure if he had heard correctly. "Fine?"

"Yes," Dr. Li repeated, though his voice lacked conviction. "She's fully recovered. If there's anything unusual, it might just be that she's still a bit weak. But physically, she's fine."

Ethan's mind raced. The doctor's words didn't match the tension in the room, the way Dr. Li had brought him in as if to share some terrible secret. Why would he go through all this trouble just to tell him that everything was normal?

It was then that Ethan noticed the way Dr. Li kept glancing at the door, his eyes darting to the small square window as if expecting something—or someone. A sudden dread washed over Ethan as he followed the doctor's gaze.

Through the tiny window, he saw a face.

A pale, expressionless face pressed against the glass, its features shadowed and eerie. The sight of it made Ethan's blood run cold. His heart pounded in his chest, his breath catching in his throat.

It was Emma.

She stood outside the door, her eyes locked on them through the window, her expression unreadable. The sight of her there, so suddenly, so silently, sent a wave of fear crashing over Ethan. He struggled to maintain his composure as he rose from his chair and opened the door.

"Why are you here?" Ethan asked, trying to keep his voice steady.

"The doctor asked me to come for a follow-up today," she replied, blinking slowly as she turned her gaze to Dr. Li. "Isn't that right, doctor?"

"Uh... yes," Dr. Li stammered, his voice faltering as he nodded. He avoided her gaze, his movements stiff and unnatural.

Ethan felt a shiver run down his spine at the doctor's reaction. Something was very, very wrong.

Deciding it was best to leave for now, Ethan gently guided Emma out of the hospital, his mind racing with thoughts of what he had just witnessed. He resolved to return the next day, hoping to speak to Dr. Li alone and get the answers he so desperately needed.

But when Ethan arrived at the hospital the next morning, he was met with unsettling news: Dr. Li hadn't shown up for work.

Ethan's concern deepened. He inquired further, managing to track down the doctor's home address. But when he arrived at Dr. Li's residence, the doctor's family informed him that Dr. Li hadn't come home the previous night.

Dr. Li had disappeared.

It felt as if the ground had been pulled out from under Ethan. A cold, paralyzing fear gripped him, a fear that wrapped around him like a suffocating shroud. He felt as though he were trapped in an invisible net, struggling to break free but only entangling himself further.

The next day, another package arrived.

Ethan's hands trembled uncontrollably as he unwrapped the package, the sense of foreboding so intense it nearly suffocated him. Even though he had tried to mentally prepare himself, nothing could have steeled him for what he found inside.

This time, it wasn't a hand, but a leg.

The leg was pale and lifeless, its cold, smooth skin disturbingly familiar. Ethan's breath caught in his throat as he stared at it, his mind reeling in horror. The shape, the texture—it was a near-perfect match for Emma's leg.

A wave of nausea swept over him as his thoughts spiraled into darkness. He felt as though he were teetering on the edge of insanity. He couldn't bear to touch the limb, couldn't even bring himself to look at it any longer. In a blind panic, he fled the apartment, running through the streets as fast as his legs could carry him, desperate to reach the police station once more.

Coincidentally, an FBI agent was there to collect some essential documents and happened to learn of Ethan's situation. After a moment of contemplation, he brought Ethan to the FBI office.

---

At this time that the existence of the Ninth Special Service Division had been made public. Any cases involving strange occurrences or suspected infections were forwarded directly to them for investigation.

Infection was a vague and poorly understood phenomenon. Some cases were genuinely caused by supernatural forces, while others turned out to be ordinary crimes, albeit with bizarre or unexplained elements. The most difficult cases to distinguish were those involving mental illness, where the logic behind the actions could be just as baffling as the behavior of the infected.

The Ninth Division had been inundated with reports of all kinds—large and small. While a few turned out to be genuine, low-level infection cases, most were either misunderstandings or simple crimes that had taken on an unusual appearance. Ethan's case, with its terrifying implications, was assigned to two of their nearest agents for further investigation.

Those agents were Charlie Cooper and his senior, Felix.

To say that Charlie was disturbed after reading the case file would be an understatement. The details alone were enough to send chills down his spine. Whether or not Ethan's story was true, the events described were unsettling enough to warrant serious concern.

It was clear that he needed to discuss the case with Felix first. Charlie figured that the dinner invitation was meant to allow them to exchange thoughts and formulate a plan for the investigation.

So, Charlie arrived at the designated restaurant ten minutes early. The tuxedoed waiter at the door asked for his name, then politely led him to a private room decorated in opulent splendor. The soft lighting, the luxurious furnishings, and the quiet ambiance all suggested that this was a place for serious business—or serious indulgence.

As he sat down, Charlie couldn't help but marvel at the contrast between his current surroundings and the grim details of the case they were about to discuss.

He waited... and waited...

Half an hour passed, and still, there was no sign of Felix.

Charlie began to feel a growing sense of unease. Was he being stood up?

…

Meanwhile, on the other side of the city, a sleek blue supercar wove through the streets, the roar of its engine echoing off the buildings.

The blonde woman behind the wheel, dressed in a crisp maid uniform, glanced in the rearview mirror at Felix, who sat in the back seat, absorbed in the documents spread across his lap.

"Weren't you supposed to be treating your colleague to dinner tonight?" she asked, her voice tinged with curiosity.

"Yeah," Felix replied without looking up, his tone casual as he flipped through the papers. "Uncle's always going on about how important it is to build good relationships with our colleagues in the Service Division. I figured inviting the new guy to dinner would be a good start."

"Then... why aren't you going?" the maid asked, her brow furrowing in confusion.

Felix raised an eyebrow as if the question puzzled him. "Why would I need to go? I already invited him."

The maid fell silent, her expression a mix of bewilderment and resignation.

[TL Note - I wanna B*tch slap this guy]

Chapter Text

Felix's reasoning was straightforward: "I've already paid for this, so there's no need for me to waste time on it, right?"

It's like how boys buy games. Ninety-nine percent of the games on a game geek's shelf are untouched, still sealed in their original packaging, yet that doesn't stop them from passionately adding more to their collection.

Why should I spend time playing a game I've already paid for?

If Felix were to explain this theory to Charlie, a seasoned gaming enthusiast with a penchant for expanding his collection, he might actually understand the logic. In truth, Felix wasn't particularly concerned about whether or not the host who invited him to dinner was present. As long as the meal was paid for and the necessary appearances were kept up, that was all that mattered.

TL Note - I wanna know what the author is smoking because that's some strong sh*t]

Of course, the maid couldn't grasp this line of thinking, but as a dutiful servant, she didn't dare question it. She simply worried in silence, fearing Felix might face yet another reprimand from his uncle for his nonchalant attitude.

In reality, Felix wasn't entirely careless. When he received the task list, he glanced over the profiles of his assigned teammates.

Name: Charlie. Age: 20. Gender: Male… And that was it.

Absolutely Extraordinary, with no apparent impact from the infection on his body or mind. In other words, Charlie was entirely immune to the infection, had zero experience with any incapacitating effects, and was otherwise unremarkable—except, perhaps, for being rather good-looking.

Though the mission was only a preliminary investigation to gather information and assess the situation, Felix was somewhat taken aback to see a newcomer with no prior training assigned to the team. It gave him the impression that the task was deemed too trivial for the more experienced agents, so why not include a novice as a learning experience?

With that in mind, Felix decided it would be best to treat Charlie to a meal, use the opportunity to complete the work himself and avoid delaying the mission or offending his colleague.

[TL Note - Although I think the author is still smoking Weed, freshly picked from the HXH Dark Continent, I like Felix; he doesn't seem to be a young master. OK, fine, No more TL notes for the next 3 Chaps]

Felix's family owned a sprawling pharmaceutical empire. Under normal circumstances, he should have followed the path laid out for him and taken the reins of the family business, living the life of a typical wealthy heir. However, fate had different plans for Felix. He had been discovered to possess an extraordinary physical resilience, which caught the attention of the Ninth Special Service Division, a shadowy and powerful organization.

When his family first heard about the offer, they were adamantly opposed. They knew that joining such an organization meant a life fraught with danger, battling threats that could easily end his life. For people of their stature, the notion of risking life and limb was utterly incomprehensible. They were accustomed to a life of luxury, where bodyguards and advanced security were the norm.

But Felix had shown an unwavering desire to join the organization, a decision that left those around him baffled.

There's an old saying: "All roads lead to Rome," but Felix was the type who was born in Rome. He could have had anything he wanted simply by staying put. No one understood why he was so determined to take on such a perilous job.

However, considering his firm resolve and the formidable influence of the Service Division, the family began to see some potential advantages. After all, aligning with such a powerful organization could yield benefits, even if it involved some risk. And so, they reluctantly agreed to let him pursue this path.

Despite joining the Ninth Special Service Division earlier than Charlie, Felix had spent most of his time assisting other agents on minor cases. His assignments were largely limited to low-risk operations, such as investigating individuals affected by the infection who suffered from severe insomnia or uncontrollable energy surges. It was only now, with this new assignment, that Felix found himself truly leading a mission.

Although he was technically more experienced than Charlie, Felix was still a novice in many respects.

To be honest, Felix wasn't as composed as he appeared when briefing the team on the mission. But he took solace in the fact that he was, after all, a professional now, and professionals had a reputation to uphold.

As Felix made his way to Ethan's apartment, the informant for this case, his earpiece suddenly cracked to life with a connection request from headquarters.

It was the results of the background checks on key individuals related to the case, which Felix had requested earlier.

"The subjects you applied to investigate, Ethan and Emma, both died in a blizzard in the Regulance Mountains ten days ago. Their deaths have been confirmed," reported the correspondent on the other end.

Felix's stride faltered.

"They're dead?"

"Yes."

"Both of them?"

"That's correct. I can send you their death certificates if needed."

Felix received the results, confirming that both individuals were indeed deceased.

"There's another strange detail," the operator continued. "We reviewed some additional information related to them and discovered that the day after their deaths were confirmed, one of the bodies was stolen from the burial site. Its whereabouts are still unknown."

"A body?" Felix asked, his voice tinged with disbelief. "Emma's?"

"No, the stolen body was Ethan's," the operator clarified. "Emma was cremated a few days ago, and her ashes were taken by relatives for burial."

Felix felt a cold shiver run down his spine.

Suddenly, he wasn't so sure about what he was walking into.

For a moment, uncertainty clouded his thoughts, but the pride of being a "professional" soon overpowered his unease. He decided to press on and check the apartment first.

"Ding dong~"

Felix rang the doorbell, the chime echoing through the quiet hallway like the distant call of a bell in a secluded valley. He waited for a response, but the silence persisted, heavy and oppressive.

After a moment's consideration, Felix retrieved a lock pick and torque wrench from his pocket.

The apartment door was secured with an old-fashioned tumbler lock, a structure he had been trained to bypass with relative ease. Fortunately, during his last mission, the senior agent had taken the time to teach him the art of lock picking—a skill that was about to come in handy.

Click.

The door creaked open.

Felix nudged the door wider, only to be greeted by a nauseating stench—a pungent blend of blood and decay that assaulted his senses.

The smell hit him like a physical force, making his stomach churn. He gagged, instinctively covering his nose and mouth with his sleeve. It took several seconds of shallow breathing before he could steady himself enough to continue.

The apartment was dark, the only light spilling in from the hallway behind him. Felix pulled out a flashlight, its beam cutting through the gloom like a knife through thick fog. The air was heavy with the smell of death, the silence so absolute that it pressed down on him like a weight.

Felix felt like a lone ship adrift on a black sea, the darkness around him an endless, oppressive tide. The only sounds were the creaking of the wooden floor beneath his feet and the rapid thudding of his heart in his chest.

The stench grew stronger as he approached the kitchen.

Felix tried the light switch, but there was no response—the suite had been disconnected from power, leaving him alone in the dark with only the weak beam of his flashlight for comfort.

He moved towards the refrigerator, every step echoing through the silent apartment. Holding his breath, he hesitated, his hand hovering over the door handle. After a moment that felt like an eternity, he gathered the courage to open it.

The light from his flashlight fell upon the interior, and Felix's blood ran cold.

The refrigerator was crammed with dismembered human body parts, packed tightly among the cold metal shelves.

The sight triggered a visceral reaction. His knees buckled, and he collapsed to the floor, a scream tearing from his throat as the full horror of what he was seeing hit him like a tidal wave.

The source of the stench was now undeniable.

At that exact moment, an overwhelming sense of danger washed over Felix. His instincts kicked in, and without a second thought, he rolled to the side just as a kitchen knife came slashing down, missing him by mere inches and striking the floor with a dull thud.

Felix scrambled to his feet, his heart pounding in his chest, and looked up to see his attacker.

A woman stood before him, her long, disheveled hair obscuring her face. She was dressed in bloodstained white pajamas, and in her hand, she clutched a kitchen knife, the blade dripping with fresh blood.

The air was thick with the smell of decay, fear, and something far more sinister.

Felix's mind raced, trying to process the situation, but one thing was clear—this mission was far from the routine investigation he had anticipated.

---

Technically, the Chap is over, so this isn't really a TL Note.

soooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

[Editor's Note - Fck, this chapter gave me a goddamn fright.

Who else got scared?

Comment "Weak" If you were Shocked.]

Chapter Text

With disheveled hair and dressed in white, the apparition looked like it had stepped straight out of a horror movie—a spectral figure that suddenly appeared and nearly sent Felix into cardiac arrest.

But years of training as a "professional" kicked in, and instinct took over. Felix's hand shot to his sidearm, his fingers curling around the familiar grip of his pistol. He barely had time to register the bloody kitchen knife being raised again before he squeezed the trigger. The gun roared to life, the muzzle flashing as bullets exploded from the barrel.

Yet, what happened next defied all logic.

The woman in white swayed to the side with an unsettling grace, her movements so fluid and unearthly that they seemed to mock the laws of physics. The bullets, meant to end her life, whizzed past her, harmlessly embedding themselves into the wall behind her, each leaving a perfectly round crater as evidence of Felix's increasingly desperate shots.

Felix's breath caught in his throat. His mind raced, but his body moved on autopilot. He dropped into a crouch, steadying his aim and firing again. The pistol barked with each pull of the trigger, the confined space amplifying the sound until it became deafening. Muzzle flashes lit the room in staccato bursts, illuminating the surreal nightmare unfolding before him.

But the woman's movements continued to defy reason. She twisted and turned, her white dress flowing around her like petals of a ghostly flower, dodging the bullets with an agility that seemed to belong to another realm. As she jumped, her dress flared out, creating a momentary vision of eerie beauty in the midst of the chaos, a haunting juxtaposition of grace and terror.

Felix's pistol was a standard-issue "Storm Falcon," known for its power and reliability. The magazine held only eight rounds—a limitation that was becoming painfully clear. In his training, Felix had shown extraordinary talent, hitting moving targets at fifteen meters with unerring accuracy. In the world of ordinary men, he was a sharpshooter, a weapon unto himself.

But here, in this dimly lit apartment, facing this unnatural adversary, all his skills seemed worthless. At a distance of less than two meters, he emptied the entire magazine, each shot meticulously aimed. Yet, the only casualties were the walls and the kitchen dishes, which shattered into fragments under the onslaught. The woman's white dress remained untouched, not even a single thread disturbed.

As Felix watched in horror, the woman leaped gracefully across the floor, landing on all fours in a posture that sent chills down his spine. She moved with the fluidity of a predatory animal, her limbs twisting in ways that no human's should. Her disheveled black hair hung down, obscuring much of her face, but Felix caught a glimpse of her features as she crept closer.

What he saw made his blood run cold.

Her face was ghastly pale, almost corpse-like, with dark shadows clinging to the contours of her cheeks. Most of her features were hidden beneath the curtain of tangled hair, but the corners of her mouth were unmistakably visible—cracked and stretched into a wide, unnatural grin that spoke of madness and malevolence. It was the kind of smile that belonged in nightmares, not in the waking world.

With no time to reload, Felix discarded his empty pistol, the weapon clattering uselessly to the floor. His hand found the hilt of his combat knife—a blade designed for close quarters, honed to a lethal edge. He had trained extensively in hand-to-hand combat, particularly with knives, but nothing in his training had prepared him for this.

Before he could process his next move, something unexpected happened.

The ceiling above him cracked with a thunderous boom, as if struck by an enormous, unseen force. Fragments of reinforced concrete rained down, narrowly missing Felix as they smashed into the floor with a deafening crash. The woman in white, caught off guard, was buried under the debris, a muffled rumbling accompanying her fall.

Then, amidst the dust and falling rubble, a dark figure descended from the ceiling, landing with the grace and precision of a predator. Felix's eyes widened as the figure straightened up, stepping into the dim light.

Batman had arrived.

...

When Charlie realized his senior had no intention of joining him at the dinner he had so kindly "invited" him to, he was momentarily baffled. But being quick on the uptake, Charlie adjusted to the situation with ease. He wasn't one to dwell on minor inconveniences.

The senior had generously offered to cover the entire meal, but what might have been going through his mind was just how much money Charlie could manage to eat.

Not that it mattered—money was of no concern.

Charlie was quite pleased when he realized the meal was entirely on the house, so he promptly called the waiter over to ask if the food could be packed to go. After receiving an affirmative answer, Charlie abandoned the idea of dining in. Instead, he pulled up the menu and sorted the items by price, from highest to lowest. He then ordered a portion of every extravagant dish he could find, most of which he couldn't even pronounce, and had them all packed to take home.

Returning to his apartment with a bounty of gourmet food, Charlie set up a folding table next to his gaming rig. He arranged the dishes within easy reach, ready to enjoy them while indulging in his favorite pastime. He played for a while, pausing occasionally to take a bite of something delicious, washing it down with a sip of his favorite drink.

Dining alone in that upscale restaurant would have felt strange, especially in an environment where others were enjoying intimate, candlelit dinners or showing off their wealth with lavish orders. It was an unfriendly place for someone eating solo, even animal rights activists might shed a tear at the sight of a lone diner in such a setting.

No, it was much better to be back in his room, eating, drinking, and playing games.

In hindsight, Charlie was glad he had decided to come home early. If he had been even a few seconds late in launching his game, his senior might have ended up as a headless corpse.

Charlie had blasted through the ceiling with a gel bomb, making a dramatic, Batman-style entrance. Despite the sheer power of the reinforced concrete crashing down, the woman in white appeared unfazed. She quickly rolled back to her feet, her movements as unnatural as ever, and sprang into action, brandishing the kitchen knife as she lunged at Batman.

The bloody blade sliced through the air with a vicious hiss, but Batman caught it with his armored forearms. The gloves were made of stab-resistant composite fibers and reinforced with alloy plates at the wrists. The knife's blade curled against the unyielding material.

Charlie soon realized that when fighting the woman in white up close, the attack warning symbol above her head, which usually appeared before an enemy launched an attack, lingered for only a fraction of the time it normally would. He surmised that this was due to her incredible speed, leaving the player with a much shorter window to react.

To survive, the player had to quickly assess whether the incoming attack could be blocked or if it needed to be dodged.

When a blue symbol appeared above the enemy's head, it indicated that a counterattack could be triggered with a right-click.

When a yellow symbol appeared, it required more finesse. The player had to use the arrow keys in combination with a right-click to block the knife, then release the button once the enemy's strength was depleted, triggering a counter-move.

But when a red symbol appeared, it signaled an unblockable attack. The player had no choice but to move Batman out of harm's way with a well-timed dodge or roll.

The control scheme was reminiscent of the Arkham series Batman games. Charlie, having mastered those mechanics during his flawless Arkham run, quickly found his rhythm.

Felix, meanwhile, was left dumbfounded. The figures before him—one in white, the other in black—were both extraordinary in their own right. The woman in white possessed an almost supernatural agility, while the man in black had honed his combat skills to near perfection, engaging in a fierce duel that defied belief.

From an outsider's perspective, it looked like a battle between Sadako and Dracula—two mythical beings locked in a surreal and deadly dance.

Charlie saw his moment and executed a flawless counterattack. Batman sidestepped, crossing his arms to trap the woman's knife between the three blades on his arm guard. With a swift, powerful twist, the kitchen knife shattered into several pieces.

Disarmed, the woman in white didn't hesitate. She hurled the hilt aside and lunged at Batman with open hands, her fingers clawing the air. But Batman was quicker. He stepped aside and pressed a small propeller to her lower abdomen in one fluid motion.

The propeller ignited, a burst of transparent flame erupting from its tiny nozzles. The sheer force of the propulsion sent the woman in white hurtling across the kitchen. She crashed into the entrance door with a resounding bang, knocking it off its hinges and tumbling into the hallway, door panel and all.

As she fell, something dislodged from her and landed on the floor with a soft thud.

Felix, still reeling from the events that had just unfolded, stared at the object in disbelief.

It looked suspiciously like… a wig?

Chapter Text

A Wig?

Felix squinted, his mind racing to make sense of what he was seeing. The strands of long, black hair that had so eerily concealed the figure's face now lay limp on the floor. He leaned closer, the faint light reflecting off the synthetic fibers confirming his suspicion. It was indeed a wig; the messy black hair that had added to the unsettling presence of the "woman" in white was nothing more than a disguise.

His gaze snapped back to the figure in front of him, who was slowly rising from the debris-strewn floor. Felix's pulse quickened as he took in the full sight of the supposed "female ghost." The figure stood, and only then did Felix notice the details that had eluded him in the chaos.

This wasn't a ghost, nor was it a woman.

It was a man clad in a white lace nightdress, the delicate fabric starkly contrasting with the harshness of his surroundings. The nightdress, clearly intended for a woman, hung awkwardly on his frame, the lace frills giving the whole scene a bizarre, almost surreal quality. The wig had once brought the illusion—transforming this man into a spectral figure that could easily pass for a ghost in the dim, flickering light.

But without the wig, the truth was laid bare. His face was unnaturally pale, as if all blood had drained from it, leaving only a sickly, pallid complexion. His features, no longer hidden beneath the tangle of fake hair, were sharp and gaunt. Shadows clung to the hollows of his cheeks, making his eyes appear sunken and hauntingly dark. The contrast between his deathly pale skin and the blood smeared on the kitchen knife he held only heightened the eerie atmosphere.

Felix's mind raced to reconcile what he was seeing. The thought struck him—this wasn't just any man. The unhealthy pallor, the nightdress, the bloody knife... it was all part of a disturbing and elaborate ruse. But why? And then it clicked.

So it turned out to be a man in women's clothing? Felix thought, a mix of astonishment and disbelief flashing across his face. His thoughts twisted further. Has the world's strange tendencies spread even to the afterlife? Are even the dead now dressing up in women's clothes?
But no, this wasn't a ghost.

It couldn't be.

His training with the Service Division had taught him that most so-called paranormal events—those whispered-about hauntings and ghost sightings—were more often than not linked to infected individuals. The infection had a way of warping reality, making the impossible seem real. Felix remembered the information he'd gathered before heading into this mission, and a theory began to form in his mind.

The man standing before him could very well be Ethan. Reports had said that Ethan had been declared dead, a casualty of a tragic accident. But perhaps that diagnosis had been premature. Maybe the infection had placed him in a state so close to death that the doctors had been fooled. And now, the infection had somehow revived him, pulling him back from the brink. That would explain the disappearance of his body.

With this realization, Felix felt a rush of clarity. If this wasn't a haunting or an infected person, he knew exactly how to proceed. After all, this was what he was trained for—handling the infected was his job, his specialty.

Ethan, now standing without his wig, seemed to regain some semblance of awareness. He looked down at himself as if seeing his body for the first time. His gaze was vacant, almost as if he were a stranger in his own skin. Slowly, he raised his eyes to meet Felix's and then looked over to Batman, who stood poised for action. There was a moment of silence, broken only by the faint sound of Ethan's ragged breathing.

"You have to stop her," Ethan said suddenly, his voice weak, trembling. The sound of it was barely above a whisper, as if he were forcing the words out. "Emma... I don't know why, but she's not herself anymore."

Felix's brows furrowed in confusion. "Emma?" he repeated, trying to piece together the fragmented information Ethan was providing.

"It wasn't her who came back to life," Ethan continued, his voice cracking with emotion. "It's something else. But no one believed me. Dr. Li... he's already been hurt. You have to stop her from hurting others..."

Felix stood still, processing what Ethan was saying. Though he was new to fieldwork, Felix was quick-witted and had an instinctive grasp of the situation. Images and details from the case flickered through his mind like the rapid cuts of a film reel, each piece slowly falling into place.

There had been an accident in the snowy mountains ten days ago—both lovers had been declared dead. The girl had been cremated; the boy's body had mysteriously disappeared. Ethan's strange reports to the FBI, his appearance now as a knife-wielding figure in women's clothing, the dismembered body parts stuffed into a refrigerator...
"You mean to stop Emma?" Felix asked, trying to keep his voice steady. "But how? She's long dead."

"I told you, but you don't believe me," Ethan replied, shaking his head as if the weight of the world rested on his shoulders. "She's not dead. She's been here these past days, with me. But she's not normal—she's becoming something... something evil and terrifying..."
Felix's eyes narrowed as he considered Ethan's words. There was desperation in his voice, a deep-seated fear that chilled Felix to his core. But there was also something off, something Felix couldn't quite put his finger on.

"In that case, where is she now?" Felix pressed, his voice sharper. "If she's really in this apartment, why hasn't she shown herself?"
Ethan's response was immediate—he choked on his words, his expression blank and unreadable. He seemed to struggle with something, a battle raging within him that Felix could only guess at.
"She's dead. She was cremated last week, and deep down, you know it," Felix said, his tone softening, trying to reach the person still hiding somewhere within Ethan's fractured psyche. "But you can't, or maybe you won't, accept that fact.

So you imagine she's not really dead. You imagine that she came back to life and is still the woman you love. But there are times when you can hold on to your imagination, so you convince yourself she's the one becoming strange, becoming crazy, and hurting others. But in reality, it was you who did those things."
Standing nearby, Charlie watched the exchange with growing unease. The pieces of the puzzle were starting to come together in his mind, and he found himself recalling a similar plotline from an old movie he'd seen years ago. It was almost uncanny how the situation mirrored that story.

Ethan's head drooped lower, his face now hidden entirely in shadow, his features obscured by darkness. He looked defeated, a man who had been stripped of everything—hope, sanity, and maybe even his humanity.

Is this really happening? Charlie wondered, a mix of skepticism and fascination. He hadn't expected Felix to be so insightful, so perceptive. Of course, given that his expectations for his teammates hadn't been particularly high, it wasn't a surprise that Felix had exceeded them.

So far, the agents of the service Division had reminded Charlie of the Gotham City Police Department—capable, yes, and able to handle cases on their own, but still a step below Batman. They had their moments, but they weren't the main act. In fact, they often seemed to adopt a deferential attitude whenever Batman was around, slipping into a "follow the leader" mentality.
Felix seemed to be growing more confident with every second. Seeing Ethan lower his head and offer no resistance only reinforced Felix's belief that his deductions were correct.

"We all lose people we care about, and I know how hard that can be," Felix said, his voice soothing, almost tender. "But life goes on, and sometimes... sometimes accidents happen.
The dead are gone, and we have to learn to move forward. She wouldn't want you to be stuck in the past because of her... and she certainly wouldn't want you to do something wrong in her name, would she?"

Ethan's body began to tremble, the shaking subtle at first but growing more pronounced with each passing moment. He hunched over, his face buried in his hands as he began to sob.
"... I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice thick with sorrow.

"It's okay. It's not your fault," Felix replied, exhaling a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "We're going to get you the help you need."

Felix allowed himself a small smile. He had been trained extensively on how to handle infected individuals, and he knew that sometimes, all it took was helping them see the truth to pull them back from the brink. Similar cases had come up in his training—cases where the infected weren't fully aware of their actions but could be brought back to reality if guided correctly.
Of course, the fundamental rule with infected individuals remained unchanged. If their infection level exceeded 50%, they were considered beyond saving, even if they regained some semblance of consciousness. And if it went over 80%, the infected person was effectively dead on a biological level.

Given Ethan's case—a man who had seemingly come back from the dead—it was likely his infection rate was far beyond 80%.
Even so, the mission was clear.

Ethan was dead. The dead should stay dead, buried safely in the ground where they couldn't harm anyone else. Whether he wanted to or not, Ethan posed a danger, a risk of spreading the infection to others.

Ethan closed his eyes and slowly knelt on the floor, his head bowed, his body language that of a man who had lost everything. He muttered "sorry" under his breath, the words barely audible, as if he had completely surrendered.

Now, it was just a matter of sending the dead back to their grave, wrapping up this mission, and making a cool exit—maybe by jumping out of the window.
Felix could already see the experience stacking up, a successful mission in the bag.

But just as these thoughts flickered through his mind, Charlie's sharp eyes caught something—a flashing attack warning symbol on the side of the screen.
His pupils dilated, and instinct, honed through countless hours of practice, took over. His fingers moved on their own, clicking the right mouse button in a reflexive motion.
Batman shifted his body just in time, deftly dodging a punch that seemed to come out of nowhere, the blow barely missing its mark. But even someone with Batman's experience couldn't predict the follow-up. A powerful kick landed squarely on his chest, sending him skidding across the floor, his armor scraping against the rough surface.

As Batman regained his balance, a figure emerged from the shadows, revealing a sinister, smiling face.

Chapter Text

After just one glance, Charlie knew that the man standing before him was unlike anyone he had ever encountered. The man's disheveled hair hung in greasy strands, his face seemingly smeared with oil, giving his skin an unnaturally slick appearance. But what struck Charlie the most was the grim smile plastered across the man's face—a smile that, despite its unsettling nature, felt disturbingly familiar.

"Batman, that's what you call yourself, right?" The man's voice oozed with mockery, his smile widening as he spoke. "I knew we'd meet again."

For a moment, Charlie was caught off guard, but then, realization dawned on him. His mind flashed back to the last incident, the one where he had faced a man known as Greg Hunter. He remembered the final moments—the beheading, the end of a seemingly insurmountable foe. But now, standing before this man with that same twisted grin, Charlie knew the truth.

These different faces, these varying identities, all belonged to the same person. The previous "Greg" had been nothing more than a puppet, a mere facade for the true mastermind who had never revealed himself. The enemy had not been defeated; the incident had never been resolved.

A low, mocking laugh rumbled from the man's throat. "Hahaha, you guessed it, didn't you? That's right, it's still me you're facing, and here we are again," he sneered, his voice dripping with dark amusement. "Surprising, isn't it? As I said before, I'm 'nothing'—no matter what you do, no matter how you try, I can't be destroyed."

The man's laughter filled the room, a haunting echo that seemed to reverberate off the walls. "Don't pretend you're not surprised—I can see through you. How much less fun would you have had without me..."

But before the man could finish his taunting, Batman's cloak swept through the air, a dark shadow in the dim light, and a bat dart shot forward with deadly precision. The man's eyes narrowed as he reacted with uncanny speed, turning his body just enough to avoid the dart mid-sentence.

"You're really impatient," the man sneered, his grin stretching wider as he dodged. "I bet you're the type to skip the foreplay and go straight to insertion, aren't you?"

Batman remained silent, his focus unbroken. He closed the distance between them in a few swift strides, his movements fluid and controlled. With a flicker of movement, he delivered a punch aimed at the man's torso, the glove crackling with the trace of high-voltage electricity.

The man twisted his body with almost unnatural agility, sidestepping the punch just in time. "Haha, a high-voltage shock hidden in the glove, right? This time, I won't be caught off guard like last time."

In their previous encounter, Batman had managed to surprise the man, catching him off guard with his tactical prowess. But now, the man was prepared, his awareness heightened. His reflexes, sharp and preternatural, allowed him to evade each of Batman's attacks with ease. Charlie's fingers danced across the keyboard, his hands moving with lightning speed as he executed a complex series of commands, but no matter how fast he was, the man's reactions were faster.

The room became a flurry of movement, the clashing of two formidable opponents. The man's physical strength was staggering—enough to rival even Batman, who was at the peak of human capability. Every strike, every parry, was met with resistance that sent shockwaves through the air. And yet, despite his raw power, the man moved with a fluidity that defied the laws of nature. His agility was almost inhuman, his body bending and twisting in ways that seemed impossible.

Charlie's mind raced as he tried to keep up, his hands a blur over the controls. The fight was intense, the sound of rapid key presses and mouse clicks filling his small, darkened room. The force of his inputs was so fierce that the keyboard creaked under the pressure, the mouse emitting a low, steady hum as it was pushed to its limits.

Then, without warning, a gunshot rang out, cutting through the chaos. Charlie's heart skipped a beat as he saw the muzzle flash, the gun seemingly appearing out of nowhere. The barrel, a black hole of death, was aimed directly at Batman's chest, and before Charlie could react, the trigger was pulled again.

The first shot missed, but the second hit home, the impact sending shockwaves through Batman's body. Despite the armor absorbing much of the force, the power of the shot was undeniable. The screen in front of Charlie flickered, the image momentarily distorted as Batman was blasted backward, crashing through a wall with a sickening thud.

Charlie's eyes widened in shock. When did he pull out a gun?

But then Charlie realized the truth: the man hadn't pulled out a gun at all. His hand had become the gun. The entire palm had transformed into a gun barrel, a twisted mockery of human anatomy.

Charlie's breath caught in his throat. What is this? Superpowers? Technology?

"Whether it was last time or this time, I've been conducting an experiment—a test of my abilities," the man said, his voice calm and measured despite the madness in his eyes. "Thanks to the last test, my power has evolved even further."

He paused, that twisted smile creeping back onto his face. "Your appearance was an accident, an anomaly in my experiment. But I like anomalies... they make things interesting."

As the man spoke, Felix, who had been watching and waiting for an opening, saw his chance. With a quick, fluid motion, he raised his gun and fired, having taken the opportunity to reload earlier. The bullet sliced through the air with a sharp hiss, its trajectory true.

But the man didn't even flinch. The bullet struck his body, tearing through flesh and bone, but the man remained utterly unfazed. It was as if he hadn't been hit at all. He turned his head slowly, almost mechanically, fixing Felix with that same horrifying smile.

In an instant, the gun barrel that was now his hand swiveled toward Felix. Felix's pupils contracted in fear, his body moving on instinct as he dove behind a nearby pillar, narrowly avoiding the gunfire that erupted from the man's arm.

But the man was relentless. He moved with terrifying speed, closing the distance between them in the blink of an eye. With a single, powerful strike, he knocked the gun from Felix's hand, the weapon clattering uselessly to the floor. Felix reacted quickly, ducking low and aiming a kick at the man's knee joint, hoping to destabilize him.

But it was like kicking a steel beam. The man didn't budge an inch.

In response, the man raised his knee and delivered a devastating kick of his own. Felix barely had time to cross his arms in front of him before the blow landed, the force of it sending him flying backward. His arms went numb from the impact, and he crashed to the ground with a heavy thud, pain radiating through his body.

At the same time, Batman took advantage of the distraction, throwing a shock device at the man. But the man twisted his body in a way that defied logic, his movements almost serpentine as he slid out of the device's path. The shock device embedded itself in the wall, releasing a burst of electricity that crackled through the air, but the man was already out of range.

"I originally planned to use that girl for my experiment," the man continued, his tone indifferent, as if discussing the weather. "The one who died in the mountains."

"But her darkness was too weak. No resentment toward the world, no strong feelings of regret, not even much fear of death—she wasn't a suitable subject for my infection experiments..."

As the man spoke, Batman moved in again, his experience and skill guiding him as he engaged the man in close combat. Charlie's hands flew over the keyboard, his eyes focused on the screen as he executed a series of defensive maneuvers. Batman dodged the man's attacks with precision, his electric glove crackling as he landed a solid punch to the man's chest.

The shock sent the man reeling, his words cut off as the current coursed through his body. But it wasn't enough to stop him. He staggered backward, a strange, hollow laugh escaping his lips as he shook off the effects of the shock.

"Haha, but this boy—he's a real treasure," the man sneered, his eyes gleaming with dark amusement. "The guilt of failing to protect the girl, watching the one he loved die, the self-doubt, the regret... Dying in such grief made him the perfect guinea pig.

But I must say, the final result surprised even me. Haha, I didn't expect him to create such self-deceiving fantasies..."

Ethan, who had been standing frozen in place, his mind reeling from the sudden onslaught of memories and emotions, finally recognized the man. His eyes widened in horror, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps.

"It's you?" Ethan gasped, his voice trembling with disbelief and fear. "You're the one who...?"

"Yes, I'm the one who gave you this precious opportunity," the man replied, tilting his head to the side, his grin widening into something monstrous. "You're welcome."

Pain contorted Ethan's face as the full weight of the truth hit him. The man's words echoed in his mind, each one a dagger to his heart.

It was suddenly clear why Ethan had been the only one to become infected. And in that moment of clarity, he realized something even more heartbreaking: Emma had died peacefully.

She had no regrets, no lingering resentment, no fear of death. In her final moments, she believed that the rescue team had arrived in time and that at least her boyfriend, Ethan, would be saved. Her last thoughts had been of relief, thinking that she had protected him in some small way.

If she had any regret at all, it was that she wouldn't get to see the person she cared about one last time.

She had been so kind, so understanding, that even in the face of death, she hadn't harbored any darkness that could be exploited. Even the worst devils couldn't twist her pure spirit into something malevolent.

But Ethan had failed her.

The realization hit him like a physical blow, causing his knees to buckle. If she could see him now, see what he had become... would she be disappointed? Would she see him as a monster, just like the one who had manipulated him into this state?

It was all... this man's fault.

Ethan's once lifeless eyes now blazed with anger, a fire that had been smothered by grief and guilt now rekindled by righteous fury. His hands trembled, not with fear, but with a growing, uncontrollable rage. A roar built up inside him, a primal scream of anguish and fury that tore from his throat like the cry of a wounded animal.

"Hahahaha, that's it, that's it. You see, you've found your energy again," the man cackled, his voice filled with sick satisfaction as he watched Ethan struggle with his emotions.

The man was in the midst of dodging another of Batman's quick-gel explosives, the device exploding behind him and sending debris flying. The explosion buried a collapsed table and shattered pieces of rubble, but the man didn't even flinch.

Ethan, consumed by his rage, charged at the man with reckless abandon, his movements wild and uncoordinated. His mind was clouded by a single, overpowering desire—to tear this monster apart with his bare hands.

But the man didn't even spare Ethan a glance. He raised his arm casually, and with a single, almost lazy motion, he fired the gun that had once been his hand. The blast struck Ethan square in the chest, the force of it sending him flying backward like a ragdoll. Ethan crashed into the wall, his body crumpling to the ground in a heap.

Ethan's attack had failed spectacularly, but it had served one purpose: it had created an opening for Charlie.

Batman surged forward, taking advantage of the momentary distraction. His fist crackled with electricity as he delivered a powerful uppercut to the man's face. The impact was brutal—Batman's punch landed with such force that it distorted the man's features, sending saliva and blood flying.

But even as his head snapped back, even as the pain registered in his twisted mind, the man continued to laugh, the sound muffled and distorted by his broken, bleeding mouth.

Batman followed up with a second punch, but the man, despite the damage he had taken, twisted his body and dodged the blow. His movements were almost serpentine, unnervingly fluid. He reached out with one hand, his fingers clamping down on Batman's fist with a crushing grip, intentionally avoiding the shock ports on the glove.

With a sickening crunch, the man crushed the built-in shock device in Batman's left glove, sparks flying from the damaged circuitry. The back of Batman's fist crackled with broken electrical arcs as the device short-circuited.

But Batman wasn't finished. He lashed out with his right fist, putting all his strength into the blow. The punch connected with the man's chest, the impact reverberating through his body. At the same moment, the barrel of the man's other hand, now transformed back into a gun, pressed against Batman's chest, the black muzzle aimed directly at the bat symbol on his armor.

Both blows landed simultaneously. The force of the gunshot blasted Batman backward, the armor absorbing the worst of the impact, but the sheer power still sent him flying across the room. Batman's body slammed into the wall with a heavy thud, cracking the concrete on impact.

The electric shock from Batman's punch spread through the man's body, momentarily disrupting his nervous system, but he shook it off with a maniacal grin, his laughter echoing through the room as he lunged forward, intent on finishing the fight.

But Charlie's hands never stopped moving on the keyboard. His mind raced as he executed command after command, his reflexes honed by countless hours of practice. Almost as soon as Batman hit the wall, Charlie activated the newly unlocked "Substitution" ability.

This was a chance to test out the new power—on an enemy that seemed unstoppable.

Batman crashed into the corner of the room, his back smashing through a weakened section of the wall, leaving a gaping hole in the concrete. The man, sensing victory, charged forward, his laughter growing more unhinged as he prepared to land the finishing blow. He raised his fist, his face twisted in a grotesque grin as he brought it down with all his might.

Boom!

The man's fist slammed into the wall, shattering the concrete and leaving a hole the size of a small boulder.

But Batman wasn't there.

He hadn't escaped just in time, nor had he hidden in the shadows. He had simply vanished—disappeared into thin air mere tenths of a second before the punch landed.

"Wha—?" The man's wild laughter died abruptly, his twisted grin faltering as he tilted his head in confusion. He withdrew his fist, staring at the empty space where Batman had been, his mind struggling to comprehend what had just happened.

A sudden rush of wind from behind caught the man's attention. He spun around, his reflexes sharp as ever, just in time to see a blur of movement—a disc-shaped object hurtling toward him at incredible speed.

Before he could react, the object struck him square in the face with a resounding crack. The force of the impact whipped his head back, sending him stumbling backward, his vision swimming. Blood sprayed from his nose and mouth, the sharp edges of the disc cutting into his flesh.

The man blinked in shock, his mind reeling from the unexpected attack. The disc circled back, arcing gracefully through the air before returning to its owner's hand with practiced ease.

Standing tall and imposing, his figure framed by the dim light filtering through the shattered windows, was a burly soldier. He was clad in a blue uniform, the fabric textured and reinforced with advanced combat materials. A steel helmet sat firmly on his head, adorned with white wings on either side, and emblazoned on his forehead was a large, unmistakable "A."

Captain America.

Chapter Text

The man tilted his head, a curious glint flickering in his unnerving smile. He seemed almost amused, as though the arrival of this new challenger had piqued his interest.

At that moment, Felix struggled to his feet, his arm hanging limply by his side after being dislocated by a brutal kick. He supported his injured arm with his good hand, his expression a mixture of confusion and pain. The towering figure before him, clad in dark blue with a shield emblazoned with a star, was completely foreign to him.

Where was Batman?

And who was this man with the round shield?

Felix and Ethan exchanged bewildered glances, neither of them able to comprehend what was happening. They had never seen anything like this before. How could they possibly understand that Charlie had just used a feature unique to his secondary account—a team exchange?

In the world of gaming, Charlie was no stranger to such mechanics. He had encountered similar features in countless other games. After reaching a certain level, players could choose multiple heroes for each battle. If one character fell in combat, the next could step in to continue the fight. The feature also allowed for mid-battle swaps, enabling players to avoid damage or escape dangerous situations by switching characters at the right moment.

This was Charlie's first battle since unlocking Captain America, and he relished the opportunity to put the hero to the test. No one in this world had ever seen a figure like this before, and Charlie intended to make the most of it.

Without hesitation, Captain America raised his shield and charged directly at the smiling man. The star on the shield gleamed in the dim light as the Captain's boots thudded against the floor with a steady, determined rhythm.

The man's eyes narrowed as he assessed the approaching threat. With a swift motion, his arm transformed, the hand morphing into the barrel of a gun. He fired directly at Captain America, the bullets zipping through the air with lethal intent, aimed squarely at the Captain's head. But to his surprise, Captain America didn't even flinch. The bullets ricocheted off the vibranium shield, bouncing away harmlessly, as though they were nothing more than pebbles striking solid rock.

Felix watched in stunned disbelief, his mind struggling to process what he was witnessing.

The material capable of withstanding bullets at such close range was impressive enough, but what was even more astonishing was that Captain America didn't budge, not even an inch, from the impact.

In the real world, the kinetic energy of a bullet is far more significant than what's often depicted in movies. Even if bulletproof equipment can prevent penetration, the force of the impact is still considerable, often knocking the person wearing it backward. But this shield, it seemed, absorbed not just the bullets but also all the kinetic energy they carried.

How was this possible?

Almost in an instant, Captain America had closed the distance, his shield leading the charge like an impenetrable wall. The man, recognizing the immediate danger, moved swiftly, sidestepping and firing in quick succession, his body a blur of motion as he tried to maintain distance.

But Charlie, now fully immersed in his role as Captain America, expertly adjusted the camera angle with a flick of the mouse. The shield followed the man's every move, deflecting each bullet with precision. The resonating clang of metal on metal filled the room as the vibranium shield intercepted the onslaught, protecting the Captain from harm.

Seeing his bullets rendered ineffective, the man decided to switch tactics. Abandoning his gun, his arm shifted once again, this time forming into a slender, deadly blade. With a feral grin, he slashed at Captain America, aiming to cut through his defense.

The man's shapeshifting ability reminded Charlie of an old series called "Parasite," where characters could morph their bodies into weapons. But Captain America was no ordinary opponent.

The blade came down in a vicious arc, but Captain America's shield met it head-on. The blade skidded across the shield's surface, sending a shower of bright sparks into the air, but it left no mark. The shield's vibranium absorbed the force of the strike, nullifying the attack with ease.

The man darted to the side, his eyes narrowing as he searched for an opening. He feinted to the left, then struck from the right, the blade angled for a quick, lethal stab.

But Captain America was quicker. The shield shifted slightly, and there was a sharp clang as the blade was deflected once more.

The man's grin faltered for a moment, but he quickly recovered, his expression twisting into one of manic determination. His left hand morphed into a larger-caliber gun, while his right hand, still a blade, danced in a blur of motion. He attacked with a flurry of strikes, the blade moving like a whirlwind as he fired shots from different angles, hoping to overwhelm his opponent.

But Captain America's shield moved like an extension of his own body, spinning and tilting with impeccable timing. The bullets and blade strikes bounced off harmlessly, unable to penetrate the Captain's flawless defense.

The man paused, his confidence wavering. Felix, watching the scene unfold, felt a deep sense of awe and disbelief. Was this new hero some kind of indestructible juggernaut?

Charlie was beginning to appreciate just how powerful Captain America's shield truly was. Unlike Batman's countermeasures, which required precise timing and strategic planning, Captain America's defense was straightforward and nearly invincible. All Charlie needed to do was hold down the right button, and the vibranium shield took care of the rest.

Captain America was practically a walking fortress—whatever the smiling man threw at him, the shield deflected it effortlessly.

What made the shield so remarkable wasn't just its durability. Vibranium, a material unique to the Marvel universe, absorbed energy in a way that defied the laws of physics. Whether it was kinetic impact, superhuman abilities, or even magical forces, the shield could absorb and nullify them all, making it one of the most resilient defensive tools ever created.

And unlike Iron Man's various suits of armor, which were often dismantled or destroyed in battle, Captain America's shield had a long history of surviving the toughest fights. It could block bullets and explosions, smash through enemy defenses, and even serve as an air cushion for high-altitude landings. It was a versatile tool, useful in both battle and everyday life, making it the ultimate weapon for a soldier like Captain America.

The man swung his blade again, but this time, Charlie timed his response perfectly. Captain America raised his shield at just the right moment, and the air rang with the sharp "ding" of metal on metal as sparks flew from the impact.

Perfect shield block!

In many action games, there's a shield counter mechanic—when an enemy attacks, raising the shield at the precise moment can trigger a counter effect, stunning the enemy and creating an opening for a counterattack.

The man staggered back, his blade curling from the force of the block. He struggled to regain his balance, his mind racing as he realized how dire the situation had become. He raised his gun, aiming to fire at point-blank range to keep Captain America at bay. But the moment he pulled the trigger, the bullet ricocheted off the shield and struck him in the face.

Though the man's body was tough, able to heal itself from most injuries, being struck by his own bullet was still a humiliating blow.

Captain America seized the opportunity. With a powerful swing, he slammed the shield into the man's face. The impact was devastating—the man's head snapped back as he was sent flying out of the room, crashing into the corridor. He slid across the floor, his momentum only stopping when he collided with the wall in the living room, embedding himself in the plaster. A TV mounted on the wall dislodged from the impact and fell directly onto his head.

Felix stared in disbelief as the man's body was flung across the room like a ragdoll.

What kind of power is this? Felix wondered, his mind reeling. Is it really possible for a human to send someone flying that far with a single blow?

Which of these two was the real monster?

What was even more shocking was that throughout the entire confrontation, the man had been using every trick in his arsenal—shapeshifting, attacking from all angles, trying desperately to find a weakness in Captain America's defense.

But Captain America had simply held up his shield, deflecting everything, and when the moment was right, he had delivered a single, devastating blow that sent the man flying.

Captain America: simple, effective, and nearly invincible.

Yet, the man was unbelievably resilient. After a moment, he began to stir, lifting the rubble and the TV that had fallen on him. Gasping for breath, he started laughing again, the sound filled with a mix of madness and grim determination.

"Haha, interesting... so what about this?"

As he spoke, his hands began to shift once more. His forearms combined, morphing into a long, thick, black cylinder.

Felix's eyes widened in horror as he recognized the shape. His heart pounded in his chest, panic gripping him.

Al bazooka!

What kind of ability is this? Felix thought, his mind racing. Can he even replicate heavy weaponry like this?

Before he could process what was happening, Felix instinctively dove to the side, kicking over a table that was already on the verge of collapse to use as cover.

A deadly whistling sound filled the air, the unmistakable noise of a rocket launcher firing.

The explosion was deafening, the blast so powerful that it felt as if the entire building was shaking. The roar of the explosion rattled Felix's bones, the sheer force of it pressing against his eardrums. Shrapnel tore through the flimsy table, scratching his skin, and the shockwave rocked the entire room, sending debris flying in all directions. The force of the explosion, accompanied by an ear-splitting bang, made it feel as though the entire world was collapsing around him.

Captain America was at the center of the blast, taking the full brunt of the rocket head-on. The impact hurled him backward, engulfing his figure in a cloud of smoke and flames. The room shook with the force of the explosion, the walls cracking under the pressure.

The man's laughter rang out again, louder and more deranged than before. The corners of his mouth stretched into a grotesque smile, his teeth bared in a mocking sneer. His laughter seemed to say, "Let's see you block that, if you can."

But his laughter abruptly stopped, freezing in his throat.

As the smoke and dust began to settle, a figure emerged from the haze. Captain America walked forward, his shield held firmly in front of him. The iconic star on the vibranium shield gleamed through the lingering smoke, untouched by the explosion. Although the wall behind him bore the outline of a human-shaped hole, Captain America himself was completely unharmed.

Felix, who had been lying on the ground, slowly lifted his head, his eyes widening in shock and disbelief as he took in the scene.

Did this guy just take an RPG shot... and walk away unscathed?

Was this man even human?

Chapter Text

The man continued to laugh, but the sound was now strained, lacking the infectious energy it once had. His grin, once broad and confident, now seemed forced, and a glimmer of doubt flickered in his eyes as he stared at the figure in front of him—the man with the shield.

A moment ago, he had been so confident of his superiority, so sure that his level of evolution placed him above anyone who might challenge him. But now, confronted with this unshakable, indomitable fortress of a man, that confidence was beginning to wane.

No matter how powerful he thought he was, no matter how many weapons he conjured, they all seemed useless against this impenetrable defense.

The shield alone was a formidable tool. Its size and durability made it an excellent defense, capable of protecting the vital parts of the body. But the man quickly realized that it wasn't just the shield's physical properties that made it so effective; there was something more at play, something almost... supernatural.

For one, the shield seemed to defy all logic. No matter where or how it was thrown, it always found its way back to its wielder's hand as if it had a mind of its own. Whether it bounced off walls, struck enemies, or simply ricocheted through the environment, it followed a path that defied the laws of physics. Even when enemies managed to catch it, there was an eerie tendency for them to throw it back, as if compelled by some unseen force—much like how Luke, who once tried to wield it himself, ended up hurling it back as though it belonged to the captain alone.

But the shield's most peculiar attribute was its ability to draw the attention of every opponent it faced. It was as though the shield itself taunted them, daring them to focus all their attacks on it. It didn't matter whether the enemy was a human, a monstrous creature, an alien, or even a machine—every single one of them seemed driven to attack the shield first as if their survival depended on it. This inexplicable compulsion made the shield not just a defense but a weapon of distraction, ensuring that its wielder remained unscathed while his enemies exhausted themselves trying to breach its defenses.

This peculiar quality of the shield was what allowed Captain America, despite his otherwise average physical abilities compared to his more super-powered comrades, to charge headlong into the front lines of battle, time and time again. Whether it was a barrage of bullets from lesser foes or the devastating blows of a god-like enemy, everything seemed to gravitate toward the shield, as if under some cosmic decree, it must be shattered before victory could be claimed.

Charlie, who was operating Captain America, was well aware of these properties. He knew that the shield wasn't just a piece of equipment—it was an extension of the captain himself, a symbol of his indomitable will and his unyielding spirit. And right now, Charlie wasn't about to give his opponent a second chance.

After blocking the initial RPG shot, Charlie swiftly maneuvered the captain forward, aiming to close the distance. The man, realizing that the RPG was useless at such close quarters, frantically tried to summon another weapon, but it was too late. The shield crashed into his face with bone-shattering force, driving him backward into the wall. The impact was so intense that it seemed to reverberate through the entire building; before the man could recover, Captain America's fist connected with his lower abdomen in a devastating punch.

The force of the blow was so immense that the man's body crumpled inward, his stomach nearly expelling its contents as he was launched through the wall. The drywall and brick gave way like paper, and the man tumbled to the ground amidst a shower of debris.

"Ha...haha... impressive..." he gasped, his voice ragged, his earlier bravado all but gone. Despite the agony wracking his body, he forced out another laugh, a hollow, desperate sound that echoed in the room.

Charlie couldn't help but feel a grudging respect for the man's persistence. Even after such a beating, he was still trying to keep up appearances, still clinging to the remnants of his pride. But respect wouldn't stop Charlie from finishing the job. Without hesitation, he operated the captain to move in once more, closing the distance between them in the blink of an eye.

The man, still half-kneeling on the ground, desperately tried to defend himself. He stretched out his right hand, which began to deform and shift, rapidly expanding into the shape of a shield—a crude imitation of the captain's own.

It was a hemispherical black shield, a solid, heavy-looking object that seemed as if it could withstand a significant impact. The man's face contorted into a sneer as he held it up, clearly thinking he had found a way to counter the captain's attacks.

But Charlie could see through the man's ploy. The hastily-formed shield might look formidable, but it was nothing compared to the captain's iconic shield. The captain's shield wasn't just a physical object—it was an extension of the man's spirit, a symbol of his resilience and determination. There was no way this hastily conjured imitation could stand against it.

The captain didn't even hesitate. He didn't change his move, didn't try to evade—he simply punched the black shield with all the strength he could muster.

The impact was explosive. The captain's fist collided with the black shield, and for a moment, it seemed like the entire world had stopped. Then, with a loud crack, the black shield began to buckle. The force traveled through the shield, shattering it from within, and the man's arm, which was holding the shield, twisted and snapped with a sickening crunch.

The man's entire body was flung backward, his shield disintegrating into shards as he was thrown across the room. His pupils dilated in shock, and for the first time since the battle began, his manic grin faltered.

This punch... it was impossible. No human should possess such power, such overwhelming strength.

Before he could fully process what had just happened, the captain was already on him again. With a fluid motion, the captain took two steps forward, leaped into the air, and delivered a powerful kick to the man's chest. The force of the blow was catastrophic—his ribs crunched under the pressure, his internal organs twisted and compressed, and his entire body was propelled through the room, smashing into the large window behind him.

The glass exploded outwards with a deafening crash, shards flying in every direction. The impact sent spiderweb cracks racing across the remaining glass, the whole window teetering on the brink of collapse.

But Charlie wasn't done. He operated the captain with precision, throwing the shield with a flick of the wrist. It soared through the air, slicing through the remaining glass as it homed in on its target—the man's head.

The shield struck with a resounding thud, snapping the man's head back and shattering the glass behind him completely. The force was enough to send the man tumbling backward, out of the window, his body dragging a trail of blood as it plummeted from the sixth floor.

The man hit the ground with a sickening crunch, his body crumpling like a rag doll against the concrete.

Charlie watched through the captain's eyes as the man lay there, motionless, his once menacing laughter now replaced by ragged gasps for breath.

For a moment, the street was silent, save for the faint hum of city life in the distance. Then, slowly, impossibly, the man began to stir.

His bones cracked and groaned as they re-aligned themselves, his flesh knitting back together with an almost unnatural speed. Blood continued to ooze from his wounds, but the man forced himself to rise, his body trembling with the effort. He managed to get to his feet, his grin returning, though it was twisted with pain.

As he stood, hunched and gasping, he let out a weak, wheezing laugh, a pale echo of his previous bravado. His joints popped and creaked as they settled back into place, his arms shaking as he raised his hands to his mouth, trying to stifle the blood that poured from his lips.

But before he could fully stand, before he could even catch his breath, the shadow of the captain loomed over him once more.

From above, the shield descended with a terrible swiftness, slamming into the man's skull with a bone-shattering impact. The concrete beneath him shattered like glass, and his skull burst open like a ripe melon, splattering blood and brain matter across the pavement.

Standing by the shattered window on the sixth floor, Felix stared in disbelief at the scene below. He couldn't comprehend what he had just witnessed. Did this guy really just jump from the sixth floor? Did he really just deliver such a brutal, unrelenting assault on that man?

For a moment, all Felix could do was stand there, his mouth hanging open, his mind struggling to process the sheer brutality and power he had just witnessed.

---

[editor's note - I feel like the fight started off brutal and cool but ended anti-climatic. I'm a bit disappointed.]

Chapter Text

After confirming that the smiling man's head had been reduced to a paste and that he was thoroughly, unequivocally dead, Charlie finally allowed himself a sigh of relief.
The sight of a man, fully armed with a shield, hurling himself off a building as if shouting "Demacia!" might have looked utterly insane to any onlooker, but Charlie had his reasons for taking such a drastic approach.
[Editor's note - A League of Legends Reference]
Captain America, after all, had experience with free-falling. One only had to recall the opening scene of Captain America 2, where he jumped out of a plane without a parachute, plunging straight into the ocean below. Once in the water, he easily infiltrated a ship, showcasing his unparalleled skills. Later in the same film, he dropped from the upper floors of the Aegis Trident building, landing with the grace of a cat and continuing his mission without so much as a stumble.
In comparison to those feats, a mere six-story building was nothing more than a small obstacle to him.
Once the task was confirmed complete, Charlie operated Captain America to leave the scene and logged off from the game. He felt the tension release from his body as reality crept back in.
It was time to cook.
[TL Note - I think you all know what meme to drop]
As the saying goes, people need food to function, and even heroes are not exempt from this basic rule. Charlie, who hadn't eaten dinner yet, had been so engrossed in the game that he hadn't noticed his hunger. But now, with his nerves relaxing after the intense session, his stomach made its demands known. Feeling the pangs of hunger, he hurriedly grabbed the packed meals from the table.
Most of the food has gotten cold, so Charlie decided to heat them up in the microwave.
---
Meanwhile, Ninth Special Service Division officials arrived at the scene, swiftly sealing off the area and taking the situation under control. The efficient operation left no room for error.
Felix, who had been on the scene, was immediately recalled to headquarters.
What had started as a routine investigation with a low threat level had rapidly escalated. News had spread that Batman and one of his shield-wielding allies were involved, drawing significant attention within the organization.
Moreover, the source of infection they were dealing with was suspected to be related to the Laughing Disaster, an event that had ended not long ago but still lingered in everyone's memory. There was a possibility that the source of infection had not been fully eradicated, making this a situation that required top-level attention.
According to standard protocol, agents were expected to submit a report to their superiors within a few days after a mission concluded. However, given the heightened concern and potential risks involved, the higher-ups demanded an immediate on-site report from the agents involved.
There were, however, two agents assigned to this mission. While Felix was quickly recalled to headquarters, Charlie, who was just settling in for a meal at home, received a sudden message instructing him to rush to headquarters to report as well.
Charlie was genuinely startled when he received the notification.
A report? What did they want him to report on?
Should he provide a detailed account of the various gourmet dishes he had sampled in Walgarh?
He couldn't see how this was his fault. After all, he was just following orders without any personal feelings involved. As the old saying goes, "The servant must obey." The captain had instructed him to eat and drink well, and so he did—perfectly reasonable, right?
The car arranged by headquarters arrived downstairs at his residence in record time. Charlie stepped in and soon found himself heading back to the flying graveyard, which he disliked so much. It wasn't long before he was face-to-face again with the generous captain who had provided him with food and drink earlier.
Felix greeted him with the same friendly demeanor, showing no signs of dissatisfaction with his teammate's seemingly lax approach. He even asked, with a smile, if the dinner had been to Charlie's liking.
Naturally, Charlie expressed his sincere gratitude for Felix's generosity.
Fortunately for Charlie, the leadership wasn't interested in the team's division of labor or cooperation arrangements. During the entire meeting, he remained a silent observer, essentially invisible while Felix presented the report.
None of the leaders seemed to care about Charlie's actions; their focus was solely on the outcomes.
Just as before, the video equipment Felix carried had captured the entire battle. The moment the experts saw Batman drop a smoke bomb and vanish without a trace, they exchanged puzzled glances, each more baffled than the last.
What kind of ability was that? None of them had seen anything like it before!
This ability wasn't documented in any known cases involving infected individuals.
And who had insisted earlier that Batman was just an ordinary person?
All eyes turned simultaneously to Professor Miyazaki, who furrowed his brow in deep thought before firmly stating, "He's an ordinary person; there's no mistake about it. This might be some kind of advanced space technology or a sophisticated cloaking device."
The collective gaze then shifted to the Minister of the Equipment Department, who was visibly annoyed. He rolled his eyes and pointed out that his department handled equipment, not magic. Did they think he could pull a miracle out of thin air?
The discussion yielded no conclusive answers, and then the footage of Captain America appeared on the screen, causing the room to erupt once more.
Recently, there had been rumors circulating in the city about the emergence of other mysterious heroes. However, the veracity of these claims had been questionable, with some reports muddled by the actions of overenthusiastic citizens attempting to imitate the heroes. Until now, there had been no evidence linking these disparate events.
But this footage changed everything.
Commander Ross narrowed his eyes as he watched the scene unfold. This confirmed their previous suspicions.
Batman wasn't acting alone. There was a formidable organization of unknown size and strength backing him. What was certain was that this organization was unparalleled in both individual power and technological capability.
If this were true, the situation was far more serious than anyone had anticipated. A lone knight in full armor was one thing, but an entire organization with unknown motives and capabilities was a different beast entirely.
No matter how strong an individual was, there were limits. But if this organization could send one hero after another, how could anyone hope to withstand that?
The senior officials quickly engaged in a heated discussion. Some speculated that this was an ancient super-organization, still active today, while others suggested it might be alien in origin. What was clear was that this was an extremely large and powerful entity with goals unknown and strength beyond anything they could currently comprehend.
Charlie remained silent, blending into the background as he listened to the speculations. He found the whole situation oddly amusing.
The mysterious organization they were imagining was far less grand than they thought. In reality, he was the only member of the organization, from commander to janitor.
The truth was, he didn't even need to go out into the field himself; there was a specialized humanoid super-powered mecha for that. All he had to do was sit comfortably at home, controlling everything remotely.
For now, Captain America's performance in the battle had been more than enough to astonish everyone.
The moment they saw him take a direct hit from a rocket and come out almost unscathed, jaws dropped. People with special abilities or awakened powers were rare, and those who did exist were usually just a bit strange. It was unheard of for someone to take a bazooka blast head-on and remain unharmed.
"That shield," Dr. Hines pointed out, his eyes narrowing as he examined the footage. "It's not even scratched on the surface."
Everyone quickly noticed this too, feeling as if they had seen the impossible.
A thin, light material that could withstand rockets without even scratching? If someone had proposed this idea without the footage, they would have been laughed out of the room and sent for a psychological evaluation.
But assuming the material was real, what happened to the rocket's kinetic energy? Where did it go?
The room buzzed with speculation as they replayed the footage. The shockwave from the explosion had almost seemed to lift the roof, yet the man holding the shield had remained the only thing standing in the debris. It was as if he were immune to the laws of physics.
Then they saw Captain America beat the smiling man down from the sixth floor with a few powerful punches and kicks before nonchalantly jumping down after him without hesitation.
The complexity of those maneuvers made them wonder if he had somehow circumvented Newton's laws altogether.
The disbelief was palpable. If Batman had given them the impression of a mage in technological armor, then Captain America was clearly a warrior—a tank with rough skin, thick flesh, and a powerful punch.
Seeing the reaction to Captain America, Charlie couldn't help but wonder what would happen when he eventually introduced someone like Superman into the mix. These officials would probably lose their minds entirely...

Chapter Text

After being astonished by Captain America's reality-defying feats during the first battle, the experts quickly zeroed in on another crucial element during their intense discussions.

It was his shield.

Professor Miyazaki was the first to articulate his thoughts. He pointed out that while the physical prowess displayed by the shield-wielding hero was undeniably impressive—almost to the point of being unbelievable—his most astonishing feats, such as surviving a direct hit from a bazooka and leaping from the sixth floor without a scratch, couldn't be attributed solely to raw physical strength.

Especially the elegant, almost effortless free fall.

Professor Miyazaki paused the video at the precise moment Felix was standing by the window, overlooking the ground from his first-person perspective. The screen showed the impact crater left by the smiling man upon landing, with cracks spiderwebbing across the concrete. In stark contrast, when Captain America landed, there wasn't so much as a dent in the ground beneath him.

This seemingly impossible outcome—one that defied all conventional physics—couldn't be explained by strength alone. There had to be something more at play, and Professor Miyazaki suspected it lay in the shield itself.

"Perhaps the shield has a mechanism that absorbs or cancels out the force of impacts," Professor Miyazaki speculated, his tone thoughtful. "Whether it's deflecting a shell or cushioning a high-altitude fall, the shield is clearly a key component. When he landed, he used the shield as a buffer, and the impact was neutralized by some special property of the shield, which is why there was no damage to the ground. This could also explain why he seems completely unaffected by the kinetic energy from the bazooka when he uses the shield to block it."

The room fell into a contemplative silence as everyone digested this new theory.

Soon, all eyes turned to Dr. Richard, the head of the Equipment Department, who had been trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible until this point.

"Dr. Richard…"

"Look, we don't have anything like this, I don't know how it works, and I've never even heard of anything remotely similar," Dr. Richard quickly denied any involvement or knowledge before the questions could even be fully formed.

He was visibly frustrated, thinking to himself that he was responsible for the Equipment Department, not for solving impossible riddles. Why did these people insist on throwing such baffling questions his way, as if he were some sort of wizard capable of pulling technological miracles out of thin air?

Why not just consult the magic conch while they were at it?

[TL Note - Spongebob reference]

Continuing to debate the properties of the shield wouldn't yield any productive results unless they could actually get their hands on it for study. The various units within Dr. Richard's department were already working around the clock, attempting to reverse-engineer the feasibility of Batman's gadgets from modern scientific perspectives. It felt like trying to solve the final problem in a complex math equation after already being handed the answer—an answer that might not even make sense.

The difficulty hadn't decreased much, and they were still being pressured by superiors, as if they were in an open-book exam that they should easily ace.

At the beginning of the meeting, Dr. Richard had allowed himself a moment of relief, thinking that since this time it was a warrior and not a magician, the responsibility for any biological enhancements would fall on Professor Miyazaki. Surely, this one would be out of his hands.

But as it turned out, even though the hero seemed to be a straightforward warrior, the real mystery lay in the shield strapped to his back. And once again, the burden of explaining the unexplainable fell on Dr. Richard.

Moreover, Batman's technologies, at least, had some discernible basis in propulsion, mobility, and other performance effects, which provided an entry point for research. But this shield? It looked like an ordinary, albeit exceptionally sturdy, piece of equipment with no clear starting point for investigation.

Dr. Richard could feel his frustration mounting, verging on despair.

Fortunately, the discussion didn't linger on the shield issue for too long. The meeting quickly moved on to the next pressing topic: the source of the infection.

The primary source of infection in this incident was undoubtedly Ethan Ward. The young man, driven to madness by the infection, had taken on the persona of his deceased girlfriend, attacking Dr. Li at the Central Hospital along with several other victims. Notably, these victims all shared a similar physical build to Emma Heart, suggesting a disturbing pattern in the choice of targets.

However, this time, the infection didn't appear to have spread significantly. At most, residents in the same building as Ethan reported feeling an eerie, unsettling presence, which had caused some mild psychological effects—nothing severe enough to warrant alarm.

The discussion then shifted to the enigmatic smiling man who had suddenly appeared.

Based on the video footage and Felix's detailed account, the smiling man seemed to have some connection to the previous incident involving Greg Hunter. In other words, it was likely that the same individual was orchestrating these events from the shadows.

The identity of the smiling man was soon uncovered.

His real name was Nagao Katsumi. Once a well-respected man, he was framed and unjustly imprisoned. Upon his release, he found his life in ruins—his family torn apart, his career in shambles, and his prospects for the future bleak. Nagao spiraled into a deep depression, unable to find work or meaning in his life, leading to one final result; suicide.

Greg Hunter, Ethan Ward, and now Nagao Katsumi all shared one grim commonality: they should have been dead.

"I proposed this theory before, and this incident seems to confirm it," Professor Miyazaki began, his tone grave. "The mastermind behind these events appears to possess a unique ability—one that allows him to infect those who are on the brink of death or who have already died.

Infected individuals resurrected from the dead seem to possess significantly enhanced powers. Moreover, the people they infect have a higher likelihood of leaving behind a spiritual residue after they're eliminated. These residual spirits can gather and potentially form an unknown entity, much like what we encountered during the previous incident."

Commander Ross, who had been silently absorbing the information, finally spoke up after a moment of contemplation. "So what you're saying is that we're dealing with an infected individual with enhanced capabilities. He can infect the dead and turn them into even more dangerous sources of infection."

The weight of this realization settled heavily over the room, causing a tense silence as everyone grappled with the implications.

If there was anything more terrifying than a madman, it was a madman with a plan and the power to execute it. Even worse was the idea that this madman had resources and the ability to wield them with precision and intent.

Much like Batman…

But if there was anything more terrifying than a lunatic with money, power, and a dark agenda, it was that he could spread his madness like a disease.

The atmosphere in the conference room grew even more somber, with each member lost in their own thoughts. Finally, Felix broke the silence.

"I think…"

His voice immediately drew the attention of everyone in the room.

"The mastermind behind all of this… He's a deeply twisted individual. He claims to be the embodiment of the 'nothingness' that people fear and believes that everyone harbors the same darkness he does. He's obsessed with proving that this darkness exists in everyone."

Professor Miyazaki nodded in agreement. "People with strong negative emotions—anger, resentment, fear—are more susceptible to infection. This is a fundamental principle in infection cases.

Even among the dead, only those who died harboring strong negative emotions—resentment, anger, fear—are likely candidates for his manipulation."

"Yes, that's exactly what I wanted to say," Felix continued, his voice gaining strength. "I heard him say that in this incident, he had hoped to infect the girl who died… but he found he couldn't.

Because she died without any resentment, without anger, and without fear."

Felix took a deep breath, gathering his thoughts before speaking again, his voice firm.

"What I'm trying to say is… the mastermind behind all of this was wrong. He wanted to prove that everyone was as dark as he is, but this incident proves the opposite.

I believe that's what Batman and the group behind him are also trying to show us. The darkness within us is the breeding ground for infection, especially in these troubled times. Demons, to some extent, are born from our own inner fears and failures.

But if we can inspire people to embrace the good within them, to confront their fears and overcome the darkness, we can cut the infection off at its source."

After a brief pause, Felix added with conviction, "I think that's what they're doing, what they're trying to communicate to us… like the signal that appeared that night."

His words resonated deeply, leaving the room in a contemplative silence. Even Charlie, who had unwittingly become the sole representative of the so-called "Batman Behind the Scenes Organization," was momentarily stunned by Felix's interpretation.

Is that really what they think?

But it actually makes a lot of sense…

…

The Grove Group Building.

Felix's maid, a statuesque woman with a composed demeanor, entered the opulent office with a handheld computer in hand. Galadin Grove, Felix's uncle and the formidable head of the family, sat behind a massive mahogany desk, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp. He accepted the device from her with a slight nod, his expression unreadable.

As he unlocked the screen, the footage Felix had captured during the recent battle played across the display. The image showed the tall hero, clad in a tight uniform, holding a shield with effortless grace. The hero easily overpowered the laughing infected, driving him from the sixth floor and then leaping down to finish the job with lethal precision.

"A new mysterious character? How intriguing," Galadin mused, a faint smile playing on his lips.

"I didn't expect it would be so advantageous for the young master to join the organization," the maid remarked with a respectful bow. "These are top-secret images from the Ninth Division; without him, we wouldn't have had access to such sensitive information."

Galadin glanced up at her, his smile widening slightly, though his eyes remained sharp and calculating.

"It wasn't just luck."

The maid tilted her head, a hint of curiosity in her otherwise composed demeanor.

"Felix believes he earned his way into the Ninth Division through his own merits. But the truth is, this path was set by the family long before he even knew it existed."

[TL Note - I'm like confused; I thought the family had never heard of the Division and were reluctant to let Felix enter. I hope this is not a contradiction but simply the author's way of saying the above statement was merely Felix's conjecture, but contrary to Felix's beliefs, the family was already aware]

Chapter Text

Ivan lay on his back on the black bench press rack, his muscles tensed as he pushed the 400kg barbell toward the ceiling. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead and slid down his sculpted body, highlighting the sheer effort required to lift such an immense weight.

For most people, bench pressing over 300 kilograms would be an extraordinary feat, something achievable only by elite athletes or those with superhuman strength. Even among the elite members of the Marvel team, the average bench press maxed out at around 550 kilograms. But to push beyond 400 kilograms—nearly 900 pounds—was pushing the boundaries of what even the strongest individuals could achieve. Yet, Ivan relished this challenge.

He loved the sensation of his strength being tested to its absolute limits. Every cell in his body was mobilized, every fiber of muscle squeezed to its fullest potential, his entire being teetering on the edge of its capabilities. With each press, he forced himself to go just a little further, to push his body and mind beyond the boundaries he had previously thought unbreakable.

This relentless drive kept him in peak physical condition, ensuring that every adversary he encountered would receive a brutal, VIP-level experience—from the orthopedic ward to the crematorium.

Throughout his intense workout, Ivan's gaze remained locked on a photo he had taped to the ceiling directly above his bench press station.

It was a picture of Batman.

The image quality was poor, the pixels blurry and indistinct, but it was the best he could obtain, meticulously enhanced through various image-processing techniques.

In truth, Ivan's collection of Batman photos extended far beyond this single image. The walls of his small, dimly lit room were plastered with all kinds of pictures of the Dark Knight. Some depicted him mid-punch, delivering justice with a swift blow. Others showed him leaping across rooftops, his cape billowing in the wind. Most were so blurred and grainy that it was difficult to discern if the figure was even human.

If the masked figure in these photos had been replaced by a beautiful girl in a school uniform, the sheer volume and obsessive nature of the collection would be enough to get someone arrested. But considering that the subject was a muscular man dressed in a peculiar bat suit, the entire scenario took on a more unsettling tone. One couldn't help but wonder what kind of person Ivan truly was to maintain such a shrine-like dedication to tracking down this mysterious vigilante.

Clang.

The sharp, metallic sound of the barbell clashing with the bench press rack reverberated through the room, signaling the end of Ivan's set.

He sat up slowly, his muscles burning from the exertion, and reached for the bottle of mineral water on the table beside him. Twisting off the cap, he took a large gulp, feeling the cool liquid soothe his parched throat. His enhanced physical conditioning allowed his muscles to recover quickly, the lactic acid dissipating as his body returned to a state of readiness.

As he rested, his eyes caught the flicker of a news program playing on the small TV in the corner of the room. The sound was low, almost inaudible, but something about the footage on the screen caught his attention. Reaching for the remote, Ivan turned up the volume, his focus sharpening.

On the screen, a female reporter stood in front of an apartment building, her hair whipping in the wind as she held a microphone, reporting live from the scene.

"An eyewitness reported seeing a laughing man fall from a tall building," the reporter said, her voice clear and professional. "Moments later, a masked man wielding a shield jumped from the upper floors and struck the man on the head with lethal force.

Authorities have confirmed that the laughing man was severely infected, but they have not released any information regarding the identity of the shield-wielding individual.

Additionally, reliable sources indicate that Batman may have also been involved in this altercation…"

Ivan narrowed his eyes, his expression hardening. His gaze drifted from the TV to the photo on the wall beside him, where the blurred figure of Batman was frozen in a moment of action, captured by the camera's lens.

Who exactly was this Batman? And why did he keep appearing in these increasingly bizarre incidents?

…

"Ah-choo!"

Charlie sneezed violently as soon as he stepped out of the car, hitching a ride home with Felix. The sneeze echoed in the quiet street, and Charlie rubbed his nose, a wry smile tugging at his lips. He couldn't help but think of the old saying: sneezing meant someone was either thinking of you, cursing you, or talking about you. Perhaps some neighborhood auntie was admiring his good looks again, or maybe someone was gossiping about him behind his back.

He made his way inside and, after locking the door behind him, pulled out his phone. A slew of unread messages from his good friend Walter lit up the screen. It looked like Walter had forgotten to do his homework for tomorrow's class and was now desperately seeking Charlie's help.

Charlie chuckled, quickly typing a response to let Walter know he'd send a photo of the completed homework as soon as he relaxed for a bit.

To his surprise, Walter's reply came almost immediately, laden with mischief: "Exhausted again?"

Charlie paused, taken aback. He was, admittedly, a bit worn out after remotely controlling the shield-bearing hero in a grueling battle against a ghoul in women's clothing, followed by a seemingly endless meeting where he was little more than decoration after barely managing to grab a bite to eat. But how did Walter know?

Before he could ponder the mystery further, another message from Walter popped up, this time with a smirking "I get it" emoji. And at that moment, Charlie understood his friend had completely misunderstood the situation.

It is often said that some people measure others by their own flawed standards. Just as some harbor deep-seated prejudices, others assume everyone around them is inherently virtuous. And then there are those who, when confronted with someone paying too much attention to detail, assume there must be an ulterior motive.

Ignoring Walter's teasing, Charlie snapped a photo of his completed homework and sent it over. Walter responded with an enthusiastic wave of thanks, and Charlie smiled at the small boost in their friendship meter. But there was little time to waste—Charlie quickly sat down in front of his computer.

He had left in such a hurry earlier that he hadn't had time to finish his meal; called away to headquarters before he could even take a proper bite. Now that he was back home, his first order of business was, of course, to indulge in some gacha draws.

Tonight had been a productive one—two bosses down, or at least what could be considered elite monsters if not full-blown bosses. Coupled with the minions and wild monsters he had taken down during his previous nightly patrols, Charlie had saved up enough for ten consecutive single draws and three C-level hero coupons.

Seventeen draws in total.

Could seventeen consecutive draws finally bring him that elusive top-tier hero?

As he clicked through the ten draws, the words "Thank you for participating" flashed across the screen repeatedly, almost knocking him out of his chair.

With only four tickets left and three coupons still to go, Charlie's hand trembled slightly as he moved the mouse to initiate the next draw. He began to feel that this punishing card pool didn't even guarantee a bottom line, playing with his emotions like a cruel game of chance.

But then, as he completed the next draw, a burst of dazzling light filled the screen. Slowly, the light faded, revealing a slender figure curled into a fighting stance—a blonde beauty with long legs and a determined expression.

It was a Marvel superhero, codenamed Black Widow.

[TL Note - who played the best (hottest image) Black Widdow; comment here (no NSFW images, I will report you... after I download it]

But it wasn't the well-known Natasha Romanov. Instead, the figure on his screen was Yelena Belova, Natasha's younger sister and successor. She had been introduced in the "Black Widow" standalone film as the next generation of Black Widow after Natasha's departure.

According to her character description, Yelena, like Natasha, had been trained in the "Red Room," an organization infamous for producing deadly female assassins. As a result, her physical fitness was nearly on par with Natasha's, but she lacked the superhuman qualities that would make her a true powerhouse.

Nevertheless, she was a formidable fighter, albeit not as powerful as some of the top-tier heroes in the C-level card pool. If she had any distinct advantages, they might be her sharp combat skills, long, flowing red hair and light green eyes, which gave her a certain appeal.

Charlie couldn't help but feel a bit disappointed. What was going on with this card pool? First, he had pulled Huntress, then Elektra, Black Cat, and now Black Widow. Each one had less fabric on their costumes than the last. Was this game really pushing attractive heroes over powerful ones?

He now realized how naive he had been to think that Marvel and DC were somehow different from the other gacha games that relied on scantily-clad characters to entice players. These two franchises have been playing the game of appeal since the last century. In terms of experience and seniority, the anime characters that followed had nothing on these pioneers of visual allure.

With a sigh, Charlie redeemed the last three coupons and

took a deep breath.

Could he finally pull a hunk?

"Thank you for participating!"

As if in response to his desperate plea, the penultimate draw burst into a spectacular display of light. The screen filled with a red-suited figure, his face obscured by a helmet adorned with horns.

It was Matt Murdock, the Devil of Hell's Kitchen, codename—

—Daredevil.

Chapter Text

Marvel V.S. DC (which do you support more)
—-

A dark red figure crouched on top of the tallest building in the city, his presence a silent sentinel over Riverton's sleeping landscape. The city, draped in the shroud of night, seemed to lie peacefully within a vast, intricate tapestry. Different shades of black intertwined to form the primary hues. At the same time, the distant glow of red and green lights, typical of an urban sprawl, punctuated the darkness like errant brushstrokes on an artist's canvas.
But he couldn't actually "see" any of this.
For this dark red figure, a superhero known as Daredevil, was blind.
After acquiring the new hero, Charlie couldn't wait to put Daredevil through his paces. Unlike the previous street-level heroes, who bore similarities to Batman but fell short in most aspects, Daredevil brought something unique to the table. Though he, too, was a street-level hero known for his combat skills, Daredevil possessed a remarkable superpower that set him apart.
His power wasn't rooted in physical strength or agility but in an extraordinary sense of perception.
Daredevil, whose real name was Matt Murdock, was known to many as a lawyer—a fact that had earned him the nickname "Lawyer Matt."
When Matt was a child, a terrible accident involving a truck loaded with chemical reagents changed his life forever. The truck overturned, spilling its radioactive contents, which blinded Matt. Though he lost his vision, the accident unexpectedly enhanced his remaining four senses to superhuman levels, giving him a unique ability called "radar sense."
[TL Note - I thought that on his way home from school, he took a detour into a construction site, and a forklift swerved to the side, causing the forked edge to tear open nearby chemical reagents, thus blinding him... oh well, I guess it's the same thing]
In simple terms, this ability allowed Matt to perceive the world in a way far beyond the capabilities of ordinary humans.
With radar sense, Lawyer Matt navigated his surroundings differently than others. Instead of relying on sight, he primarily used his heightened sense of hearing.
But his hearing was unlike that of Superman, who could detect the sound of a pin dropping on the other side of the planet. Daredevil's hearing was more akin to sonar, mapping the world around him in a highly detailed, three-dimensional manner. Although his range wasn't as vast as Superman's, the sounds Matt detected enabled him to construct vivid, accurate 3D models of his environment in his mind.
[TL Note - Much like Toph Beifong from Avatar the last airbender]
In essence, Lawyer Matt "saw" with his ears, interpreting sounds into images in a way that far surpassed the capabilities of ordinary hearing.
Because of this extraordinary ability, solid walls and other obstacles were meaningless to Lawyer Matt's senses; the entire world was rendered transparent in his mind's eye.
His radar sense allowed him to visualize entire streets and buildings in his mind, and if he concentrated, he could even detect the slightest movements within these structures, such as the soft creaking of floorboards or the muffled conversations taking place inside.
And this incredible ability was vividly displayed on Charlie's monitor. When he switched to Daredevil while navigating the urban landscape, the screen instantly transformed into a muted, gray-toned world.
The visual effect was strikingly similar to Eagle Vision in the Assassin's Creed series, a filter that made hidden details and objectives stand out amidst the gray backdrop.
At that moment, Charlie's experience felt similar to using Batman's detective mode but with far greater depth and detail, enhancing the immersion tenfold.
The first noticeable improvement was the range of detection. Daredevil's radar sense covered nearly twice the distance of Batman's detective mode, and within this expansive range, no movement went unnoticed by Lawyer Matt.
Additionally, Daredevil's auditory enhancement was nothing short of extraordinary. As Matt perched on the rooftop, Charlie could clearly hear every sound from the bustling street below, from the honking of distant cars to the whispered conversations of the pedestrians. The game's audio design made it feel as though Charlie had been transported directly into Daredevil's world, with 360-degree surround sound enveloping him from all sides.
And this was with Daredevil's hearing automatically suppressed. With his full hearing activated, the sheer volume of information and noise could overwhelm a person, leading to sensory overload and potential mental breakdown. Fortunately, Matt had undergone extensive training since childhood to filter out unnecessary noise and focus on relevant sounds, a skill that had become second nature to him.
Charlie discovered that he could manipulate Daredevil's radar sense to enhance his hearing further, allowing Matt to target specific directions or rooms for more precise monitoring. In these cases, Matt's hearing became so acute that he could detect even the faintest whisper or the subtle rustle of clothing from hundreds of feet away.
After just a few minutes of gameplay, Charlie found the experience to be both exhilarating and disorienting. It was as if he had fully immersed himself in Daredevil's first-person perspective. Every movement of the character brought with it a cascade of sound effects, creating an intense sensory experience that was unlike anything Charlie had encountered before. He could hear every word of the conversation taking place in the barbershop below, where Aunt Linda was once again boasting about her good looks.
However, the visual information on the game screen was limited to what Lawyer Matt could detect with his radar sense.
When playing as other hero characters, Charlie could usually stand at a high vantage point and gaze out across the city, the horizon stretching out to where the city met the sky. But with Lawyer Matt in control, the area beyond his detection range was a blurry, indistinct void, leaving the screen shrouded in darkness.
Moreover, Lawyer Matt's ability to detect extraordinary events was more sensitive than Batman's. As Charlie guided Daredevil across the rooftops, an exclamation point suddenly appeared at the edge of the screen, indicating a detected event.
Based on Charlie's past experience, if he had been playing as another hero, this event would have remained hidden at such a distance.
Without hesitation, Charlie directed Daredevil toward the source of the signal. In the dead of night, the red-clad hero deftly pulled out the short stick strapped to his leg and swung it, sending the attached rope flying through the air.
The short stick was Daredevil's signature weapon, a versatile tool similar in function to Batman's grappling gun. It allowed him to swing between buildings, scale walls, and traverse the city's rooftops with ease.
Fans of Daredevil would recognize the similarities between him and Batman, two heroes who often walked parallel paths. However, Daredevil lacked Batman's wealth, advanced equipment, and extensive training. Despite these differences, both characters shared a deep commitment to justice, a determination to protect the innocent, and a complex moral code that often set them apart from other heroes.
But Daredevil wasn't always the brooding, complex character fans knew him to be. In his early days, despite his tragic backstory involving the death of his father, Daredevil's storylines were relatively straightforward, lacking the depth and complexity that would later define him. He spent much of his time battling low-level street thugs in outlandish costumes, while his personal life revolved around clichéd love triangles with his best friend and secretary.
It wasn't until Frank Miller, the legendary writer behind such iconic works as Batman: Year One and The Dark Knight Returns, took the reins of Daredevil's story that the character underwent a dramatic transformation.
Miller brought his signature darkness, grit, and psychological depth to Daredevil, reshaping Lawyer Matt into a character with many of the same qualities that had made Batman so compelling. Under Miller's direction, Daredevil became a more complex and nuanced figure, grappling with inner demons, facing off against more dangerous and cunning villains, and navigating a world filled with moral ambiguity.
And yes, Lawyer Matt inherited another of Miller's trademarks: despite his relative poverty, he led a life filled with romantic entanglements. His past relationships included Karen, his loyal secretary; Typhoid Mary, a dangerous supervillain with dissociative identity disorder; and Erica, a deadly assassin from the Hand, among others.
[TL Note - I thought Electra was a member of the Chase???WTF???]
Even Marvel's iconic Black Widow had been romantically involved with him at one point.
Of course, considering Black Widow's extensive dating history, it was hard to keep track—she had enough ex-boyfriends to field two football teams, complete with substitutes.
It was often difficult to determine who was chasing whom in these relationships.
…
Samuel stood on the pier, his hands tucked deep into his sleeves, shivering as the cold wind blew across the water. The night air was frigid, biting at his skin, and the waves lapping against the dock only intensified the chill.
Yesterday had been his eighteenth birthday, but the day had passed without so much as a word from anyone. His parents, long since divorced, had moved on with their new lives, leaving him to navigate the world alone.
He had dropped out of high school two years ago, and since then, his life had spiraled into a chaotic blur of poor decisions and questionable alliances. Aimless and desperate, he had fallen in with a rough crowd, drawn into the criminal underworld by promises of money, power, and a sense of belonging.
Lately, luck seemed to have turned in his favor. Big D, a notorious gang leader with a fearsome reputation, had taken an interest in him. Big D was known throughout the area for his ruthlessness—his subordinates feared him as much as his enemies did.
And Samuel was no exception.
This was his first mission under Big D's command, and Samuel was determined not to mess it up. All he wanted was to get the job done, keep his head down, and avoid drawing any unwanted attention. He had been told to talk less, do more, and never ask questions—a rule he intended to follow to the letter.
But when the shipment they had been waiting for finally arrived, and the container doors creaked open with the sound of heavy metal chains, Samuel's resolve faltered. He couldn't help but widen his eyes in shock at what he saw.
Inside the container were… people?
---
On a serious note, to all my readers, if you ever encounter or even suspect trafficking at play, please report it to the local authorities.
I believe you all are mostly like Charlie, are primarily passive in your actions, and find it troublesome to stand up and get involved. Still, even an anonymous report goes a long way.
With all the love and positivity in the world
-One sword
---

Chapter Text

The so-called "goods" were, in fact, human beings—men, women, and even children. Their expressions were blank, their faces devoid of emotion, and their eyes, once full of life, were now dull and lifeless, as if all the hope had been drained from their souls.

Samuel felt a wave of terror surge through him, his stomach churning with nausea. He instinctively took two steps back, unable to tear his gaze away from the horrific sight.

He turned to look at his companion standing beside him, hoping for some kind of reassurance, some indication that what he was seeing wasn't real.

Sean, his companion and one of his closest allies in the gang, stood there nonchalantly. Sean was a tough, imposing figure, dressed in a shiny black vest with a silver skull pendant hanging from his neck. His tall, muscular frame and the cold, hard look in his eyes made it clear that he was not someone to be trifled with.

"Those are... our goods?" Samuel asked, his voice trembling with disbelief.

"Yeah." Sean exhaled a puff of smoke, a twisted grin spreading across his face, revealing teeth stained yellow and black from years of neglect. "They'll fetch a good price, don't you think?"

Sean's tone was so casual, so disturbingly indifferent as if the people crammed into the container were nothing more than merchandise—objects to be bought and sold, their lives reduced to mere currency.

Samuel's chest tightened, and his breathing grew shallow. A voice inside him screamed for him to do something, to say something, but he pushed it down, struggling to keep his composure.

Don't cause trouble, don't cause trouble, he repeated to himself like a mantra.

He was just a small-time player in a world much larger and more dangerous than he had ever imagined. He was a nobody with no power and no influence. There wasn't much he could do, and he knew it. All he wanted was to complete his first mission without incident, to leave a good impression on Big D, the gang leader who had taken a chance on him.

Samuel forced himself to look away from the haunting, vacant stares of the people in the container as if those eyes were burning into him, searing his soul with their silent, desperate pleas.

"Sean..." Samuel stammered, desperately searching for a distraction, anything to take his mind off the horror unfolding before him. "How many times have you done this kind of mission? I mean... dealing with cargo like this?"

But there was no reply.

Samuel turned his head, expecting to see Sean beside him, but the big man had vanished without a trace.

He froze, his heart pounding in his chest as a sudden, overwhelming sense of dread washed over him. It was as if his instincts were screaming at him, warning him that something was terribly, horribly wrong.

Then, the walkie-talkie crackled to life, the voice on the other end filled with confusion and concern.

"Did anyone see where Antwon went?"

"This is Hojo. Jojo is gone."

Samuel's mind raced as he struggled to process what he was hearing. He fumbled with the walkie-talkie, his hands shaking as he brought it to his mouth. "This... this is Samuel. I can't see Sean anymore..."

It was only then that the gang members began to realize the gravity of their situation. Five of them had disappeared without a sound, without anyone noticing.

"We're being targeted." Big D's voice came through the walkie-talkie, sharp and commanding. "Assemble! Everyone gather here!"

The gang members immediately stopped what they were doing and began moving toward Big D's position, their movements hurried and frantic.

Samuel followed suit, his feet moving on autopilot as he forced himself to focus on the task at hand. But as he walked, he couldn't help but glance back at the container, catching another glimpse of the people trapped inside.

Their eyes, those helpless, haunting eyes, seemed to follow him, pleading with him, begging him to do something, anything to help them.

The voice inside him grew louder, more insistent, harder to ignore. But he shoved it down, burying it deep inside as he forced himself to follow orders, to walk toward Big D and the others.

The gangsters converged on the central location, each of them abandoning their tasks to regroup. They moved quickly, their faces grim, their bodies tense with fear and uncertainty.

But none of them noticed the shadowy figure perched silently atop one of the containers, watching their every move with cold, calculating precision.

The gang members believed that sticking together would keep them safe. They thought that as long as they stayed in a group, they wouldn't be picked off one by one. It was a strategy straight out of a horror movie—those who wandered off alone were always the first to die, so sticking together was the safest bet.

But Charlie, watching the scene unfold from behind his computer screen, couldn't help but chuckle at their naïveté.

If the gang had spread out, Charlie would have had to carefully plan Daredevil's attacks, ensuring that the hero didn't get caught in the crossfire while taking down his targets. It would have required careful timing, strategic positioning, and a lot of patience.

But now that the gangsters were all moving in the same direction, they had unwittingly handed him the perfect opportunity.

The red-clad demon moved swiftly, dashing forward with the agility of a panther. He flipped off the top of the container and delivered a powerful, acrobatic kick to the head of a nearby gangster, sending him crashing to the ground, unconscious.

The man walking ahead spun around, panic in his eyes, and fired his gun wildly, not even bothering to aim. But by the time he turned, Daredevil had already evaded the bullets, which ricocheted harmlessly off the metal walls of the container, sparking in the darkness.

The panicked gangster rushed to check on his fallen comrade, his gun still pointed in the direction Daredevil had disappeared. His finger hovered over the trigger, ready to fire at the first sign of movement.

But he never got the chance.

The red demon appeared from the opposite direction, emerging from the shadows like a wraith. The man's eyes widened in terror, and he tried to swing his gun around, but it was too late. Daredevil's alloy short stick connected with his face, the force of the blow sending him reeling, his vision fading to black as he crumpled to the ground.

Another gangster heard the commotion and called out, changing direction to investigate. But he didn't realize that as soon as he and his companions turned, Daredevil had already landed behind them. The hero moved silently, swiftly, and without hesitation, knocking out the last man with a swift, backhanded strike.

Because Daredevil's fighting style is similar to Batman's, Charlie quickly adapts to controlling him. The general strategy for playing these stealthy, assassin-type characters was straightforward: avoid direct confrontation, prioritize taking down the most dangerous enemies first, and use the shadows to your advantage. With Daredevil's radar sense providing a near-omniscient view of the battlefield, Charlie was able to stay one step ahead of the gangsters, picking them off one by one without ever being seen.

Of course, this mission was relatively simple, a daily task to test out the new hero's abilities. In terms of raw power, Daredevil wasn't on the same level as Batman, and his skills were better suited for scouting and reconnaissance rather than direct combat. Batman was the better choice for a straight-up fight.

But when it came to taking down these low-level thugs, Daredevil was more than capable.

As the gang's numbers dwindled, only a few remained, including Samuel, who had managed to regroup with Big D and the others.

Big D's face was a mask of anger and fear, his eyes darting around as he tried to assess the situation. His usually intimidating presence—his swollen face, his gold earrings, and his fierce scowl—seemed to have lost its edge.

He realized that his men were outmatched, that they were unlikely to survive this encounter. And what made it worse was that they hadn't even caught a glimpse of their attacker. Big D suspected it might be Batman, or one of the other vigilantes who had been causing trouble in the city. But whoever it was, he knew they were in over their heads.

After all, they were just small-time criminals, bullies who preyed on the weak. They weren't equipped to deal with someone like this, someone who operated on a completely different level.

Big D glanced at the container nearby, his mind racing. He knew that this shipment was valuable and that losing it would be a significant blow. But in the end, money could be replaced—his life couldn't. If he made it out of this alive, he could always rebuild, always find another way to make money. But if he didn't...

He made a quick decision, turning to Samuel, who was standing beside him, trembling with fear. "You, come here. Go start the car for me. The rest of you, stay behind and cover us..."

Smash.

No one was prepared for what happened next.

Samuel, the young man Big D had just singled out, walked up to him slowly, almost mechanically. His movements were deliberate, almost as if he were in a trance. Then, without warning, he picked up a brick from the ground.

Big D didn't realize what was happening until it was too late. The brick came crashing down on his head with a sickening thud, and the world went dark. His vision blurred, stars filled his eyes, and then everything faded to black as he collapsed to the ground, unconscious.

The other gang members stood there, paralyzed with shock, unable to comprehend what they had just witnessed.

They vaguely remembered that Samuel was a newcomer, someone Big D had recently taken under his wing. None of them even knew his name.

For a moment, no one moved, too stunned to react. They watched in horrified silence as Samuel climbed on top of Big D's body, his eyes wild and unfocused. He raised the bloodstained brick in his hand and brought it down on Big D's head again and again.

Once. Twice. Three times...

With each impact, the brick became more soaked with blood, turning a deep, viscous red. Big D's head was reduced to a grotesque pulp, his skull shattered, and his brain matter splattered across the ground in a gruesome display. Each time the brick came down, bits of bone and tissue were sent flying, like a stone being dropped into a pool of thick, sticky mud.

Then they heard the laughter.

Samuel, still perched on the mutilated corpse, began to laugh. It started as a low chuckle, but it quickly grew louder, more maniacal, until it echoed through the night air. His entire body convulsed with hysteria, his laughter twisted and unnatural, sending chills down the spines of everyone who heard it.

…

Charlie had quickly and efficiently taken out most of the gangsters in the dock area. Now, only Big D and a few of his men remained.

But when Daredevil leaped off the container and landed on the pier, Charlie was met with a scene he hadn't anticipated—

—Several gangsters lay dead in a pool of blood, their bodies mangled and broken. The head of the most unfortunate one was a bloody, unrecognizable mess, reduced to little more than a smear on the ground.

A young man stood nearby, his lips smeared with sticky blood as if he had applied it like lipstick. He held a blood-soaked brick in his hand, and as he turned to face Daredevil, he grinned, his eyes burning with madness.

He let out a wild, unhinged laugh and charged at Daredevil with reckless abandon.

Chapter Text

Charlie was momentarily stunned when he first saw the bloodied corpses scattered across the ground, wondering if there had been a mole within the enemy ranks that he hadn't known about. He hadn't even made a move yet, and somehow, they seemed to have resolved things internally.

What was this? A preemptive attempt at allegiance? Or perhaps some twisted form of internal justice?

But then, as his gaze locked onto the twisted grin on one of the faces—a grin that seemed more at home in a nightmare than reality—Charlie realized what had truly happened. This wasn't some internal dispute; he had stumbled upon an infected individual, a new variant that had turned with terrifying speed.

This fan of chaos wasn't just enthusiastic—they had gone the extra mile, armed with a blood-soaked brick and adorned in a war-damaged skin that looked straight out of a horror flick.

Charlie's instincts kicked in. He clicked the right mouse button just in time, and Daredevil swiftly leaned to the side, narrowly avoiding the heavy brick aimed at his head. In one fluid motion, Daredevil's right foot shot up, striking the young man's wrist with precision. The impact jolted the brick from his hand, sending it flying.

Daredevil didn't hesitate. He circled around to the outside of the attacker's arm, drawing his baton in a swift, practiced motion. With a powerful swing, he brought it down on the opponent's head. The dull, sickening thud of alloy meeting bone resonated through the air—a sound that would've been fatal to any normal human. But the infected man merely staggered, shaking off the blow before turning to launch a counterattack.

Charlie's reflexes were sharp. He guided Daredevil to sway backward, narrowly dodging the incoming grasp. In a heartbeat, Daredevil was back on the offensive, delivering another brutal strike to the man's skull. This time, he followed up with a powerful front kick that connected squarely with the infected man's chest. The force of the kick sent the man reeling, his body shuddering as he stumbled backward before collapsing in a heap.

But it wasn't over.

The infected man's body writhed on the ground before he somehow managed to get back on his feet. His movements were unnatural, his limbs twisting in ways that defied the limitations of human anatomy. Blood gushed from the wound on his head, running down his face and neck, making him look even more monstrous. His grin had only grown wider, more grotesque as if he were reveling in his own pain and madness.

Charlie knew better than to let his guard down. He kept Daredevil in a defensive stance, his batons crossed and ready to block or counter any sudden attack.

But the infected man didn't charge forward again.

Instead, he shook his head violently, as if trying to clear his thoughts, and took two stiff, jerky steps toward Daredevil. His body seemed poised to attack, muscles tensing as if ready to spring.

And then, without warning, his head exploded in a violent burst of blood and gore, like a grotesque firework going off in the darkness.

The headless body remained upright for a moment as if in disbelief before its knees buckled, and it collapsed to the ground with a lifeless thud.

The infection had overwhelmed his body, pushing it beyond its limits until it self-destructed.

Charlie couldn't help but frown at the sight.

After confirming that the infected man was truly dead, Charlie felt a strange mixture of relief and unease. This infection seemed to spread more quickly, more aggressively, than anything he'd encountered. But there was no time to dwell on it. He turned his attention to the container where the hostages were being held; his priority now was to get them out safely.

As the doors swung open, the hostages inside looked up with a mixture of hope and fear, their eyes wide and pleading. They had been through hell, and the sight of Daredevil standing before them—dark, imposing, but undeniably a hero—seemed to bring them a sliver of hope.

Criminals, much like society, had their own hierarchy. Even among the most despised, there were those who operated under a certain code—grand thieves who lived by a set of rules, desperate souls driven to crime by circumstance, and those who, though controversial, had their own sense of honor.

But then there were the others. The scum who were so vile, so reprehensible, that even their fellow criminals looked down on them. These were the ones who, when thrown into prison, were destined to be at the very bottom of the pecking order, despised and rejected by everyone. Even among the underworld, these individuals were regarded with nothing but contempt.

Big D, whose head was now a gruesome smear on the ground, belonged to this category. His death was brutal, but Charlie felt no sympathy for the man. The world was better off without him.

Daredevil remained perched on a high vantage point, his senses on high alert. He waited, watching until a team of FBI agents arrived on the scene. Thanks to Daredevil's radar sense, Charlie confirmed their identities, ensuring they were who they claimed to be. Once he was certain that the hostages were in safe hands, Daredevil used his baton to fire a grappling hook, swinging away from the scene like a shadow in the night.

Charlie exhaled deeply, relieved that the mission had come to an end. He had earned some points, tried out a new hero, and, most importantly, saved innocent lives.

But as much as he enjoyed the thrill of the game, he knew that even heroes had their limits.

Daredevil landed on the rooftop of a nearby building. Charlie brought up the game menu, his cursor hovering over the logout button. But just as he was about to click, a bright exclamation mark flashed in the corner of the screen, signaling a new mission.

Suddenly, his curiosity got the better of him. His hand moved away from the logout button, and his eyes locked onto the exclamation mark.

It was like seeing a blemish on an immaculate surface—something that just couldn't be ignored...

Charlie hesitated, weighing his options. Every mission that appeared on the map represented a real-world crisis, a situation where someone needed help. Each one was also an opportunity to gain experience, to grow stronger, to learn more. And every missed mission felt like a loss.

Being a hero, even a virtual one, wasn't easy. Batman might have been a force of nature, able to run a company by day and fight crime by night, but even the mere act of sitting in front of a computer and patrolling the digital city for hours on end was exhausting. The next day, people might start making assumptions, wondering if he had been out all night partying. But no, Charlie was just trying to do the right thing—even if it meant sacrificing his own comfort.

Daredevil's radar sense wasn't just useful for detecting crime; it also made him more sensitive to potential threats, picking up on activities that other heroes might miss. He could hear the faintest whisper of a conversation behind closed doors, the subtle hum of a phone call that hinted at an impending disaster. With Daredevil, the world was a little clearer, the dangers a little more apparent.

And that meant farming quests with Daredevil might be more efficient, with more opportunities to gain experience.

Charlie directed Daredevil toward the exclamation mark, activating the hearing booster as he approached.

The sound was coming from a security patrol car. Through the car's intercom, Charlie could hear chaotic shouts, the sound of objects crashing, and voices calling out in distress.

"This is the fourth branch of the FBI!" someone shouted desperately over the radio. "Requesting support! We need support..."

The transmission abruptly cut off, followed by a sound that resembled a gunshot, and then a low, sinister laugh in the background.

The patrolling officer immediately switched on the security lights atop the car, and the siren blared through the night as the vehicle sped toward the FBI's fourth branch office.

Charlie was caught off guard.

Someone's actually attacking the FBI?

…

Just a few minutes earlier, the atmosphere had been calm and routine at the FBI's fourth branch office in Riverton City.

Director Lincon sat in his office, enjoying what he thought would be the last cigarette of the day as he prepared to leave for the night.

It wasn't quite time to clock out, but he had promised his wife he would pick up the kids from school. They had an evening class to attend, and with only an hour to grab dinner, he needed to leave a little early to make it work.

Just as Lincon stepped out of his office, a low, ominous buzzing sound filled the air. Without any warning, the entire FBI building was plunged into darkness, the power cut off abruptly.

"What's going on?"

"Did we just lose power?"

For a few moments, the agents were disoriented, unsure of what had just happened. But then, the backup generator kicked in, and a dim, cold light flickered on, casting eerie shadows across the room.

But the relief was short-lived.

"George? What are you doing?" one of the agents asked, his voice laced with confusion and growing concern.

George, an agent who had been standing by the water cooler just moments ago, slowly turned around. His movements were stiff, almost robotic, and his face was contorted into a disturbing, unnatural grin.

He raised his arms, revealing a sidearm in his hand.

Director Lincon quickly realized the danger. The black barrel of the gun was pointed directly at him.

Bang.

The sound of the gunshot echoed through the room, and a burst of blood erupted from Lincon's chest. The intense pain was brief, giving way to numbness as he collapsed backward, his vision dimming amidst the panicked cries of his colleagues.

Chapter Text

"The chief is shot, the chief is shot!"

Panic erupted within the FBI's fourth branch office as the shocking cry echoed through the precinct. The sharp crack of a gunshot had sliced through the air, and now chaos reigned. George, the staff holding the smoking gun, let out a maniacal laugh, his face twisted into a grotesque grin. Officers around him were frozen in horror, their eyes wide with disbelief. They watched as George, seemingly in slow motion, began to swivel his arm, the barrel of his gun moving as if searching for the next target. But before anyone could react, the lights flickered and then failed entirely, plunging the precinct into an abyss of darkness.

The oppressive silence that followed was broken only by the quickened breaths of those who remained. Then, out of the suffocating blackness, a flash—brief, violent, and blinding. It was the muzzle flare of George's gun as he fired again. The room was illuminated for an instant, casting long, sharp shadows that danced across the walls. In that fleeting moment, George's face was lit up—a twisted mask of glee. Another officer cried out as the bullet found its mark, and just as suddenly as it had appeared, the light was swallowed by the darkness once more.

Chaos gripped the precinct. Officers scrambled to draw their weapons, their hands shaking as they aimed blindly into the void. But the darkness was all-encompassing, disorienting, making it impossible to know where to aim. The officers' hearts pounded in their chests as they realized that George, somehow, was navigating the blackness with eerie precision, as if he could see through the pitch darkness with unerring clarity.

His laughter began to echo through the precinct, a chilling sound that bounced off the walls and surrounded the terrified officers. It was everywhere and nowhere, coming from all directions at once, making it impossible to locate the source. It felt like the walls themselves were closing in, amplifying the sound and pressing down on their minds, driving fear deeper into their bones.

One officer, desperate for any source of light, fumbled for his phone, his fingers trembling as he swiped at the screen to activate the flashlight. But as soon as the faint, bluish glow illuminated his face, another flash erupted from George's gun. The bullet tore through the officer's body, splattering blood across the phone screen, cracking it as the device fell from his grasp and clattered to the floor, the light extinguished once more.

"Over there!" a voice shouted in desperation. One of the officers, driven by fear, fired in the direction of the gunfire, his hand shaking as he pulled the trigger. But instead of stopping the threat, the only sound that followed was a scream—an agonized cry from another officer. The bullet had found a mark, but it was the wrong one.

George's laughter grew louder, more mocking. "Ha! Nice shot! That must've been you, Mark! But you missed again..."

"God, I didn't mean to... no, please!" the officer whimpered in the darkness, his voice trembling. But his pleas were met with a sickening sound—the unmistakable noise of a blade slicing through flesh. Mark's voice was cut off abruptly, replaced by the wet, gurgling sounds of a man choking on his own blood. George's laughter, now almost inhuman in its intensity, filled the void left by Mark's death.

Then came the dull, heavy thud of a body hitting the cold, hard floor.

Mark's final scream seemed to linger in the air, echoing in the minds of every officer who heard it. The small precinct, once a bastion of safety and law, had been transformed into a nightmare, a place where the familiar had become terrifyingly foreign. It was as if they had been trapped inside a cage with a monster, and there was no way out.

The darkness fed on their fear, amplifying it, turning their own minds against them. Death seemed to be lurking in every shadow, brushing past them, waiting to strike. Every time another officer fell, the survivors were pushed closer to the edge of madness, the line between sanity and insanity blurring until it almost didn't exist.

It was only a matter of time before one of them snapped.

"Go to hell!" Inspector Richard bellowed, his voice a mix of rage and desperation. He fired his gun wildly into the darkness, each shot a burst of light that briefly illuminated the room. But George was nowhere to be seen. Instead, the bullet grazed the cheek of one of Richard's colleagues, drawing a sharp cry of pain.

"Stop, Inspector!" someone shouted, their voice tinged with fear. "You're going to hit one of us!"

But Richard was beyond reason. He had lost himself to the terror that gripped him. He spun around, firing in every direction, his eyes wide and wild as he cursed into the void: "You think I'm afraid of you? Come on, show yourself! I'm right here!"

The laughter didn't stop. It grew louder, more mocking, as if George was toying with them, relishing their fear.

Then, another gunshot rang out—not from George, but from one of the other officers. Unable to stand Richard's reckless behavior any longer, the officer had taken aim and fired. The bullet struck Richard in the chest, and he crumpled to the ground, his face a mask of disbelief.

George's laughter reached a fever pitch, a maniacal cackle that reverberated through the room, filling every corner with its chilling sound. It was as if he was feeding off their fear, growing stronger with every moment of chaos.

It was a tragic irony—officers who had fought side by side now turning their weapons on each other in a desperate attempt to survive. The bonds of trust that had held them together had been shattered by fear, leaving them isolated and vulnerable.

George reveled in their misery, his laughter echoing off the walls like a twisted symphony. But then, suddenly, the laughter stopped, as if he had sensed something in the darkness.

When he turned, he found himself face-to-face with a towering figure—a black bat that loomed over him, its presence dominating the space. Batman had arrived, silent and imposing, his eyes glowing faintly in the darkness.

George reacted instinctively, raising his arm to fire, but it was already too late. A bat dart flew through the air, slicing into George's arm with deadly precision. The blade cut deep, tearing through muscle and bone and sending a spray of blood into the air.

The force of the impact sent George flying backward, his body crashing through a desk and shattering it into splinters. Even as he fell, a twisted smile remained on his face. "Ha, it's you..." he began, but before he could finish, Batman was upon him, moving with the speed and precision of a predator.

Charlie had switched to Batman, knowing that he was the fastest and most capable hero for the situation. He had considered all his options, but none were as quick or as lethal as the Dark Knight.

While Batman's gliding cloak and grappling hook were impressive, it was the Batmobile that had made the difference tonight. More than just a vehicle, it was a weapon of justice designed to strike fear into the hearts of criminals. With its immense horsepower and jet propulsion, the Batmobile could outpace anything on the road, scaling walls and rooftops with ease. In just a matter of minutes, Charlie had used the Batmobile to cross the city, reaching the scene in record time.

As George hit the ground, he scrambled to raise his gun, firing wildly in a desperate attempt to fend off his attacker. But Batman was already gone, disappearing into the shadows like a wraith.

When George managed to get to his feet, Batman was behind him once again, gripping his arm with the strength of a vice. George twisted, trying to aim his gun at Batman's head, but the Dark Knight was faster. He dodged the shot with a swift motion, wrenching George's arm and delivering a brutal knee strike that sent the gun flying from his grasp. In one fluid motion, Batman dislocated George's arm, leaving it limp and useless.

But George, infected and devoid of pain, wasn't done yet. He lashed out with a kick, but Batman countered with a powerful strike that shattered George's leg. Not giving him a moment to recover, Batman followed up with a relentless series of kicks, each one driving George further back. The final kick connected with George's chest, sending him crashing into another set of desks, the impact scattering papers and debris like confetti.

The remaining officers, still in shock from the chaos, quickly moved out of the way, not wanting to get caught in the crossfire.

Even with his body broken and battered, George's deranged laughter continued to echo through the room. He began to crawl, his mutilated limbs dragging across the floor as he tried to stand, his mind consumed by madness. It was clear he still intended to fight, to cause as much destruction as he could.

But before he could make another move, Batman raised his hand and launched a gel bomb. The bomb exploded at George's feet, and the thick gel expanded rapidly, engulfing him and hardening around him, trapping him in place like a grotesque statue.

At last, George was immobilized. His laughter finally ceased, leaving only the heavy silence of the aftermath.

The precinct was deathly quiet, the air thick with the scent of gunpowder and blood. The officers who had survived the ordeal stood in stunned silence, staring at the immobilized figure of George, their minds struggling to process the horror they had just witnessed. The nightmare was over, but the memories of what they had endured would haunt them for a long time.

--

[TL Note - I think the author made the FBI look a little pathetic, don't you think. Not to mention, they shouldn't be a stranger to supernatural events, as mentioned in previous chapters where they sent files of supernatural cases to the ninth division; even if they aren't capable of handling it, they should at least have a protocol that they should follow in case of such incident... me personally I do not like this chapter.]

Chapter Text

By the time the lights flickered back to life in the Fourth Precinct, Batman had already vanished into the shadows, leaving no trace of his presence behind. The haunting laughter that had filled the precinct had ceased, leaving an eerie silence in its wake. The infected person, once a terrifying figure filled with manic energy, now lay motionless—a corpse trapped within the hardened gel.

Charlie, having expertly maneuvered Batman out of the precinct, ascended to the rooftop of a nearby building using the grappling hook. From his elevated perch, he surveyed the city below, the early morning light just beginning to tinge the horizon. It had been a long night, and Charlie felt the weariness begin to set in. His body ached from the hours of tension, but as he was about to log off and finally get some rest, an unexpected notification appeared on his screen—a new exclamation point had popped up, signaling yet another mission.

"Another one?" Charlie muttered, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten as curiosity and the thrill of the hunt took over.

This night had been unusual from the start. Typically, he would set out in the early evening, struggling to find a few worthwhile missions throughout the night. Most of the tasks were mundane, with little reward. But tonight had been different. Missions had refreshed one after another, each more intense than the last, and all seemed to be linked by a common thread—infected lunatics with that same eerie, unsettling laughter.

It was as though Riverton City itself had been gripped by a wave of madness, and Charlie, as Batman, had been at the center of it all.

"What's going on tonight?" Charlie wondered, his mind racing. It felt like the city was in the midst of some unseen, sinister force, its effects spreading like wildfire.

But despite the strangeness of it all, this was good news for Charlie. Every mission completed meant more experience points and a chance to further hone his skills. And tonight, he'd encountered several high-level threats—what could be considered elite enemies, if not outright bosses. The rewards for these encounters were significantly greater than what he would typically earn from taking down run-of-the-mill thugs.

Charlie hesitated for a moment, his finger hovering over the log-off button.

It reminded him of those late nights spent reading novels, where the thrill of the story kept him glued to the screen, unable to stop despite the growing fatigue. He'd tell himself, "Just one more chapter," only to find himself clicking through page after page until the first light of dawn crept through his window. The cliffhangers were relentless, each chapter ending just as the tension peaked, compelling him to continue.

Now, after weeks of high-intensity training within the game, Charlie felt he could handle the strain. He was tired, sure, but he could push through for a little longer. The temptation of the new mission was too strong to resist. With a resigned sigh, he made his decision and directed Batman toward the next objective.

He found himself in another familiar scenario.

A local gang had stormed into a barbecue restaurant, demanding protection money from the owner. But before they could make their threats, a knife-wielding lunatic had burst in, laughing maniacally as he slashed at anyone within reach. The situation was spiraling out of control.

Charlie, controlling Batman, arrived just in time. He quickly subdued the lunatic, disarming him with a swift, calculated strike. The gang members, seeing the vigilante in action, tried to flee, but Batman was quicker. He delivered a series of powerful blows, ensuring they would be out of commission for a while. Another wave of experience points flowed into Charlie's account as the situation was brought under control.

It wasn't until the sky began to lighten, the first hints of dawn coloring the edges of the city, that the relentless stream of exclamation points finally stopped.

Charlie, still on edge, had Batman patrol for a while longer, scanning the city for any signs of new trouble. When he was finally certain that no new missions were appearing, he allowed himself to log off, his body sagging with exhaustion as the adrenaline began to wear off.

---

While Charlie was busy, pleasantly racking up experience points and rewards, the situation at the Ninth Division was by far less pleasant.

Earlier that night, they had been on edge, grappling with the sudden outbreak of what they suspected was a new form of infection. The situation had escalated rapidly, and information was pouring in from all directions.

Frontline agents were in a constant state of motion, gathering data, handling spontaneous incidents, and relaying updates back to headquarters. The staff on the mothership had spent the entire night on high alert, analyzing the data and trying to piece together the larger picture of what was happening.

Now, whenever the word "laughing" appeared in a report, it triggered an almost Pavlovian response among the team—anxiety, dread, and a sense of impending doom. It was as if the mere mention of it brought back memories of previous crises, much like how the World Security Council in the Marvel universe would react to yet another troubling report from S.H.I.E.L.D.

As dawn broke, the flow of bad news finally began to slow. It seemed that the outbreak of this so-called "laughter infection" was beginning to taper off.

Just as the team was beginning to let out a collective sigh of relief, the door to the conference room suddenly burst open. Professor Miyazaki rushed in, his usually composed demeanor replaced by a look of urgency and alarm. His entrance immediately put everyone back on high alert.

"What now?" someone asked, the fatigue in their voice evident.

"It's not another outbreak," Miyazaki quickly assured them, though his tone remained grave. "But we've made significant progress in identifying the source of the infection."

Hearing this, the room instantly perked up. All eyes were on Miyazaki.

Tracking down the source was critical. It didn't matter how many infected individuals were neutralized if they couldn't find the root cause. Without knowing where the infection was coming from, their efforts would be like trying to mop up a flood while the tap was still running.

"Have you identified who the source of the infection is?" Commander Ross asked, his voice tight with anticipation.

"Not definitively," Miyazaki replied, his tone serious. "But we do have a strong suspect. You're all aware of the attack on the FBI's Fourth Division earlier tonight, correct?"

The entire room nodded. The incident at the Fourth Division had been the most severe of the night, shaking the entire city to its core.

"If even the FBI isn't safe," one officer muttered under their breath, "then what hope is there for the rest of Riverton City?"

Miyazaki continued, "We reviewed all the surveillance footage from around the precinct, analyzing everyone who entered and exited the building that night. We cross-referenced that with our intelligence database, trying to identify any potential suspects."

"And?" someone prompted, leaning forward, eager for answers.

"We found something," Miyazaki said, his expression darkening. "The analysts reported their findings to me just a few minutes ago. I'm going to show you what they uncovered."

As he spoke, Miyazaki connected his device to the large screen in the conference room. The surveillance footage from the FBI's Fourth Division was displayed, though it was grainy due to the enlargement on the large screen.

Miyazaki stepped aside and pressed play on the remote.

The footage showed a lone figure walking into the surveillance area. The person paused, stopping in the most prominent spot in the frame. Then, they looked directly into the camera and grinned—a smile that was both unsettling and unmistakably deliberate.

It was almost as if the figure was taunting them, daring them to figure out who they were.

Miyazaki paused the video at this moment, freezing the image on the grinning face.

"Now, I'll zoom in," he said, using the remote to enhance the image.

As the image was magnified and underwent further processing, the face became clearer. The room fell into a tense silence as the officers squinted at the screen, trying to make out the identity of the person. Slowly, their expressions shifted from confusion to shock, disbelief, and a dawning horror.

Finally, all eyes turned to Miyazaki, their faces a mix of incredulity and fear.

"Is this...could it really be...?" one of them stammered, struggling to process what they were seeing.

"Yes," Miyazaki confirmed with a grave nod. "The facial recognition software has matched the image with a 99.9% accuracy rate."

He took a deep breath, bracing himself for the reaction to what he was about to reveal. "We believe that the person who entered the Fourth Division of the Riverton FBI and left behind this provocative footage is none other than our own, Agent Ivan Petrov.

The room erupted in a cacophony of shocked gasps and murmurs, disbelief and denial mingling with anger and confusion. The idea that one of their own could be involved in something so heinous was almost too much to bear.

The weight of the situation pressed down on everyone in the room. The trust they had placed in their colleague now felt like a noose tightening around their collective necks.

Chapter Text

The image on the screen remained still, capturing a man with a chilling smile fixed on his face, staring directly into the camera lens. The magnified picture rendered every detail of his expression, a smile that seemed to mock the viewers on the other side. The room, filled with high-ranking officials and seasoned agents, was deathly quiet. The atmosphere had become so tense that the air itself felt heavy.
For a long moment, no one spoke. The weight of the situation pressed down on everyone, each person grappling with the implications of what they were seeing. It wasn't just the content of the image that was disturbing, but what it suggested about one of their own.
"Are you certain this image is authentic?" Dr. Hines finally broke the silence, his voice laced with doubt and concern. "Video footage can be manipulated, synthesized even. What we see here might not be the truth…"
Professor Miyazaki, standing at the front of the room, didn't hesitate. "If this were a composite video, we would have detected it. I can assure you, Dr. Hines, that the image you see before you is genuine. The reality is exactly as it appears."
He paused, letting his words sink in before continuing. "What you're seeing here is Agent Ivan Petrov, captured on surveillance footage. He was present at the Fourth Precinct of the Riverton FBI earlier tonight and left behind this provocative scene. This is no coincidence."
The room remained silent, the tension growing as the full weight of the situation began to settle in.
"And shortly after this footage was taken, an infected individual appeared in that very precinct," Miyazaki added, his tone making it clear that the connection between these events couldn't be ignored.
"It's... difficult to call that a coincidence," Dr. Hines murmured, frowning as he processed the information. His mind was already racing, considering the possible ramifications.
"Agent Petrov... isn't he currently suspended?" The voice came from a man with a fierce countenance, his presence commanding despite the tension in the room. Dressed in a sharp suit, he wore a black mask adorned with steel studs that made him look more like an executioner than a bureaucrat. Even in the formal setting of the conference room, his aura was intimidating, a man who had seen and done things others could only imagine.
This was Hercules, the Minister of Operations.
"Yes," Melanie responded, stepping forward. She had been quietly observing until now, but the conversation had turned toward her direct subordinate, requiring her to speak. "He was suspended for unauthorized actions. He initiated an unsanctioned attack on a casino owned by a mafia syndicate, resulting in multiple fatalities among non-infected gang members."
"I've heard this isn't the first time," Hercules said, his voice a low growl as he turned his intense gaze on her. The steel studs on his mask reflected the dim light, making his already piercing eyes seem even more threatening.
Melanie hesitated for a moment before responding. "That's correct. Ivan has a history of disregarding protocol and acting independently. He's been disciplined multiple times for his aggressive methods during missions."
Hercules stared at her, his eyes narrowing. "What you're describing sounds like a pattern of insubordination and a disregard for discipline. But today, we're not here to discuss his violations of protocol. What concerns us now are the potential implications of his mental state."
"That's precisely what I wanted to address," Professor Miyazaki interjected, sensing the urgency of the moment.
"I've always found Agent Petrov's case fascinating. He's an anomaly, even among our agents at the Ninth Division. As Melanie mentioned, Ivan has a deep-seated hatred for evil—a trait that undoubtedly stems from his past experiences."
Miyazaki's voice was measured, but there was a growing tension in his words, as though he was building toward something unsettling. "While this drive to eradicate evil is beneficial for a Secret Service agent, it's not without its dangers. There's a fine line between righteous zeal and uncontrolled aggression, and when that line is crossed, the consequences can be catastrophic."
He paused, letting the significance of his statement linger in the air before continuing. "For Secret Service agents, the most critical qualities are high resistance to infection, exceptional operational capabilities, and above all, emotional stability. An agent who cannot maintain control over their emotions is a liability—a ticking time bomb."
Miyazaki's gaze swept across the room, making sure he had everyone's attention. "Ivan Petrov's behavior raises significant concerns in this regard. He has a pattern of disregarding the rules and acting on impulse without considering the broader implications. For him, punishing criminals isn't just about upholding justice—it's personal. It's about satisfying his own deep-seated need for vengeance."
At this, Miyazaki paused, allowing the weight of his words to settle over the room like a heavy fog. He then adjusted the image on the screen, replacing the magnified surveillance still with a summary of the infection incidents that had plagued Riverton throughout the night.
"As you can see," he said, gesturing to the data on the screen, "a pattern is beginning to emerge in these outbreaks. Let's start with the incident at the docks. Our first team of detectives arrived on the scene and meticulously reconstructed the events."
He clicked a button, and the screen displayed an image of the docks, overlaid with notes and diagrams outlining the events that had taken place.
"It appears a group of human traffickers were in the process of unloading their 'cargo' when one of them suddenly became infected. This individual then attacked his accomplices before self-destructing due to the infection overwhelming his physical limits."
Miyazaki's expression grew more somber as he moved to the next slide. "Now, consider the incident at the Fourth Precinct—the very branch where Ivan Petrov once worked. Based on our intelligence, we have reason to believe that some of the officers there were involved in illegal activities."
The room's occupants began to piece together what Miyazaki was implying, their expressions shifting from confusion to concern.
"And then there's the attack at the barbecue restaurant," Miyazaki continued, his tone becoming more intense. "A laughing infected individual suddenly appeared and began attacking gang members, resulting in multiple fatalities. The restaurant owner and two diners were seriously injured, with another person sustaining minor injuries. If Batman hadn't arrived when he did, the situation could have escalated into a full-scale massacre."
"You're suggesting that the majority of the infected are targeting criminals?" Dr. Hines asked cautiously, his mind working to connect the dots.
Miyazaki nodded gravely. "Exactly. While there are numerous incidents I could cite, these examples should suffice to illustrate my point. In each of these cases, although innocent people were indeed endangered, the primary targets of the infected individuals were criminals—individuals who, in many cases, were known to have committed heinous acts."
He paused, letting the gravity of his words sink in. "One or two cases might be dismissed as coincidences, but when you examine the broader pattern, it becomes clear that these incidents are following a disturbing trend."
Miyazaki's gaze hardened as he addressed the room. "By now, you should have an idea of the hypothesis I'm about to present."
"You're saying that Ivan Petrov, one of our own agents, may have become infected," Hercules said, his voice low and filled with a dangerous edge. "And that he's using his... condition... to spread his own twisted version of justice?"
"Yes, that's one way to interpret it," Miyazaki confirmed, his tone serious and measured. "Ivan Petrov is an unusual case, even among our ranks. His psychological evaluations have always indicated a 'relatively safe but needs observation' status. His extreme actions in these incidents—and the specific targets chosen by the infected—align disturbingly well with his personal vendetta against criminals."
Miyazaki took a deep breath, preparing to deliver his final, most unsettling conclusion. "In summary, the likelihood that Ivan Petrov is the source of these infections is not negligible. In fact, it's alarmingly high."
Hercules drummed his knuckles on the table, deep in thought. "A specific individual's immunity to infection is not absolute. While they're resistant to most influences, exceeding their mental endurance can still pose a risk of infection. This is why regular psychological evaluations are mandatory for our agents."
"No," Miyazaki interrupted, his voice firm as he looked around the room, his eyes intense. "I don't believe Ivan Petrov is just another infected individual. He might be something far more dangerous."
He clicked the remote again, bringing the image of Ivan's grinning face back onto the screen, the man's unsettling smile seeming to mock them from within the confines of the frame.
"What I'm suggesting," Miyazaki said slowly, carefully choosing his words, "is that Ivan Petrov may not just be 'a' source of infection. He might very well be 'the' source—the origin of this terrifying outbreak that has plagued Riverton."

Chapter Text

To all my readers, I was quite angry reading this chapter. Its so filler that I wanted to skip it, but the author had the nerve to add crucial information at the end... like, bruh. (Courting Death)
Please don't enjoy the chapter; suffer with me.
muhahahahaha!!!
---
The sun crept over the horizon, bathing the city in a warm, golden light, marking the beginning of another day. Inside his apartment, Charlie stirred from a deep, refreshing sleep, courtesy of his state-of-the-art sleeping capsule. As he sat up and stretched, he felt a satisfying crack in his back, a signal that his body was well-rested and ready for the day. However, as he glanced at the clock, he realized that he had slept through the entire morning.
"Well, that's what happens when you stay up all night playing the nocturnal vigilante," Charlie mused to himself with a chuckle.
He pushed himself out of bed and walked over to the window. Pulling back the curtains, he let the sunlight flood into his room. The rays of light were warm on his face, and for a moment, he closed his eyes, letting the warmth wash over him. It had become a routine for him—praising the sun, much like a character in one of his favorite video games. But today, the light felt different, more invigorating, perhaps because he knew he had a full day ahead of him.
He was aware that being a nocturnal crime-fighter had its tolls. After all, Bruce Wayne hadn't become a night owl without consequences. Nights spent battling criminals required a strong body, a resilient mind, and, of course, the stamina to keep going night after night. Even a billionaire like Wayne needed to maintain a rigorous fitness regime to support his dual lifestyle.
Charlie, not yet at that level of conditioning, knew he was still in the process of building that strength—both physically and mentally. The irony of a rich nightlife needing a strong liver wasn't lost on him, though it was the metaphorical kind in his case.
As he began his day, the first order of business was a long, invigorating shower. He cranked the water up to just shy of scalding, letting the heat penetrate deep into his muscles, easing any lingering tension. Charlie lathered his hair with shampoo, scrubbing vigorously as though trying to wash away not just dirt but any remnants of the virtual world he'd left behind a few hours earlier. He repeated the process three times—an old habit from his teenage years when he believed that cleaner hair somehow made him luckier in games. It was a superstition he'd never quite shaken.
Next came the body wash, and Charlie was just as thorough. He scrubbed every inch of his skin until it practically squeaked, imagining that he was scrubbing away the "bad luck" that sometimes clung to him after a rough night of gaming. By the time he was done, his skin was not just clean but gleaming—smooth and reflective, as if polished to a shine.
Satisfied, he stepped out of the shower and toweled off. The mirror above the sink reflected his image back at him, and he couldn't help but notice the small changes in his physique—a little more definition in the shoulders, a bit more muscle tone in the arms. Progress, slow but steady, was being made.
Dressed and refreshed, Charlie made his way to his computer. This was where the real ritual began.
The day wouldn't officially start until he drew some cards.
Sitting in his chair, Charlie cracked his knuckles and fired up the game. The bulk of his points had been spent the previous night, so he only had enough left for a few single draws. He knew the odds weren't in his favor—ten draws were statistically more likely to yield something good—but he couldn't resist the thrill of pulling one card at a time. After all, there was a certain magic in the ritual, a belief among the gaming community that sometimes, just sometimes, the universe would reward the audacity of a single draw.
This debate over single draws versus ten pulls had raged for years within the card-drawing community. There were those who swore by the efficiency and higher probability of ten pulls, while others claimed that the single draw was where true magic happened—where miracles were born. If one were to graph the probability, it would look like a jagged mountain range, full of peaks and valleys, each turn unpredictable.
But Charlie was a firm believer in the saying, "You lose nothing by trying." It was a creed that had served him well in the past. Who knew? Maybe today would be the day when the universe decided to reward his faith.
With a deep breath, he initiated the first draw. The familiar animation played out on the screen, the digital cards flipping in the air before revealing his reward.
Hawkeye's arrows.
Charlie frowned. It wasn't what he had hoped for—a standard arrow, lacking the high-tech enhancements that made Hawkeye's quiver legendary. It was just a regular arrow, useful but unremarkable.
Undeterred, he tried again. The animation played out, and this time he was rewarded with a Bat Shark Repellent.
Charlie blinked at the screen, momentarily stunned. The Bat Shark Repellent was legendary among Batman fans, not because it was useful, but because it was one of the most hilariously specific gadgets ever created. Originating from the 1966 Batman TV series, the repellent had been used in an episode where Batman, hanging from a helicopter ladder, was attacked by a shark. Without missing a beat, Batman had pulled the repellent from his utility belt and sprayed the shark in the face.
It was a classic moment in Batman lore, a meme that had persisted for decades. But in terms of practical use? It was practically worthless.
Charlie let out a laugh despite himself. "Well, it's not a Batmobile, but at least it's something."
Still, the disappointment lingered. He had hoped for something more useful, something that would give him an edge in the game. The Bat Shark Repellent was fun, but it wasn't exactly going to help him in his next mission.
He stared at the screen, the words "Thank you for participating" flashing across the screen like a taunt. He sighed and leaned back in his chair, contemplating his luck. Maybe he needed a change—something to shake up the routine. Perhaps a new hairstyle or a different approach to his morning ritual would turn things around.
But even with these minor disappointments, Charlie reminded himself that he had gained more than just a few single draws from the previous night's missions.
The hero points he had earned were substantial, but the real prize was the fact that he had leveled up again.
Leveling up in the game was a momentous occasion, and it came with its own set of rituals. Charlie knew that as he progressed, the difficulty would increase. The experience required to reach the next level would be greater, and the challenges would be more intense. It was a pattern that mimicked real life—whether in academics, sports, or personal growth, the higher you climbed, the harder it was to keep advancing.
But Charlie was still in the early stages, where the room for improvement was vast, and the potential gains were significant.
And now it was time for what Charlie affectionately called his "Five-Turtle Superhero Crash Course."
As with each level-up, Charlie had the opportunity to randomly draw a hero skill from the pool of existing superheroes. There was no hesitation—he had already decided who his next draw would be from.
Captain America.
The choice was obvious. Captain America was the quintessential power user, a super soldier whose abilities could enhance Charlie's own physical prowess. With repeated draws, the odds of pulling a superpower increased, and the potential for unlocking something truly transformative was too good to pass up.
Moreover, Captain America's skill set was a treasure trove of combat techniques. Even if Charlie didn't pull a superpower, there were countless other abilities that could prove invaluable. The only concern was the possibility of drawing something less practical—like a specialization in painting, which, while interesting, wasn't exactly what Charlie was aiming for.
He chuckled at the thought. Captain America, the star-spangled Avenger, secretly harboring a passion for painting. It wasn't entirely out of the realm of possibility, considering the character's age and the era he was from. Perhaps, long before becoming the leader of the Avengers, Steve Rogers had entertained thoughts of becoming an artist.
But Charlie shook his head, focusing on the task at hand. Thankfully, his draw this time didn't yield any such oddities.
Power Up (Super Soldier Version).
The words flashed on the screen, and Charlie's heart skipped a beat. He had drawn the ability to enhance his arm strength to superhuman levels—specifically, the strength to perform a bench press of over 500 kilograms.
This was no ordinary power-up. This was the strength of legends. Few in the Marvel universe could match this level of raw power. It was a monster-level ability, one that would give Charlie an undeniable edge in both the game and his virtual exploits.
To put it in perspective, the strength Charlie had just gained was akin to what many would consider superhuman. Even characters like the Kingpin—who, despite being a "normal" human, could rival Spider-Man in strength through sheer willpower and rigorous training—would struggle to match this level of power.
However, Charlie hadn't received the full super soldier serum, just the strength boost. And in a way, he was grateful for that. The serum itself was known for its unpredictable side effects—an abstract mutation that could just as easily enhance the mind as it did the body. It made good people better and bad people worse, amplifying their innate qualities.
Charlie wasn't sure how he would fare under such a transformation. He was aware that the serum was not for the faint of heart. It required a strong will, and the process of mutation could be grueling, even deadly, for those who weren't prepared.
But the power boost? That was perfect. It was straightforward, effective,
and didn't come with the baggage of potential psychological side effects. It was the kind of enhancement that would make a tangible difference in Charlie's gaming performance.
Excited, Charlie equipped the power enhancement and immediately set out to test its effects.

Chapter Text

After equipping the strength enhancement, Charlie felt a surge of power course through his muscles. This was not just any ordinary boost—it was the kind of strength that could rival the most formidable fighters in the world. Along with the strength enhancement, Charlie also equipped the fighting techniques he had previously unlocked from Captain America. He headed to an open area, eager to put his new abilities to the test.

This time, Charlie was careful. During his last attempt, he had underestimated the coordination required between his brain and body, which resulted in an awkward mishap where he nearly injured himself attempting a high kick. Determined not to repeat the same mistake, Charlie began with smaller, more controlled movements. He tested his reflexes, throwing a few quick jabs and shadowboxing to get a feel for his enhanced strength and technique.

As he moved, Charlie quickly noticed a difference. His punches were faster, his kicks more powerful, and his overall agility had increased. He felt the energy coursing through his veins, every muscle primed and ready. With each movement, his confidence grew. He was no longer just a gamer sitting behind a screen—he felt like a true warrior, capable of holding his own in a fight.

Initially, Charlie had been concerned that his newfound strength might outpace his physical conditioning. After all, it wouldn't be ideal to have powerful punches if his stamina couldn't keep up. But to his relief, the strength enhancement came with a corresponding increase in overall physical resilience. His muscles felt more solid, his endurance had improved, and he could sense that his body was now better equipped to handle the demands of his enhanced strength.

However, Charlie also realized that this increase in physical fitness was not all-encompassing. While his strength had been significantly boosted, his body did not gain the full range of enhancements that the original Captain America possessed. For example, Captain America's serum granted him not only super strength but also a heightened resistance to injury, an enhanced healing factor, and exceptional endurance. Charlie's enhancements were limited to strength and fighting techniques without the added benefits of superhuman durability or rapid healing.

Despite this, Charlie was more than satisfied. Even without the full range of Captain America's abilities, his current setup made him feel like a true super soldier. He knew that if trouble ever came his way, he was more than prepared to face it head-on.

In addition to the strength enhancement, leveling up to level 3 unlocked two new features that added even more depth to his gameplay.

The first new feature was the expansion of his team roster. At level 2, Charlie had been able to bring two heroes into battle simultaneously, including substitutes. This setup had its limitations, especially when dealing with complex missions that required more diverse skill sets. However, with the level 3 upgrade, Charlie could now bring three heroes into battle. This meant that he could switch between three different heroes during combat, allowing for greater flexibility and strategic options. Whether he needed brute strength, stealth, or technical prowess, he now had the ability to adapt to any situation.

This expansion transformed his team dynamics. Including Charlie himself, the team now functioned as a true three-person squad. Of course, in the world of gaming, it was common knowledge that a three-person team could sometimes feel like it had the strength of four.

The second new feature unlocked was the voice function.

Previously, the heroes Charlie controlled would occasionally speak iconic lines during key moments, adding to the immersive experience. For instance, Batman might declare, "I am vengeance, I am the night," in a deep, gravelly voice, sending chills down the spine of anyone listening. However, this new voice function took things a step further. It allowed Charlie to open the microphone and speak directly through the hero he was controlling, with the hero's voice being projected in-game. It was as if Charlie's voice had been perfectly modulated to match the hero's, adding a layer of authenticity to the character's interactions.

While Charlie didn't plan on using the microphone feature often—preferring to focus on gameplay rather than chatter—it added an exciting new dimension to the experience. Now, he could have his heroes issue commands, taunt enemies, or engage in dialogue with other characters, all in their own voices. This feature made the heroes feel more alive, more like real personalities rather than mere avatars controlled from a distance.

This voice function also had practical applications. In situations where communication or interrogation was needed, Charlie could now use his hero's voice to extract information or intimidate opponents, much like Batman's famous bungee interrogation scenes. It was a powerful tool, adding yet another layer of depth to Charlie's ever-expanding skill set.

After a long night of gaming that had stretched into the early hours of the morning, Charlie finally logged off. His body, which had been running on adrenaline and excitement, now demanded some relaxation. His stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn't eaten anything substantial in hours. He decided to take a break and head downstairs for a late breakfast, which was closer to lunch at this point.

For a gamer like Charlie, weekend mornings were a mythical concept—something that existed only in the minds of those who didn't spend their nights battling virtual foes. To Charlie, the weekends were sacred, a time when he could indulge in his gaming passion without the constraints of a weekday schedule. The idea of a "morning" on the weekend was laughable; it was simply the time he spent sleeping off the previous night's gaming marathon.

Charlie headed to his favorite local noodle shop and ordered a bowl of beef noodles. Feeling a bit indulgent, he added two extra eggs to his order. When Megan, the friendly shop owner, saw Charlie, she gave him a warm smile and threw in a few extra slices of beef, knowing he was a regular customer.

As Charlie sat down with his steaming bowl of noodles, he pulled out his phone and opened the app for the Service Division, also known as the "lunatic asylum." Given the number of infected individuals he had taken down last night, he half-expected to see his achievements plastered across the homepage. However, what greeted him was far from what he anticipated.

An emergency notification flashed across the screen.

Charlie blinked, momentarily unsure if he was reading it correctly.

It was a wanted notice sent out to all agents of the Service Division.

The wanted individual was... Ivan?

Curious, Charlie clicked on the details, and the familiar face of the bald, muscular agent filled the screen. With his imposing physique and distinctive appearance, there was no mistaking it—this was Ivan.

The wanted notice was sparse on details, stating only that Ivan was suspected of being at risk of mutating into an infection source. It mentioned that he might be in a certain area, urging all agents to be on high alert. However, the notice didn't go into specifics, leaving Charlie with a sense of unease.

Charlie wasn't one to blindly trust anyone, especially not someone he had only worked with a couple of times. His encounters with Ivan had been brief, and while they had shared a few missions, Charlie couldn't say he knew the man well. However, the idea of Ivan being infected didn't sit right with him. In the few interactions they had, Ivan had come across as a tough, no-nonsense type, someone who was as solid as a rock.

Unable to shake his curiosity, Charlie decided to call Tara, who handled communications and logistics. She had previously told him to reach out if he ever had questions, and given that she was in the same group as Ivan, she might have some inside information.

Tara didn't hesitate to fill Charlie in on the situation. Apparently, the previous night had been a whirlwind of chaos, with multiple incidents involving infected individuals. Surveillance footage from the Fourth Branch of the FBI had captured Ivan on camera shortly before the place was attacked. The higher-ups quickly convened an emergency meeting and determined that Ivan might be infected. They sent agents to bring him in for questioning at one of the Secret Service's sub-bases.

However, things took a turn when the agents approached Ivan that morning. Instead of cooperating, Ivan had reportedly bolted, breaking through the security perimeter and escaping the sub-base on his own. His current whereabouts were unknown.

Charlie was stunned.

One man, alone, had managed to escape from a building filled with trained agents, and now no one could find him.

This revelation raised serious questions about the security measures in place and made Charlie wonder about the overall reliability of the Service Division.

But as Charlie thought more about it, he realized it might not be entirely the fault of the Service Division.

In theory, security agents and bodyguards were supposed to be vigilant, with a tight network of surveillance and protection. But history was full of instances where seemingly foolproof systems had been breached by a single determined individual. Sometimes, reality defied logic, and even the most secure facilities could be compromised under the right circumstances.

The more Charlie pondered the situation, the more suspicious it seemed. The surveillance footage alone might not have been enough to raise alarm, but Ivan's sudden and dramatic escape certainly did.

Could it be that Ivan was really infected?

The thought lingered in Charlie's mind as he finished his meal, the weight of the situation settling in. This was no ordinary mission—something far more dangerous was unfolding, and Charlie knew he had to be prepared for whatever came next.

Chapter Text

"Actually, whether Ivan is the source of the infection is still under investigation. The headquarters hasn't reached a conclusion yet," Tara said, her voice steady, though it hinted at underlying tension. "Initially, they just wanted to understand what was going on with him—they didn't even issue an arrest order. But Ivan's aggressive reaction escalated the situation far beyond what anyone expected."

Charlie absorbed this, the absurdity of the situation gnawing at him. "So they think he's the source of the infection just because he was caught on camera?"

"That's part of it, but there's probably more to it than that."

Tara's voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper on the other end of the line.

"From what I've heard, it's not just about the camera footage. There are whispers that the entire attack on the Riverton City FBI might be suspicious."

She hesitated, clearly choosing her words carefully. "Did you know Ivan was an agent before he joined the Ninth Division?"

"Yeah," Charlie replied. "He mentioned it once during a mission. I also saw some old photos in his office. But that was just in passing."

"Do you know which branch of the FBI Ivan worked for when he was still an FBI personnel?"

Charlie paused, a growing sense of unease crawling up his spine. "No, I don't… Wait," his voice sharpened with realization, "you don't mean—"

"Yes," Tara confirmed quietly, "it was the Fourth Branch. The very same one that was attacked last night. It's not hard to see why people are connecting the dots. And," she hesitated again, her voice dropping even lower, "I've heard there was some bad blood between Ivan and people at the Fourth Branch."

"What kind of bad blood?"

"I don't know the specifics," Tara admitted. "That kind of information is heavily encrypted, and only those with the right clearance can access it. But this isn't really something you need to get involved in. If you see Ivan, just contact headquarters immediately, and they'll take it from there."

She had a point. Charlie and Ivan weren't particularly close, and whether Ivan was really infected or just caught up in something— didn't directly impact Charlie's life.

In the past, Charlie would have kept his distance from this kind of trouble. He wouldn't have even bothered to ask questions, let alone get involved. But things were different now. He had developed a taste for digging into mysteries that weren't his business.

After all, he was now the legendary "keyboard warrior," a master of online crusades, shouting at injustice from behind the safety of his screen. Armed with his "key," the keyboard, he was ready to engage in a different kind of battle.

The clues Tara mentioned had piqued his curiosity. Charlie had been at the scene of the Fourth Branch incident last night—as Batman. But he hadn't known this was where Ivan had worked.

It seemed that the specific details were locked behind layers of security clearance, which Charlie obviously didn't have. But that didn't matter. He believed in the old saying, "If you want something, go and get it." There were very few things Charlie wanted that he couldn't eventually obtain.

...Except, perhaps, his parents' approval.

A short while later, Batman arrived outside the Ninth Division's building, disguised as a nondescript trading company.

Charlie knew the drill. Before making any moves, it was crucial to observe and assess the situation. While it was easy to joke about the security of the floating "madhouse" being questionable, he knew that an organization of this size couldn't afford to be lax. At least on the surface, it had to maintain security standards far beyond those of a public restroom.

Batman circled the building multiple times, scanning it thoroughly using detective mode. With each scan, Charlie built a comprehensive mental map of the building's layout, noting the locations of all potential entry points, security measures, and patrol patterns.

The first challenge was the building's exterior. The glass walls were lined with state-of-the-art motion sensors, so sensitive that even a light tap could trigger an internal alarm, instantly revealing his presence.

But detective mode had its perks. It marked the locations of these sensors in advance, allowing Charlie to trace the wiring through the walls. The intricate web of wires led him to a control hub inside the building, hidden behind several layers of security.

Charlie switched Batman's equipment, and the Dark Knight produced a powerful universal decryptor from his belt. Locking onto the control hub, Batman swiftly bypassed the sensors, rendering them useless in a matter of seconds.

The entire process was almost too easy.

Charlie imagined the software experts at the Ninth Division witnessing this. They'd probably be shocked at how quickly their cutting-edge security was disabled. It would be a blow to their pride, to say the least.

But then again, it wasn't really their fault. Batman had a reputation for cracking the most secure systems. He had once hacked into Apokolips, the home planet of the dark monarch Darkseid, and hijacked their entire biochemical weapon arsenal, using it to threaten Darkseid himself. Compared to that, a few security sensors were child's play.

With the sensors disabled, Batman used the grapple gun to reach the floor Charlie had scouted earlier. Thanks to detective mode, he could see through walls, ensuring the floor was empty. The universal decryptor made short work of the security cameras and electronic locks, allowing Batman to slip inside unnoticed.

Navigating the floor was almost too easy. With detective mode active, it felt like playing a game of hide and seek with omniscient vision. Charlie could see how many people were in the building and where they were heading.

Any surveillance cameras that couldn't be bypassed were handled with precision. Charlie didn't just disable them; he intercepted their feeds, looping the same few seconds of empty footage over and over, creating the illusion that nothing was amiss.

As for the locks, the universal decryptor took care of the electronic ones, while Batman's master key and lockpicking skills handled the rest.

If any agents or guards were unavoidable, a quick and silent takedown ensured they wouldn't be a problem. By the time they woke up, Charlie would be long gone.

After about ten minutes, Batman reached the sub-base's server room, quickly knocking two agents unconscious on the floor, a testament to the Dark Knight's efficiency.

Batman's infiltration was methodical and precise, a silent operation that left no trace.

Charlie selected the appropriate equipment, and on the screen, Batman produced his trusty decryptor. This time, instead of relying on wireless transmission, Batman plugged directly into the server with a data cable, preparing for a deeper dive into the system.

Charlie guessed that cracking the server's defenses might take a bit more effort. Although he didn't fully understand the technical process, he saw Batman fiddling with the black-tech device a bit longer than usual, his fingers moving swiftly over the controls.

From Charlie's perspective, it wasn't all that different from defusing a bomb in a video game—find the target, press and hold the E key, wait for the progress bar to fill up, and boom, the bomb is defused.

The firewall actually managed to hold off Batman for over a minute—a feat that Charlie figured could earn the Ninth Division's tech team a year's worth of bragging rights.

Once inside the system, Charlie took control of the device in Batman's hand. The screen of the decryptor expanded, taking up nearly the entire view on Charlie's monitor. He could now operate it as if it were his own computer, navigating through the files and databases with ease.

When it came to programming, Charlie was a novice. He worried that if the decryptor required any input beyond basic commands, he might be out of his depth.

Fortunately, the device was user-friendly, designed for ease of use even by those with limited technical knowledge. It was almost like using a search engine—type in what you want to know, and the device would do the rest.

Charlie entered Ivan's name, and a flood of information appeared on the screen.

Before he could sift through the details, one item immediately caught his eye, freezing him in place.

It was a photo of Ivan, looking much like he did now, with the same sparse hair and stern expression. But what really stood out was the text below the image.

It read: Death Certificate.

Charlie's heart skipped a beat, his mind racing to process what he was seeing.

Chapter Text

Death certificate?

Charlie couldn't believe what he was seeing. His eyes locked onto the screen, disbelief twisting his expression as he double-checked the image before him. It was a clear, unmistakable photo of Ivan Petrov—the same stern, battle-hardened agent he'd worked alongside, the one who'd guided him through some of the darkest, most treacherous assignments he'd ever faced, albeit it was the only assignment he's ever faced at that point in time. Yet, the document beside the photo was a death certificate, and it looked disturbingly genuine.

He scrutinized the details, his mind struggling to process the information. If Ivan was supposed to be dead, then who was the man who had been leading him through those perilous missions? Who was the person who had fought by his side, trading wry banter and grim resolve? Could it be possible that the man was some kind of walking corpse? The thought alone was enough to send a shiver crawling down Charlie's spine.

But then, something else caught his attention. The name on the death certificate wasn't Ivan Petrov; it was Ivon Petrov.

His first thought was that Ivan might have had a twin brother, a long-lost sibling with a hidden history. But when Charlie dug deeper into the records, that theory quickly dissolved. The files revealed the truth—this was indeed the same Ivan Petrov, or rather, this had been his identity in a previous life. Back when he served as an FBI operative, he was known as Ivon Petrov. But that identity had been declared dead. From the ashes of Ivon Petrov, Ivan Petrov rose, was reborn, and was remade into a special agent of the elite and secretive organization known as Special Service Ninth Division.

The transformation from Ivon Petrov to Ivan Petrov had been meticulously documented, every detail sealed away in the most classified files, accessible only to those with the highest levels of security clearance.

But for Batman, those restrictions were barely an inconvenience.

Charlie's decryption tools made quick work of the encryption that protected these secrets. The files opened up like a treasure chest of hidden truths, revealing the story of a man who had walked through the fires of hell and emerged with a new identity, a new purpose.

…

This is the story of a man who had once gone by a different name, a man who had begun his career as an agent, filled with dreams as bright as the morning sun.

When Ivon Petrov was first transferred to Riverton City, he was full of ambition. He saw himself as a hero in his own epic tale, a modern-day knight who would bring justice to a city teetering on the edge of chaos. In his mind, he envisioned himself standing shoulder to shoulder with his fellow agents, battling the forces of darkness, dismantling powerful drug cartels, and rescuing the innocent—just like in the movies.

But the reality of Riverton City was far from the romanticized vision that had driven him.

Ivan's first partner in this gritty, unforgiving city was a veteran officer named Brooke. Brooke was the kind of man who had seen it all, a grizzled survivor who had spent twenty long years in the trenches of law enforcement. He was the epitome of cynicism, a man who had been worn down by the relentless grind of the job. From the moment they met, Brooke made it clear that he had no interest in Ivan's high-minded ideals. His motto was simple, and he repeated it often: "Mind your own business."

To Ivan, Brooke was a relic of a bygone era, a man who had let the harsh realities of life crush his spirit. Brooke didn't chase criminals with the fervor of a crusader; he didn't seek promotions, accolades, or even the respect of his peers. His only goal was to make it through each day without incident, to reach his retirement in peace, and to never again set foot in the world of crime and punishment.

This attitude was anathema to everything Ivan believed. To him, an agent should be a symbol of hope, a warrior for justice, someone who would risk everything to protect the innocent and bring the guilty to justice. Brooke, in Ivan's eyes, was a man who had given up, who had allowed the darkness of the world to extinguish whatever fire he once had.

Their partnership was strained from the very start. Ivan, eager to prove himself and show that he was different and that he had the courage and conviction to make a real difference, constantly clashed with Brooke's jaded pragmatism. Brooke, on the other hand, saw Ivan as nothing more than a naive idealist, a young man who had yet to learn the harsh lessons that life in Riverton City would inevitably teach him.

As time passed, the tension between them only grew. Brooke frequently assigned Ivan to the most mundane, thankless tasks—the kind of drudgery that seasoned agents avoided at all costs. And Ivan, in turn, grew increasingly frustrated with what he perceived as his partner's lack of ambition, his refusal to take risks, and his apparent indifference to the suffering that surrounded them.

But everything changed in the final month of Brooke's long career.

The case that would alter the course of Ivan's life was one that shook the city to its core. An eight-year-old girl had gone missing, and her desperate parents had turned to the FBI Department for help. The case was initially assigned to an officer named Tengu, a man whose reputation for laziness and lack of initiative was well-known. Weeks passed, and Tengu's investigation went nowhere, leaving the girl's fate in limbo.

Ivan couldn't stand it. He saw Tengu as a disgrace to the badge, a man whose incompetence was putting an innocent child's life at risk. He was furious, and he knew he couldn't just sit back and watch as the clock ticked down on the girl's life.

So, he decided to take matters into his own hands.

Determined to find the girl and bring her home safely, Ivan approached Brooke, urging him to intervene. At first, Brooke refused. With only one month left before his retirement, he had no interest in getting involved in a case that wasn't even his. But Ivan was relentless.

"That child is only eight years old," Ivan had said, his voice heavy with the weight of the situation. "Imagine if that were your daughter. Would you still stand by and do nothing?"

Those words struck a nerve in Brooke. He has a daughter; a cute lovable child, an anchor that he had buried deep within himself, keeping it tucked away in a part of his heart that he rarely visited, afraid of tainting her with his foul, blood soaked presence. But Ivan's words brought those memories rushing back to the surface.

Against his better judgment, Brooke agreed to help.

The two of them threw themselves into the case with a fervor that surprised even Ivan. They worked tirelessly, following every lead, chasing down every clue, and finally, they managed to locate the girl and her captors. For a brief moment, it seemed as though everything would turn out alright.

But fate had other plans.

Somehow, the kidnappers had gotten wind of their approach. They were ready for Ivan and Brooke, and what should have been a straightforward rescue mission quickly turned into a deadly ambush.

In the end, reinforcements arrived just in time, and the criminals were subdued. The girl was rescued, but the victory came at a devastating cost.

Brooke, the old officer who had only one month left before his long-awaited retirement, had given his life to save hers.

Ivan was devastated. But his reaction wasn't what anyone expected.

When they brought Brooke's body back to the station, Ivan didn't cry. He didn't rage or break down. Instead, he was eerily calm, his expression blank, his eyes empty of emotion. His colleagues, unsure of how to comfort him, watched in silence as he quietly requested a private session with the kidnapper.

The chief, out of respect for Ivan's loss, granted him that request.

No one could have predicted what would happen next.

In the small, dimly lit interrogation room, Ivan sat across from the kidnapper, his gaze unyielding as he stared the man down. For a long moment, the room was silent, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. Then, without warning, Ivan reached across the table and, with a single, brutal motion, twisted the man's neck, snapping it with the cold efficiency of someone who had nothing left to lose.

The sound of bones cracking echoed through the room like a death knell.

That single act of vengeance cost Ivan his badge, his job, and nearly his freedom. The only reason he wasn't charged with murder was the chief's intervention. The official story was that the criminal had attacked Ivan first, that it was a clear case of self-defense. But everyone knew the truth.

Ivan didn't care.

A few days later, he walked into a bar—a speakeasy tucked away in one of the darkest corners of Riverton City. It was a place where the line between law and crime was razor-thin, where the city's most notorious figures gathered in the shadows, and where whispers of illicit deals and shady alliances filled the smoke-laden air.

Ivan found Officer Tengu there, sitting at a table with two women draped over him, a drink in one hand and a smug grin plastered across his face. When Tengu saw Ivan, his surprise was evident, but he quickly masked it with a wide, welcoming smile.

"Hey, what brings you here?"

But Ivan wasn't there for pleasantries. His eyes were cold, his voice as sharp as a blade.

"On the night Brooke and I went out, someone leaked our plans. It had to be someone inside the department."

Tengu's smile wavered, but he quickly recovered, trying to maintain his facade.

"So what?"

"It was you, wasn't it?" Ivan's voice was steady, but there was a lethal edge to it, the kind that made even the most hardened criminals think twice.

Tengu hesitated for just a fraction of a second, but in that brief pause, he knew the truth was already written across his face. There was no point in lying, no point in denying what had been done. He let out a low, humorless laugh and leaned back in his chair, feigning nonchalance.

"So what if it was?" Tengu's grin turned into a sneer. "What are you going to do about it? You think you're some kind of hero, Ivan? You're just a fool who doesn't know when to back down. You were lucky the old man took that bullet for you. Next time, you might not be so lucky."

Ivan's stare never wavered. His eyes, once filled with the idealism of a young lawman eager to make his mark, were now dark, filled with something far more dangerous—a cold, calculated resolve. He was no longer the man who believed in the black-and-white simplicity of right and wrong. That man had died alongside Brooke.

"Why did you do it?" Ivan's voice was calm, but beneath the surface, there was a current of fury, barely contained.

Tengu scoffed, taking a slow, deliberate sip of his drink. "Why not? I've got connections, real power. People like you—idealists—you're just pawns in a game you don't even understand. Brooke was a relic, just like you are. The world doesn't need people like you anymore."

"People like me?" Ivan's lips curled into a smile, one that didn't reach his eyes. "What kind of people do you think I am, Tengu?"

"Pathetic," Tengu spat. "Always trying to play the hero. But this city chews up heroes and spits them out. You should have learned that by now."

For a long moment, neither man spoke. The air between them was thick with tension, with unspoken threats and promises of violence. The other patrons in the bar had begun to notice the standoff, the way Ivan's hand hovered just a little too close to his jacket, where they all knew a gun was likely concealed.

Tengu, perhaps sensing that he had pushed too far, tried to diffuse the situation. He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Look, Ivan, we're all just trying to survive here. Brooke's gone, and nothing you do is going to bring him back. So why don't you just let it go? There's no point in getting yourself killed over this."

Ivan's expression hardened. "You think this is about survival, Tengu? You think I'm here because I want revenge? Brooke might be gone, but I'm still here. And as long as I am, people like you—people who think they can do whatever they want and get away with it—you're going to learn that there are consequences."

The last word hung in the air like a death sentence.

Ivan's hand moved in a blur. In one fluid motion, he pulled out his gun and pointed it directly at Tengu's forehead. The room fell silent. The laughter, the chatter, the clinking of glasses—all of it ceased as every eye in the room turned towards the two men at the center of this deadly drama.

Tengu's bravado crumbled. He raised his hands, palms out, in a gesture of surrender. "Hey, Ivan, let's not do anything hasty—"

But Ivan wasn't listening. His finger tightened on the trigger.

"You know," Ivan said quietly, almost to himself, "for a long time, I believed in justice. I believed in the system. I thought that if I just worked hard enough, if I was good enough, I could make a difference. But then I realized something."

Tengu swallowed hard, his eyes locked on the barrel of the gun.

"I realized," Ivan continued, his voice calm, almost serene, "that justice isn't something you wait for. It's something you take."

The gunshot was deafening in the enclosed space. Tengu's head snapped back as the bullet tore through his skull, and he slumped forward onto the table, his blood pooling around the half-empty glass in front of him.

For a moment, no one moved. The bar was silent, the shock of the sudden violence paralyzing everyone in the room. Then, as if on cue, the screams started. People scrambled for the exits, overturning chairs and tables in their haste to get away. The security guards, who had been inching closer, suddenly found themselves in the middle of a stampede.

Ivan stood motionless in the chaos, the gun still smoking in his hand. He didn't flinch as bodies rushed past him, as people screamed and stumbled over each other in their desperation to escape. His eyes were fixed on Tengu's lifeless body, on the blood that now stained the floor.

Chapter Text

According to archival records, there were no survivors from the bar that night—not even the owner.

Even those who managed to escape the bar were found dead later that day.

Despite being the notorious kingpin who held Riverton City's criminal underworld in a tight grip, the man who was whispered to control everything from drug trafficking to high-stakes gambling met his end with a single, unceremonious bullet. His life, like those of the countless others he had taken, was reduced to a fleeting moment of violence—a brief flash in the darkness.

The heavy wooden door of the bar creaked open one last time, revealing a figure drenched in blood. Ivon once feared and revered in equal measure, now appeared more like a vengeful ghost than a man. His clothes were soaked through, the dark fabric clinging to his skin, and his once-proud posture was marred by the weight of seven or eight bullets lodged deep in his flesh. Blood oozed from his wounds, forming a sticky trail behind him as he staggered forward. But Ivon seemed oblivious to the pain, his expression distant as if his mind had already left his battered body behind.

[TL note - who else is getting John Wick vibes]

He took a few uncertain steps, his movements slow and labored, like a marionette with its strings cut. The cold night air bit at his skin, yet he paid no mind. Instead, he simply lowered himself to the sidewalk outside the bar, his legs giving out beneath him as he sat down heavily. The world around him was quiet, save for the distant hum of traffic and the occasional rustle of wind through the deserted streets.

With trembling hands, Ivon reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. He fumbled with it for a moment, finally managing to extract one and place it between his cracked lips. The flame from his lighter flickered briefly before catching the end of the cigarette, casting a warm glow over his bloodied face. He inhaled deeply, letting the smoke fill his lungs before exhaling slowly, watching the tendrils of smoke curl into the air and disappear into the night.

The files later indicated that Ivon had already been infected by the mysterious pathogen at that time, though the full extent of its effects on his mind and body was unclear. The report speculated that Ivon himself might have been unaware of the infection's grip on him. It was likely that he hadn't expected to walk out of that bar alive; perhaps he had even welcomed the idea of dying in a blaze of violence, finding some twisted solace in the notion of going out on his own terms.

This was reflected in his mental assessment, where the report further noted a distinct possibility of self-destructive tendencies. It was as if Ivon had reached a point where the only option that made sense to him was an end—an end as brutal and uncompromising as the life he had led.

But fate, it seemed, had other plans.

Later that same night, Ivon crossed paths with agents from the Special Service, an organization infamous in certain circles and internally referred to as the Madhouse. They found him slumped on the sidewalk, a blood-soaked specter who had somehow survived what should have been a fatal confrontation. Intrigued by his resilience and the odd circumstances surrounding him, the agents brought him in for evaluation.

After undergoing a series of rigorous tests—both physical and psychological—Ivon was deemed fit to join their ranks. However, the man who emerged from those evaluations was no longer Ivon Petrov, the feared enforcer of Riverton City's criminal empire. That identity, along with all the sins it carried, was buried that night. In its place, a new persona was forged: Ivan Petrov, an agent of the Ninth Division.

As Charlie delved deeper into the records, he noticed that this transformation was strikingly similar to the "witness protection plan" he had heard about in his previous life. The idea was simple yet powerful—erase every trace of the old life, give the individual a new name, a new face, and a new beginning in a place where their past could not follow.

In theory, it was an effective way to protect those who might be targeted for what they knew or what they had done. But in the cinematic universe of Hollywood, such plans rarely worked as intended. Characters placed under witness protection always seemed to be haunted by the ghosts of their pasts, with old enemies resurfacing at the worst possible times. It was as if the very act of trying to hide from one's past only made it more inevitable that it would come back to haunt them.

The witness protection plan, much like Iron Man's infamous anti-armor suits, often proved to be more of a façade than a true safeguard. Just as the anti-armor suits frequently failed to protect against the very threats they were designed to counter, the witness protection plan sometimes failed to shield those it was meant to protect. The past, it seemed, was a tenacious adversary, always finding a way to break through the flimsiest of defenses.

For Ivan, it was unclear whether his past had indeed caught up with him, but the events at the Fourth Precinct strongly suggested a connection. The footage Charlie had seen earlier showed Ivan reacting to something—or someone—at that location, which could very well be a remnant of his former life as Ivon Petrov.

Regardless of the specifics, one thing was clear: Charlie needed to find Ivan, and quickly.

After extracting the necessary information from the server, Charlie disconnected. But his mission wasn't over yet. There was another area he needed to investigate.

Earlier that day, Ivan had made a daring escape from the building. Charlie, using Batman's detective mode from the outside, had noticed a crack in the glass on the third floor. It was clear that Ivan had made his exit by jumping through that window.

Charlie waited patiently, biding his time until the security guards patrolling the third-floor window had moved on. Then, with the precision and stealth of a seasoned predator, he guided Batman to slip through the broken window.

The room inside had been cordoned off, and a perimeter was established around the scene of the escape. Shards of glass lay scattered across the floor tiles, glittering faintly in the dim light. The air inside was cool and slightly damp as if the very room had absorbed the tension and chaos of the earlier events.

Charlie's instincts kicked in. He activated Batman's first-person reconnaissance and scanning mode, his vision narrowing as he focused on the debris. With a deliberate, steady hand, he guided the scanning frame over the shards of glass, holding down the right mouse button to initiate the scan.

This was one of Batman's many specialized abilities—scene inspection.

This feature, which had made its debut in the Arkham series, was a testament to Batman's unparalleled detective skills. Unlike other heroes who relied on physical prowess or sensory enhancements, Batman's strength lay in his intellect and his ability to analyze even the most minute details. His "detective mode" was a tool that allowed him to see beyond the obvious, to uncover hidden truths that others might overlook.

Batman's origins in detective comics had long established him as the greatest detective in the DC universe. The detective elements in his stories were not just add-ons; they were central to his identity. While the Batman games were, at their core, action-packed superhero adventures with elements of fantasy, the inclusion of these detective features added a layer of depth and complexity, making the gameplay experience all the more immersive.

The detective elements in Batman's world were akin to the action scenes in detective-themed works like "Detective Conan"—a blend of logic, intuition, and a touch of the extraordinary.

However, unlike the leaps of logic often seen in Conan, Batman's deductions were grounded in a combination of Sherlock Holmes-style intellect and Tony Stark-level technology. This allowed Batman to approach each case with a near-divine perspective, as if he were piecing together the puzzle of a crime scene with the help of both his analytical mind and his high-tech gadgets.

Charlie watched as the scan of the glass shards quickly built a model of the room on Batman's helmet display. Within seconds, the scene before the glass had shattered was reconstructed in vivid detail. From Batman's perspective, Charlie could see a holographic model of Ivan bursting into the room, his movements quick and precise. Ivan fired two shots at the window, the bullets piercing the glass and leaving two jagged holes. Without hesitation, Ivan then charged forward, crashing through the glass with a powerful leap.

The entire sequence played out as if Charlie were witnessing it firsthand. The progress bar at the bottom of the screen allowed him to manipulate the scene, fast-forwarding, rewinding, or pausing at any moment to examine specific details.

This ability to reconstruct and replay crime scenes was something that had left Charlie in awe when he first encountered it in the Arkham games. It felt almost surreal, as if he were not merely playing a game, but rather stepping into the role of the Dark Knight himself, piecing together the clues that would lead to justice.

If this was truly how investigation and reasoning worked, it seemed almost beyond the realm of possibility—edging into the territory of supernatural abilities like the legendary "Sky Eye." Yet, within the context of Batman's world, it all made perfect sense.

[TL Note - not sure wtf sky eye is, but it is probably the heavenly eye from Chinese novels]

In Iron Man 3, Tony Stark used a similar method—scanning crime scenes and creating holographic models to conduct high-tech investigations. Sherlock Holmes, too, was famed for his ability to deduce an entire waterfall from a single drop of water. Given Batman's superhuman capabilities and advanced technology, it wasn't far-fetched for him to possess this ability.

The holographic replay of the crime scene that players experienced might not have been a purely technological marvel. Instead, it could have been a blend of Batman's mental reconstruction of the scene based on the evidence he gathered and his high-tech equipment. This combination allowed the game to present the intuitive "God's perspective

"in a way that was both accessible and believable for players.

This user-friendly interface enabled players to step into the shoes of the world's greatest detective, solving cases with the same precision and efficiency as Batman himself.

After replaying the scene, Batman followed the same path Ivan had taken, leaping out of the window with his cape unfurling behind him and landing near the point where Ivan had hit the ground.

The floor tiles showed subtle cracks where Ivan had landed, the force of his fall causing the stone to fracture slightly. Batman's first-person perspective also revealed traces of a blood reaction on the ground—a telltale sign of the injuries Ivan had sustained.

The luminol reaction, a common technique in crime scene investigations, allows even faint or cleaned bloodstains to glow with a blue luminescence under the right conditions. Typically, this reaction lasts only about 30 seconds and requires a dim environment for the glow to be visible. But in Batman's world, such limitations didn't apply.

When Batman activated his detective mode, the function in his helmet allowed him to see dried blood as if it were still fresh, tracing the path Ivan had taken from the scene of the escape to the parking lot.

Sometimes, Charlie couldn't help but wonder if the infrared imaging and night vision technologies in Batman's helmet were just the surface. Perhaps the real secret of Batman's helmet lay in something far more advanced—a visual sensor technology that was years, if not decades, ahead of anything else in existence.

According to Locard's exchange principle, any contact between two objects leaves a trace. Movies and TV shows often simplify this concept, focusing primarily on fingerprints or DNA. However, trace evidence goes much deeper, encompassing everything from hair and fibers to paint and body fluids, all of which can be left behind at a crime scene.

Batman's detective mode was built on this very principle, allowing him to detect even the faintest traces left behind by a suspect.

As Charlie followed the trail of blood leading to the parking lot, he noticed it grew fainter the farther it went. He guessed that by the time Ivan reached this point, his body had healed enough to nearly stop the bleeding—perhaps another sign of the infection's effects.

But Batman's detective mode managed to track the trail to an empty parking space, the likely spot where Ivan had parked the vehicle he used to escape.

When Charlie attempted to scan the parking space again using detective mode, he encountered an unexpected obstacle. Batman's seemingly all-seeing detective mode had reached its limit.

"Detective mode cannot scan tire marks," Batman's voice intoned, a reminder that even the Dark Knight had his limits.

This surprised Charlie. He had come to rely on Batman's almost omniscient perspective, but now, it seemed there were clues even Batman couldn't fully decipher.

But then, Batman added, "I need the Batmobile's scanners for further tracking."

Charlie's mind raced as he considered the implications. "but..."

Breaking into a high-security building and stealing information was one thing. But driving a tank-like Batmobile into a public parking lot? That might be pushing it a bit too far, even for Batman.

If no one noticed that, then Riverton City's security was no better than the infamously incompetent guards of Arkham.

Chapter Text

Hearing Batman's cold, analytical voice echo in his mind like a game guide, Charlie couldn't help but fall into deep contemplation. The words were methodical and calculated, much like everything Batman did. It made Charlie question whether the Dark Knight had spent too much time with Arkham's security guards, perhaps even unconsciously adopting their rigid, procedural ways. The Batmobile—a behemoth of a vehicle, an armored tank with the wings of a fighter jet—seemed almost absurdly out of place in a mundane parking lot, like a warship in a swimming pool. The sheer strength it wielded was enough to tear through walls, yet here it was, about to be used for a simple on-site investigation.

Charlie couldn't shake the ridiculousness of the situation. The security guards stationed weren't blind, and they certainly weren't insignificant. How could such a massive, conspicuous vehicle sneak into a parking lot without raising an alarm? The idea seemed laughably impossible at first glance, a concept that defied logic. It was like trying to smuggle an elephant through a keyhole.

His initial instinct was that attempting something so bold would be akin to signing his own death warrant. In a moment of absurdity, Charlie imagined the guards standing around, completely oblivious as the Batmobile rolled in—a sight so strange that it would seem as though they'd seen a ghost. Yet, the more he pondered, the more plausible it seemed. After all, Batman had a way of making the impossible possible.

Even if things went horribly wrong, what was the worst that could happen? Charlie could always rely on Batman's tried-and-true method—when in doubt, blow something up and escape. The Bat Tank, as he fondly called it, was more than capable of breaking through any barriers. Batman, after all, had spent decades hunting down criminals in Gotham's shadows, his presence a nightmare for every lowlife in the city. The GCPD had been playing catch-up for years, but they were never quite able to pin him down.

If all else failed, Charlie could simply go offline, and Batman would vanish into thin air, his equipment whisking him away to safety in the blink of an eye. He could already imagine the look of shock on his pursuers' faces as they realized their prey had disappeared without a trace.

The more Charlie thought about it, the less it seemed like his problem. If Batman caused a commotion, it wasn't Charlie's neck on the line. Batman could play with death, dance on the edge of danger, and it wouldn't matter to Charlie. He wasn't the one out there in the thick of it. So why not push the envelope a bit and test the limits? After all, Batman faced worse odds and came out on top every time.

In the comics and the Arkham Knight game, the Batmobile could be remotely controlled with precision. Through the remote control, Charlie could tap into the Batmobile's systems, switching to its perspective as it navigated its way into the underground parking lot. The idea of piloting this mechanical beast from a distance gave Charlie a thrill, a sense of power he rarely felt in his own skin.

Even though sneaking such a massive vehicle into the facility seemed daunting, it was Batman's equipment, after all. If anyone could make it work, it was him.

First, Batman would need to neutralize the parking lot's surveillance equipment. With the cameras disabled, there would be no digital eyes to witness the Batmobile's arrival. The vehicle then engaged its stealth mode, becoming a ghostly presence, nearly invisible to anyone who might be watching.

This stealth wasn't like the high-tech cloaking devices seen in science fiction, where an object would blend perfectly into its surroundings. Instead, it was more akin to the Batmobile from the movie "Batman Begins." The roar of the engine quieted to a barely perceptible hum, all external lights shut off, and the tail propeller ceased its fiery bursts. The Batmobile, already painted in the darkest shade of black, now melded with the shadows, its silhouette becoming indistinguishable from the surrounding darkness. The built-in AI took over, carefully plotting a route that would keep the vehicle hidden in the shadows, avoiding the occasional sweep of any remaining lights.

In the heart of a brightly lit downtown area, this trick would be nearly useless. The Batmobile, despite its stealth capabilities, wasn't invisible—it couldn't hide in plain sight. But in the remote outskirts, where light was sparse and shadows plentiful, it became a phantom. And the secret asylum branch, cleverly disguised as a nondescript trade building, was likely tucked away in just such a secluded spot. The deception was part of its design.

On this dark, winding road, the Batmobile transformed into a silent specter, moving with a grace that belied its size. Even if it passed directly in front of a security camera, it would be little more than a fleeting blur, a shadow too quick to capture.

Charlie had Batman conduct a reconnaissance of the area. The biggest challenge would be the sentry post at the entrance, where the parking lot lights were so bright they might as well have been stage lights at a concert. Even in stealth mode, the Batmobile would be hard-pressed to slip by unnoticed. If the guards missed something that obvious, they must have been blessed with extraordinarily good luck in their past lives.

But Charlie wasn't too concerned. He knew that Batman had other tools at his disposal. Batman silently approached the guards, his movements as quiet as a whisper in the wind. With a few well-placed gestures, he used a technique that was almost second nature to him, a form of physical hypnosis that sent the guards into a deep, dreamless sleep.

With the guards neutralized, Charlie was able to guide the Batmobile into the parking lot without any further resistance.

Once inside, Batman entered the Batmobile and activated the vehicle's advanced scanning device. A bright blue beam swept out from the front of the car, illuminating the parking space in a cold, otherworldly glow. Within seconds, four distinct tire tracks appeared on the ground, as if drawn out by an invisible hand.

But this was just the beginning. The Batmobile's onboard systems continued to analyze the scene, processing the data at incredible speed. Charlie imagined Batman's mind working in tandem with the machine, calculating the vehicle's size based on the spacing of the tire tracks, cross-referencing the tire patterns with known models. Soon, a holographic image began to take shape above the tracks, its outlines becoming clearer with each passing moment.

The model started with the tires, then the bodywork began to materialize, piece by piece. In mere seconds, a fully formed holographic off-road vehicle stood before him, every detail painstakingly reconstructed.

In the driver's seat sat Ivan, his form restored to eerie perfection, as though he had never left the vehicle.

But the most remarkable thing was yet to come. The holographic vehicle, though intangible, moved with all the precision of a real car. Ivan gripped the steering wheel, his movements exaggerated as he drifted sideways with a sharp, stylish turn, the vehicle leaving a trail of virtual dust in its wake. He shifted gears, the transition smooth and seamless, and the blue off-road vehicle surged toward the exit with a roar of virtual engines.

Charlie, captivated by the scene, continued to guide the Batmobile in pursuit, following the tire tracks as they wound through the parking lot.

As the Batmobile scanned the area, more and more vehicles began to appear in the detective mode's display. Each set of tire tracks led to another holographic model, until a small convoy of virtual vehicles was following behind the off-road vehicle.

But one by one, they fell away.

Some vehicles faltered, their poor performance unable to keep up. Others, with chassis too low, became stuck, struggling to navigate the uneven terrain. A few drivers, overconfident in their abilities, attempted to mimic professional racing maneuvers, only to lose control and end up in ditches. Ivan's spiked belts claimed several more, flipping them over like toys. And then there were those who simply couldn't handle the chase, their lack of skill leaving them behind from the very start.

In the end, Ivan's off-road vehicle emerged victorious, having outmaneuvered every pursuer. The chase had taken them far from the city, where the dim light and lack of surveillance made tracking nearly impossible. The asylum branch, for all its resources, had lost him.

But the Batmobile was relentless. It followed not only the tire marks but also every other clue left in the off-road vehicle's wake—the broken branches, the crushed shrubs, the faint traces of paint scraped off in the chase.

Charlie, still viewing the chase from the Batmobile's perspective, felt like he was watching a blockbuster car chase, complete with heart-pounding special effects and stunning visuals. The realism was uncanny, every detail brought to life with a level of precision that was both exhilarating and unnerving.

The pursuit continued, the Batmobile driving relentlessly, its systems tracking every minute detail. Suddenly, without warning, the off-road vehicle was thrown violently into the air, flipping end over end before crashing down onto the ground, a twisted wreck.

Charlie immediately paused the scene, rewinding and playing it back in slow motion to catch what had happened. It was a rocket—a well-aimed RPG had struck the off-road vehicle, its explosion tearing through the metal and sending the car into a deadly spin.

But Ivan wasn't caught off guard. In the holographic replay, Charlie watched as Ivan kicked open the mangled door and crawled out from the wreckage, his movements swift and precise.

In the distance, another car appeared, its sleek form cutting through the night. The door swung open, and a shadowy figure emerged, standing tall and still, watching Ivan with cold, calculating eyes. The contempt in the figure's gaze was unmistakable, a silent challenge that spoke of more dangers to come.

Chapter Text

Through Batman's on-site reconstruction, Charlie was able to piece together the grim events that had unfolded.

It was clear that Ivan had been ambushed while operating in the field. The scene told a story of desperation and struggle—evidence of a fierce battle lay everywhere. Scattered shell casings hinted at a gunfight, while deep gouges and disturbed earth suggested that the fight had descended into brutal hand-to-hand combat. Batman's reconstruction brought these moments to life with startling clarity, replaying the scene as if it were happening right before Charlie's eyes. He could almost feel the tension in the air as one of the combatants executed a powerful over-the-shoulder throw, sending the other crashing to the ground with a sickening thud.

The victor, having subdued his opponent, then dragged the loser's limp body away, leaving a trail of drag marks across the dirt, evidence of the struggle that had just taken place. Each mark in the earth, each scuff on the pavement, was a silent witness to the violence that had occurred, revealing the brutal efficiency of the assailant.

The land itself seemed like a silent observer, absorbing the violence and keeping the secrets of what had transpired. It was as if the ground, scarred and marked by the battle, held onto the memory of the event, waiting to be uncovered by those who knew how to listen.

The battle had ended abruptly, leaving only eerie silence in its wake. Ivan's off-road vehicle, along with the vehicle used by the attacker, had vanished from the scene. Despite being turned into wreckage by the impact of an RPG, Ivans' off-road vehicle had miraculously remained functional. Perhaps Its reinforced frame, though twisted and scarred, allowed it to limp away from the battlefield. The tire marks that had once converged now diverged, splitting into two distinct directions—one set of tracks heading east, the other west, each leading toward an unknown destination.

Charlie decided to control the Batmobile to continue pursuing the trail of the off-road vehicle, hoping to uncover more clues. The powerful vehicle hummed with latent energy as it followed the faint tire tracks left in the dirt.

As the Batmobile advanced, it became evident that after the confrontation, someone had righted the overturned off-road vehicle and driven it away from the scene. The signs were subtle but unmistakable—the skid marks and disturbed gravel told a story of someone in a hurry, attempting to erase their presence.

There's an old saying that darkness and dampness are the cradles of life. As Charlie delved deeper into the wilderness, he felt the atmosphere change. The air grew thick with the smell of wet earth and decaying leaves, the scent of life teeming in the undergrowth. The further he went, the more it felt as though he was moving through a place forgotten by time, where the line between life and death was blurred.

After some time, the tire tracks abruptly ended, the trail leading to the edge of a large, still lake. The surface of the water was like a dark mirror, reflecting the cloudy sky above. The Batmobile came to a stop, its tires crunching to a halt on the gravelly shore.

"The trail ends here," Batman's voice, calm and authoritative, echoed in Charlie's ear. "There must be something beneath the surface."

Charlie knew the Batmobile wasn't equipped for underwater exploration. The top hatch slid open with a soft hiss, and Batman swiftly exited the vehicle, his cape billowing slightly as it caught the cool breeze coming off the lake.

Without hesitation, Batman retrieved a portable respirator from his utility belt and secured it over his face. The respirator, a small but essential tool, would allow him to breathe underwater for an extended period. He then activated the Batmobile's standby mode, which would keep it alert but stationary, ready for any surprises.

But before diving in, Charlie couldn't resist a small habit—he locked the Batmobile. It was almost second nature at this point. After all, leaving your vehicle unsecured, even one as formidable as the Batmobile, just wasn't smart. There was an old story that circulated among Gotham's elite about the time Batman had parked the original Batmobile in a dark alley while on an urgent mission. By the time he returned, the tires had been stolen, and the embarrassment of the event had driven Batman to ensure that such a thing would never happen again. Now, the Batmobile was as secure as a military bunker, its wheels locked with titanium alloy covers and a host of other defensive measures activated.

With the Batmobile secured, Batman approached the water's edge, his boots sinking slightly into the soft, wet earth. He activated the small thrusters on the bottoms of his boots, which released a controlled burst of flame, propelling him forward as he dove into the cold, murky water.

The lake, though not very deep, was dark and uninviting, its waters heavy with silt and sediment. Batman's thrusters allowed him to cut through the water with ease, his form a shadowy blur beneath the surface. The world above was quickly left behind, replaced by the cold, oppressive quiet of the underwater environment. The only sounds were the muted rush of water around him and the steady hum of his thrusters.

As he descended, the eerie stillness of the lake became more pronounced. The bottom was a desolate place, covered in a layer of fine silt that rose in ghostly clouds with each movement. It wasn't long before Batman's detective mode scanned the area and highlighted something in the gloom—a vehicle, half-buried in the muck and weeds.

It was Ivan's off-road vehicle, now nothing more than a forgotten relic on the lake bed. The vehicle's door had been torn off, and there was no sign of its driver. It was clear that after the battle, the victor had taken deliberate steps to sink the car, trying to ensure that no one would find it. It was a crude but effective way to cover their tracks.

But despite the best efforts of the assailant, the truth was revealed. Batman's reconstruction had shown that Ivan had not won the battle. He had been defeated, overpowered, and taken hostage by his mysterious attacker. The sinking of his vehicle was likely intended to mislead anyone from the agency who might come looking.

Charlie took a sip of the drink he had nearby, his mind racing with possibilities as he guided Batman back to the surface. Batman broke through the water with a fluid motion, his respirator hissing as he removed it and tucked it back into his belt. His cape, now heavy with water, clung to his back, shimmering in the dim light as he made his way to the shore.

The next step was clear: Charlie needed to track the other vehicle. The enemy had likely captured Ivan for a specific purpose—if they hadn't killed him outright—and then made their escape in the second vehicle.

Returning to the scene of the battle was the only option. There, Charlie would re-track the remaining tire marks, hoping they would lead him to some answers...

But then, completely out of nowhere, a ghostly figure appeared on the screen.

At that precise moment, Batman had just emerged from the lake and was putting away his respirator. He looked up toward the shore when the figure materialized, seemingly from thin air. The figure was barely visible, its body almost transparent, blending seamlessly with the surrounding bushes and plants. It was like some kind of spectral presence, its form wavering as if it were a mirage.

If it weren't for the sharp, eye-catching counterattack alert flashing on the screen, Charlie might have missed it entirely.

The shadowy figure was holding an ax, the weapon poised to strike down on Batman's exposed position.

Charlie's instincts kicked in, and without thinking, he clicked the right mouse button. Batman immediately adopted a defensive stance, crossing his arms above his head in a protective gesture.

The ax came down hard on Batman's crossed forearms. The reinforced alloy in his gloves absorbed the brunt of the blow, but the sheer force of the strike sent Batman staggering backward, the impact reverberating through his entire body.

Batman rolled through the shallow water at the lake's edge, quickly recovering and springing to his feet. He assumed a fighting stance, scanning the area for his attacker. But when he looked up, the figure was gone.

Charlie's heart skipped a beat. It was rare for Batman to be on the receiving end of this trick, especially one so effective. The whole situation felt surreal.

Charlie hadn't gotten a good look at the figure, but the vague, bulky outline and the shape of the ax immediately conjured images of a classic horror movie butcher—an unstoppable force with a deadly weapon.

Charlie kept his cool, manipulating Batman to scan the area. The wind off the lake picked up, sending ripples across the water's surface. Batman's wet cape fluttered slightly, but there was no sign of the mysterious figure.

He was alone by the vast, silent lake.

Was it some kind of advanced stealth and camouflage ability?

Charlie recalled what he had been briefed on earlier: when someone's com-infection level exceeded 100%, they could develop superhuman abilities. Perhaps this was one of those infected—a person who had gained abilities beyond the ordinary.

Charlie hit the X button, activating Detective mode.

Detective mode was one of Batman's most powerful tools. Combining various advanced technologies housed in his helmet, it offered functions like target recognition, visual enhancement, and infrared imaging. In theory, it should be able to penetrate any form of stealth or camouflage.

But as Batman scanned the area, his Detective mode revealed nothing. No heat signatures, no movement, just the stillness of the night.

Charlie frowned.

Could the figure have already retreated?

Stealth and then retreat? Could an infected person with such advanced abilities really be so cautious?

Just as Charlie was contemplating this, a warning flashed on the side of the screen. Without any sound or movement, the translucent figure had reappeared beside Batman, ax in hand, aiming for his head.

This time, Charlie was ready. He quickly had Batman dodge with a swift roll,

narrowly avoiding the deadly strike. As Batman got back on his feet, Charlie commanded him to throw a batarang in the direction of the figure. The batarang flew through the air with a sharp whirr, but instead of hitting its target, it embedded itself into a nearby tree trunk.

The figure had vanished once again, leaving no trace of its presence.

Now Charlie understood. The figure hadn't left; it was still there, but its stealth ability was far more advanced than he had anticipated. It was somehow able to fool even Batman's state-of-the-art visual sensors in Detective Mode.

Although the counterattack prompts had appeared just in time, they were so quick that it would have been too late for anyone else to react. But for Charlie, this was just the challenge he needed.

He knew exactly how to deal with this kind of ability.

Without hesitation, Batman raised his hand and dropped a small metal sphere at his feet. The sphere detonated with a soft pop, and within seconds, a thick cloud of smoke erupted from it, engulfing Batman in a dense, swirling mist...

Chapter Text

Charlie's guess was spot on—the figure lurking by the lake was indeed an infected individual, someone whose infection had warped their abilities far beyond the norm.

The infected man maintained a cautious distance, gripping a butcher's ax that shimmered with a faint, almost imperceptible gleam as it, too, remained cloaked in invisibility. He was patient, calculating, waiting for the perfect moment to strike—a flaw in Batman's defense that would allow him to deliver a fatal blow.

As the infected man prepared to creep closer, intent on exploiting any lapse in Batman's vigilance, he suddenly saw Batman drop a smoke bomb at his feet. The thick cloud of smoke billowed out rapidly, swirling around Batman and concealing him entirely from view.

The infected man hesitated, his mind racing. Why would Batman resort to such a tactic? The smoke seemed designed not just to obscure vision but also to interfere with his attack. After all, even if his body was invisible, the smoke would react to his movements—swirling, shifting, giving away his position. Batman could then use those subtle disturbances to pinpoint where the attack might come from.

At least, that's what Batman must have thought.

A sly grin spread across the infected man's face, hidden by the shroud of his invisibility.

His ability wasn't mere optical camouflage, like that of a chameleon. No, his power was far more insidious—"cognitive disruption." He could manipulate the perception of those around him, implanting the belief that "I don't exist" directly into their minds. It was a mental hijacking, one that convinced his enemies that he was simply not there, erasing him from their awareness entirely.

That's why Batman's detective mode had failed to detect him. It wasn't a matter of hiding from sight; he was still there, moving through the environment, but his opponents couldn't process his presence. Their minds were fooled into believing he wasn't part of the picture.

So the smoke wouldn't help Batman track his movements. The infected man was certain of this.

But then, he felt a sudden, icy chill run down his spine—an instinctual warning that something was very wrong. He spun around, and to his shock, he saw a dark red figure closing in on him with eerie silence, like a specter emerging from the shadows.

It was Daredevil.

The infected man didn't recognize the red-clad figure, but the suddenness of his appearance was enough to startle him. He had only a split second to react, raising his arm in a defensive motion, but Daredevil's alloy baton was faster, slamming into his arm with brutal force and sending him reeling backward.

The infected man's thoughts raced, his mind struggling to make sense of what had just happened.

Who was this guy? Was he Batman's ally?

But more importantly, how could he see him?

Invisibility was the infected man's ace in the hole, his trump card in any encounter. His ability didn't just hide him from sight; it made him undetectable by any conventional means, even the most advanced technology. His steps were silent, his movements ghostly—he could slip through the tightest security nets without leaving a trace.

He had perfected his technique, becoming more than just a shadow—he was a phantom, slipping in and out of the world unnoticed. The thought that someone could actually see him, track him, was unthinkable.

The infected man quickly retreated, putting distance between himself and Daredevil. He stopped moving, trying to become as still as possible, like a statue carved from the night itself.

Daredevil mirrored his stillness, standing motionless as if frozen in place.

Was it just a coincidence? Had Daredevil simply lashed out at a perceived threat, unaware of what he had actually struck?

The infected man decided to test this theory. He cautiously took two slow steps to the side, his movements so delicate that they barely disturbed the air around him.

Daredevil didn't react. He remained perfectly still, showing no signs of having detected the infected man's movement.

Emboldened, the infected man circled behind Daredevil. He moved with the grace and silence of a predator stalking its prey, his eyes fixed on the red-clad figure's back. Daredevil remained unmoving, seemingly unaware of the danger closing in on him.

The infected man saw his chance. He crept forward, his steps light as a feather, and raised his ax high, the blade gleaming in the faint moonlight filtering through the trees. The ax hovered above Daredevil's head, poised for a killing blow.

With a sudden, ferocious burst of speed, the infected man brought the ax down with all his might, aiming to cleave Daredevil's skull in two.

But in that crucial instant, Daredevil twisted to the side, the ax slicing through empty air where his head had been a fraction of a second before. The infected man's eyes widened in disbelief as his deadly strike missed its mark.

Before he could recover, Daredevil's baton was in motion again, the alloy rod striking with pinpoint precision, smashing into the infected man's face. The force of the blow rattled his brain, sending shockwaves through his skull. His thoughts became a jumbled mess as he staggered back, desperate to regain his footing.

How could this be happening? How could Daredevil possibly know where he was?

The infected man's mind was reeling. His invisibility was flawless—he had tested it under every condition, against every conceivable threat. No visual sensors, no matter how advanced, had ever been able to detect him. He was certain of his ability, certain that no one could see him when he didn't want to be seen.

Yet Daredevil had dodged his attack with the kind of precision that suggested he could see everything.

But that didn't make sense. Just moments before, Daredevil had his back turned, yet he had reacted as if he had eyes in the back of his head.

The infected man quickly formulated a new theory. It wasn't sight that Daredevil was using—it had to be sound.

Yes, that was it. This red-clad figure must have incredibly sharp hearing, so acute that he could pinpoint the infected man's location by the slightest noise.

But sound was something the infected man could manage.

As an expert in stealth, the infected man had mastered the art of moving without sound. His infected state had given him not only the ability to hide but also the power to eliminate noise altogether. By moving slowly enough, he could become nearly silent, his steps as quiet as a whisper on the wind.

Moreover, he could control his body in ways that ordinary humans couldn't. He could stop his breathing entirely, and even more astonishingly, he could control his heartbeat to the point of stopping it completely. This level of control was impossible for a normal person, but for someone whose infection level exceeded 100%, the boundaries of life and death had become blurred. His body was no longer bound by the same rules.

Daredevil remained stationary, his stance unchanged.

The infected man began his approach once more, but this time he moved with the utmost caution. His steps were slow, deliberate, and so light that they seemed to blend with the gentle breeze coming off the lake. He moved like a ghost, his presence barely more than a ripple in the air.

He circled behind Daredevil again, taking care to avoid making the slightest sound. This time, he raised the ax with painstaking care, his movements so gradual that the weapon seemed to float above Daredevil's head.

But as soon as he committed to the strike, accelerating the ax to deliver the killing blow, Daredevil moved. With a fluid motion, Daredevil sidestepped the strike, the ax grazing his shoulder but failing to connect.

The infected man's mind reeled in shock. How could this be happening?

He had taken every precaution. He had eliminated every sound, stilled his breath, stopped his heartbeat—yet Daredevil had evaded the attack as if he could see it coming.

Daredevil's response was swift and brutal. His baton flashed in the moonlight as it came down hard on the infected man's shoulder blade, shattering bone and rendering his left arm useless. But there was no time to register pain—his survival instincts kicked in, and he swung the ax wildly with his right hand, desperate to land a hit.

But Daredevil was quicker, nimbly dodging the wild swing. With a quick, precise strike, he drove his baton into the infected man's wrist, the blow nearly shattering the bones and forcing him to drop the ax. The weapon clattered to the ground with a heavy thud.

The infected man's panic escalated as he stared at Daredevil, his thoughts a frantic jumble.

No, it wasn't just hearing.

If Daredevil could only hear his general position, there was no way he could dodge the ax with such precision, let alone strike with such accuracy, targeting joints and bones with pinpoint precision.

This guy... could actually see him!

The realization hit him like a ton of bricks.

For the infected man, this revelation was far more terrifying than any other superpower Daredevil might have displayed. His ability to remain unseen, undetected—it was supposed to be foolproof. And yet, here was someone who could see through it all.

Charlie, who was controlling Daredevil, had no idea what was going through the infected man's mind. But if he did, he would have probably burst out laughing.

The idea that Daredevil could see was absurd.

In reality, Daredevil couldn't see anything—not the infected man, not even his own surroundings. His world was one of darkness, a consequence of the chemicals that had blinded him.

But... But, despite losing his sight, Daredevil's other senses had evolved to extraordinary levels. The chemicals that robbed him of his vision had simultaneously heightened his remaining senses to superhuman levels. Over the years, Daredevil had honed these abilities through rigorous training, pushing his body and mind to their absolute limits. His hearing was so acute that he could detect the faintest whisper from across a room, his sense of smell so sharp that he could identify people by their scent alone, and his touch so sensitive that he could read the pages of a book by feeling the ink on the paper.

But these enhanced senses were just the beginning. Daredevil's true power lay in his ability to "see" the world through a kind of radar sense. This unique ability allowed him to perceive his surroundings in a way that was far more detailed and precise than ordinary vision. By emitting and interpreting subtle echoes of sound, Daredevil could construct a detailed 3D map of everything around him. This radar sense was so finely tuned that it could detect the minutest of details, from the flutter of a moth's wings to the pattern of a person's heartbeat.

Unlike Batman's detective mode, which relied on advanced technology to analyze and interpret sensory data, Daredevil's radar sense was entirely natural—a result of his brain adapting to his blindness in a way that transcended human limitations. This sense gave him a complete awareness of his environment, allowing him to detect anything and everything within its range. It wasn't just about hearing; it was about perceiving the world in a way that no one else could, making invisibility and stealth utterly meaningless against him.

But here's the twist—while Daredevil could perceive everything around him with incredible clarity, the one person who could truly "see" was Charlie, the one controlling him.

As Daredevil's radar sense picked up the presence of the infected man, it was translated into vivid 3D models on Charlie's screen. The entire environment, including the invisible figure, was rendered in sharp detail, allowing Charlie to track the infected man's every move as if he were out in the open. Charlie could see the infected man's movements, his attempts at stealth, and his increasingly desperate efforts to outmaneuver Daredevil. Every nuance of the infected man's behavior was laid bare before Charlie, who could then direct Daredevil to react with surgical precision.

The infected man, now weaponless and battered, began to retreat, his panic rising with every step. He realized with growing dread that Daredevil had been able to see him the entire time—he was never truly hidden. And worse, Daredevil had used his own confidence against him, pretending not to notice, luring him into a false sense of security before striking with devastating force.

This realization was like a knife to the infected man's gut. The entire time he thought he had the upper hand, that he was the predator stalking his prey, but in reality, he had been the one hunted. The thought that Daredevil had been able to see through his abilities, through his best-laid plans, was more terrifying than any physical attack.

Seeing the infected man's retreat, Daredevil didn't hesitate. He pursued relentlessly, his movements fluid and unstoppable. There was no mercy in his approach—this was a fight, and he intended to end it.

The infected man's mind raced, his thoughts a chaotic blur. He had been so sure of his victory, so confident in his abilities. Now, that confidence was shattered. He tried to think of a way out, some strategy that might turn the tide in his favor, but nothing came. He was outmatched, outclassed, and he knew it.

As Daredevil closed in, the infected man made a final, desperate attempt to escape. He gathered what little strength he had left and lunged towards the treeline, hoping to lose Daredevil in the dense foliage.

But Daredevil was faster. He moved with the grace and speed of a predator, his radar sense locking onto the infected man's every move. As the infected man reached the edge of the trees, Daredevil struck. He swung his baton with lethal precision, the blow connecting with the infected man's knee. The impact shattered the joint, sending the man crashing to the ground with a cry of pain.

The infected man hit the ground hard, his body wracked with pain. He tried to crawl away, but his body wouldn't respond. His strength was gone, his will broken. He had nothing left.

Chapter Text

This infected individual specialized in invisibility, an ability that had made him a nightmare for many. However, despite the physical enhancements that came with his condition, he was far from a skilled fighter. His movements were awkward, his strikes clumsy—nothing more than the crude imitation of combat techniques he had likely picked up through observation. These sloppy, unrefined moves made him little more than a paper tiger when pitted against a true martial artist like Daredevil.

Invisibility was his crutch, the one thing that gave him an edge. But once that advantage was stripped away, he was reduced to little more than a common thug—albeit one with slightly thicker skin. In the face of Daredevil's combat prowess, he was outclassed, outmaneuvered, and quickly overpowered.

The moment Daredevil disarmed him, knocking the ax from his grasp, the fight was as good as over. The infected man tried to resist, but his efforts were in vain. Daredevil moved with relentless precision, breaking both of the infected man's arms in swift, brutal motions. The sickening crunch of bone echoed in the stillness of the night as Daredevil subdued his opponent. In a matter of seconds, the infected man was bound with a rope fired from Daredevil's alloy baton and hoisted upside down from a tree by the lake.

With his invisibility completely disrupted, the infected man was exposed—a disheveled figure with long, matted hair that hung down like a curtain. His black robe, adorned with the symbol of a withered flower on the chest, now looked absurdly oversized. As he dangled helplessly, the hem of the robe flopped down due to gravity, adding a comical layer of indignity to his already dire situation.

Daredevil, ever methodical, didn't waste a moment. He leaped into the air and delivered a powerful kick to the infected man's head. The force of the blow sent the man swinging wildly, his body moving like a pendulum beneath the tree. As he swung back, Daredevil caught him by the head, his grip firm and unyielding.

"Who are you? Who do you work for?" Daredevil's voice was a low growl, brimming with controlled menace.

But the infected man seemed barely aware of his surroundings. His eyes were wide with shock, his mouth moving as if on autopilot, repeating the same phrase over and over: "This is impossible... impossible..."

Charlie, watching through Daredevil's perspective, clicked the mouse, directing Daredevil to land another punch. The infected man's head snapped back with the force of the blow, but instead of snapping him out of his daze, it seemed to only deepen his disbelief. The man wasn't even reacting to the pain; it was as if he were lost in a nightmare, unable to comprehend what had happened to him.

Daredevil's patience was wearing thin. Another punch followed, but it quickly became apparent that physical force wasn't going to get any answers out of this man. The infected seemed impervious to pain, as though his mind had retreated into some dark corner, away from the reality of his situation.

Finally, though, the repeated blows seemed to have some effect. The infected man blinked through his swollen eyelids, his gaze unfocused but now fixed on Daredevil.

"You… you have an organization too, don't you?" the man muttered, his voice heavy with exhaustion and laced with a deep, almost palpable despair.

"Too?" Daredevil's tone was razor-sharp, cutting through the man's fading resolve. "Who do you work for?"

The infected man let out a weak, bitter laugh, the sound hollow and tinged with resignation. "We don't… work for anyone," he whispered, his breath hitching as he stifled a cough. A thin trickle of blood escaped the corner of his mouth.

"We… gather for a common purpose," he continued, each word drawn out as if it took every ounce of his strength to speak. "Your ability... it's some kind of enhanced perception, isn't it?"

Daredevil remained silent, allowing the man to continue.

"My mission... was simple," the infected man continued, his voice trembling slightly. "I was just supposed to observe and record the actions of another infected—the one who laughs. It was a coincidence that I ran into you... I thought... I could test the abilities of the legendary Batman... but I didn't expect..."

His voice trailed off, his eyes glazing over as he seemed to retreat further into his thoughts. Then, with a strange, almost wistful smile, he added, "To be honest... I always believed my invisibility was perfect. It suited me... someone no one remembers, no one notices. A transparent existence... ignored by the world. Maybe that's why fate gave me this power. But to think... that someone could see through it... how ironic. The one time I didn't want to be noticed..."

Charlie, still controlling Daredevil, had little patience for the man's self-pitying monologue. He could sense that there were nuggets of valuable information buried in the man's ramblings, but time was of the essence.

"The laughing infected—what do you know?" Daredevil asked, cutting to the chase.

When he had been ambushed earlier, Charlie had initially assumed this man was another victim of the laughing infection, but there was something off. The man didn't have that unsettling, rictus grin that characterized the other infected from that particular strain.

The infected man remained silent, either unable or unwilling to answer.

"It doesn't matter," he finally said, his tone resigned. "I've always been insignificant, both as a human and now as... whatever I am. But tell the organization behind you... this is a provocation. Your enemy... is the Dead."

As soon as the words left his mouth, there was a sickeningly loud pop, and his head exploded. Blood, bone, and brain matter splattered across the tree trunk and the ground below, leaving his lifeless, headless body swinging from the rope.

Charlie frowned, his mind racing to process what had just happened.

The Dead? What was that supposed to mean? It sounded almost like a joke, something out of a bad comic book. But there was nothing funny about the situation.

Villains had a strange habit of monologuing before their demise, but this one had at least provided some useful information before self-destructing. There was an organization involved, likely made up of other infected individuals. And from what Charlie had gathered, they were operating with some kind of agenda, though the details remained murky.

To Charlie, it sounded like a massive opportunity for leveling up—like a giant experience farm waiting to be exploited.

One other detail stuck out: the infected man's mention of the laughing infection source. It seemed he had an interest in it, but his words suggested he wasn't directly aligned with it. Perhaps this incident was unrelated to the laughing infection, or at least not as connected as Charlie had initially thought.

All this trouble, and for what? It felt like a waste of time.

After dealing with the aftermath of the infected man's death, Charlie switched Daredevil back to Batman. He recalled the Batmobile, ready to continue the unfinished mission.

But before heading back to the scene of the battle to track the other set of tire marks, he took a moment to send a message. The lake's coordinates needed to be shared with the Service Division.

Naturally, this wouldn't come from Charlie himself—it would come from Batman.

The message, crafted and sent through the advanced systems embedded in Batman's suit, was encrypted and untraceable. No one would ever be able to connect it back to Charlie.

Whether Ivan had become infected or not, the situation needed to be addressed immediately. If Ivan was infected, he would need to be contained; if not, he needed to be rescued. But first, they had to find him.

The scene also needed a thorough cleanup by the special services. They might be able to extract more information from the remains of the invisible infected man, which would be useful. If necessary, Batman could "encourage" them to share their findings.

After sending the coordinates, Batman returned to the Batmobile and continued tracking the other set of tire marks.

…

Within the hour, Service Division personnel arrived at both the engagement point where Ivan's vehicle had overturned and the lake where it had sunk. They also found the headless corpse of the infected man still hanging from the tree.

Heavy equipment was brought in, and the team began a methodical salvage operation. It wasn't long before they retrieved the wreckage of the off-road vehicle from the lake's murky depths, the vehicle's frame bent and twisted from the force of the explosion.

---

Sir Bing, a department leader from the Service Division, had arrived on the scene to oversee the operation personally. His usually composed face was twisted into a deep scowl, and his brow furrowed in frustration.

A short time ago, they had received an anonymous message, containing a set of coordinates that led them directly to this location. The message was unsigned, its origin untraceable—encrypted so thoroughly that even their most advanced systems couldn't break it. Whoever had sent the message clearly had access to some very high-level resources.

The coordinates had led them to the scene of the battle and the lake, where they found the upside-down, headless corpse and Ivan's missing vehicle. But just as they were beginning to piece together the situation, Sir Bing received alarming news: their base had been breached.

Director Steele, the security director, delivered the report. Several staff members had been found unconscious near the server room and in the underground parking lot. One of the guards had regained consciousness just long enough to mention seeing something resembling a bat swoop towards him before his head was filled with a loud buzzing, and then everything went black.

At the same time, Marcus Troy, leader of the team tasked with tracking Ivan's whereabouts, arrived with his own report. They had confirmed that the vehicle retrieved from the lake was indeed the one Ivan had been driving. According to their analysis, Ivan had managed to evade his pursuers and make it to the lake, where a firefight ensued before the vehicle was driven into the water, either intentionally or as a result of the skirmish.

As these reports came in, Sir Bing's mood darkened even further. The pieces of the puzzle were starting to come together, but the picture they formed was deeply troubling.

"Let me get this straight," Sir Bing said, his voice dangerously calm as he addressed his subordinates. "You're telling me that Batman, all by himself, managed to infiltrate our base, accessed the server room, and extracted intelligence—without anyone noticing."

He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in before continuing. "Then, he casually wandered through our building, dropped by the underground parking lot, and finished by eliminating an infected individual at the evidence collection site. Only after completing all of this did he send us a message to let us know he had been here?"

Director Steele, the security director, swallowed nervously, hesitant to respond but knowing he had no choice. "Sir, we also discovered a set of fresh tire tracks near the parking lot exit. The tracks don't match any of the vehicles in our garage."

Sir Bing's eyes narrowed. "Go on."

"Based on the width and depth of the tire marks, it appears that a large, tank-like vehicle—possibly weighing over a ton—was driven through the facility."

Sir Bing's expression shifted from disbelief to a mix of incredulity and fury. Certainly! Here's the revised line:

"SO YOU'RE TELLING ME THAT NOT ONLY DID BATMAN INFILTRATE OUR BASE, BUT HE ALSO DROVE A ONE-TON TANK THROUGH THE PREMISES—AND YOUR SECURITY TEAM NOTICED NOTHING?!!!"

Director Steele could only nod, unable to meet the department leader's eyes. The reprimand that was surely coming made his skin crawl, but what could he say? The facts were irrefutable.

Marcus, standing nearby, had been trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible, but Sir Bing's sharp gaze soon fell on him as well.

"And you," Sir Bing said, turning his full attention to Marcus. "Your investigation team, made up of some of our best agents, has been working on this for hours. What have you found?"

Marcus hesitated, knowing full well that anything he said could be met with the leader's wrath. Still, he had to answer. "Sir, we've confirmed that the vehicle in the lake is indeed Ivan's. We believe he managed to shake off his pursuers before encountering someone else at the lake. There was a firefight, and the vehicle ended up submerged."

Sir Bing's glare could have cut steel. "And while you were figuring this out, Batman, ON HIS OWN, USED THE INFORMATION HE GATHERED FROM 'OUR BASE' TO TRACK IVAN'S LOCATION. HE DID THIS IN... WHAT, TWENTY MINUTES?!!!"

"Yes, sir," Marcus admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

"SPEAK THE F*CK UP!!"

"YES, SIR!"

Sir Bing took a deep breath, trying to maintain his composure, though his frustration was palpable. "So, do you have anything to say in defense of your team?"

Marcus looked up, his expression one of resigned defeat. "Sir... we're sorry, but... he's Batman."

---

[TL-Note - that's... actually a valid argument.]

Chapter Text

Ivan slowly opened his eyes, blinking against the weight of his heavy eyelids. His mind felt clouded, as though it were a thick fog that refused to clear. His thoughts were sluggish, and the world around him seemed distant, almost unreal. It was as if his brain was a jar of muddled paste, shaken violently and now struggling to settle.

For a long moment, he couldn't make sense of anything. His vision was blurred, everything obscured by a hazy mist that clung stubbornly to his sight. Eventually, the fog began to lift, revealing the familiar surroundings of his bedroom. He was lying on his back, staring up at the plain white ceiling of his apartment. It was a sight he had seen countless times, yet now it felt strangely unfamiliar.

A dull, throbbing pain pulsed in his temples, each beat sending a wave of discomfort through his skull. He tried to recall what day it was, but his memory failed him. The events that had led to this moment were a blank, as though they had been wiped clean from his mind. With a groggy sigh, he reached out from under the warm embrace of his quilt, fumbling for the cigarette pack and lighter that he always kept on the bedside table.

Sitting up slowly, he leaned back against the headboard, the worn wood creaking slightly under his weight. He intended to light a cigarette, hoping the familiar ritual would help clear his muddled mind. But when he opened the pack, he found it empty—just a few scraps of tobacco dust at the bottom. He stared at the empty pack for a moment, his mind sluggishly registering this small but frustrating detail.

This was not a good sign.

Irritated, Ivan got out of bed, the cold air biting at his skin as he moved. He searched the apartment, checking his usual hiding spots, but found nothing. There were no more cigarettes. The realization settled over him like a heavy blanket, thick and suffocating. For a man like him, who was practically glued to his cigarettes, running out was more than just an inconvenience—it was a crisis.

For some people, the biggest obstacle to staying in bed might be a full bladder or a noisy neighbor, but for Ivan, it was his nicotine addiction. The need for a cigarette gnawed at him, an insistent hunger that couldn't be ignored. With a resigned sigh, he threw on a coat over his disheveled clothes and decided to go downstairs to restock.

The tobacco shop downstairs was run by Mark, a man Ivan had become acquainted with over the years. Mark was always there, day in and day out, with his ever-present smile and a ready supply of cigarettes. As Ivan walked in, the familiar chime of the bell above the door announced his arrival. Mark looked up from behind the counter and greeted him with a friendly smile, though there was a hint of concern in his eyes.

"The usual?" Mark asked, already reaching for the familiar brand that Ivan always bought.

"Yeah, the usual," Ivan replied, his voice rough from sleep. He dug into his pocket for his wallet, fingers brushing past the leather as he tried to shake off the lingering fog in his mind.

Mark turned to retrieve the cigarettes, but as he did, he mumbled almost absentmindedly, "You really should try to cut back, you know. Smoking's not good for you."

Even though Mark made a living selling cigarettes, even he couldn't help but comment on Ivan's relentless smoking habit. It was the kind of habit that bordered on addiction—no, it was addiction, plain and simple. But for Ivan, smoking was more than just a vice; it was a ritual, a small pleasure in an otherwise chaotic life.

"It's fine," Ivan said with a dismissive wave. "I'm tough. Besides, who knows how long someone like me has left? Could be tomorrow, could be today. But that doesn't matter. At least I know these cigarettes are the real deal."

"Living for the moment, huh? That sounds just like you," Mark chuckled, though there was a note of melancholy in his voice. His hands, usually steady and quick, seemed to move a bit slower as he reached for the pack.

"You know, I've been feeling that way more and more recently," Mark continued, his tone softening as he sighed deeply. "They say you never know what'll come first—tomorrow or an accident. I guess people have to live like that, right?

We're always afraid. Afraid of losing everything—wealth, power, control. Because when you have nothing, you fear those who have it all. We walk on eggshells, constantly worrying about the rules, the regulations. We numb ourselves with the little distractions of life, trying to forget what's really out there, lurking in the shadows. But deep down, we all know it, don't we? That thing we're all afraid of... it's always there, no matter how much we try to ignore it…"

As Mark spoke, Ivan felt a growing unease. Something was off. Mark wasn't usually this philosophical, especially not with a customer he barely knew beyond the daily transaction of cash for cigarettes. Even though Ivan and Mark had known each other for years, their relationship was purely transactional—small talk about the weather or sports, nothing more.

"Mark?" Ivan said, his voice tinged with suspicion as he watched the man closely.

Mark suddenly turned around, but instead of holding the usual pack of cigarettes, he had a fruit knife in his hand. A wide, unsettling grin spread across his face, transforming his usually calm demeanor into something sinister.

"I should've done this a long time ago," Mark said, his voice dripping with a mix of regret and something darker.

Before Ivan could react, Mark lunged at him with the knife, aiming directly for his chest. Instinct kicked in, and Ivan sidestepped the attack, his reflexes sharp despite the lingering fog in his mind. He grabbed Mark's arm, trying to disarm him, but Mark was quick—too quick. With a twisted laugh, Mark let go of the knife with one hand and caught it with the other, slashing at Ivan in one fluid motion.

Ivan barely managed to dodge, the blade slicing through the air just inches from his skin. Without thinking, he grabbed Mark's wrist and twisted, forcing the knife out of his grip. The blade clattered to the ground, but the danger wasn't over. Ivan moved quickly, using Mark's momentum against him, and threw him over his shoulder.

Mark crashed through the shop window with a loud shattering of glass, his body tumbling onto the sidewalk outside. Ivan didn't wait to see if he was down for good. He kicked open the door, stepping out into the cool morning air, his heart pounding in his chest. Simultaneously, he pressed the button on his earpiece, connecting to HQ.

"This is HQ," the operator's voice crackled through the line.

"HQ, we've got an incident with an infected person. Possible connection to the laughing infection, level unknown…" Ivan's voice was steady, but his mind was racing as he tried to piece together what had just happened.

But before he could finish his report, the operator's voice shifted, taking on a strange, almost gleeful tone.

"Infected? Hahaha, that's great... just great…"

Ivan's heart skipped a beat. "HQ? What's going on…"

The laughter on the other end grew louder, more deranged. "HQ isn't needed anymore. Welcome to Radio Nothingness."

The operator's voice dissolved into hysterical laughter, joined by the chilling sound of others laughing maniacally in the background.

But it wasn't just coming from his earpiece.

Ivan stepped out onto the street, just in time to see a truck barreling towards him, its engine roaring like a beast. He jumped out of the way, narrowly avoiding being crushed as the truck crashed into the tobacco shop with a deafening impact. The front of the vehicle smashed through the wall, embedding itself halfway inside. The driver, covered in blood, lay slumped over the steering wheel, laughing uncontrollably, his face twisted into a grotesque grin.

And then the people began to gather.

They came from all directions, a growing crowd of men, women, the elderly, and even children, all with the same horrifying expression—wide, feral smiles plastered across their faces as they laughed, the sound high-pitched and unhinged. They moved toward Ivan, forming a circle around him, their laughter growing louder, more frenzied.

Ivan's instincts kicked in. He lashed out, his fists flying as he knocked down one of the attackers with a solid punch. Another fell to the ground, clutching a broken nose. But more kept coming. They surged forward, overwhelming him with their numbers.

Someone grabbed him from behind, their grip like a vice on his arm. Ivan swung around, landing a punch to the person's face, but the blow wasn't enough to make them let go. The person, now missing a front tooth, just grinned at him, blood dripping from their mouth as they tightened their grip. Two more people jumped on him, pinning his other arm.

He was quickly overpowered, the crowd pressing in on him from all sides. The laughter was deafening, a wall of sound that seemed to close in around him, suffocating him. It was like being pulled under by a powerful current, dragged down into a sea of madness where nothing made sense anymore. Everything went black, the world fading away, leaving only the echo of that terrible laughter...

Then, with a jolt, he woke up.

The horrific scene was gone, vanished like smoke in the wind. It had been a nightmare—a vivid, terrifying nightmare. But as he blinked awake,he realized that waking up hadn't brought him any relief. The oppressive atmosphere lingered, and the sense of dread from the dream seemed to have followed him into reality. He was no longer in his bedroom, nor was he surrounded by familiar surroundings. Instead, he found himself in a dingy, dimly lit room that exuded a sense of malevolence.

The room was small and claustrophobic, with walls that seemed to close in on him. An old, flickering incandescent light bulb hung from the ceiling, casting a sickly yellow glow that barely reached the far corners of the room. Shadows clung to the edges, dark and thick, as if hiding something sinister just out of sight. The air was heavy with the smell of dampness and decay, a combination that made his skin crawl.

Ivan's heart pounded in his chest as he took in his surroundings, trying to piece together how he had ended up here. His memory was still fragmented, but he slowly began to recall the events leading up to this moment.

He had been at the Service Division's base, summoned there for questioning. An agent had shown him footage from the surveillance cameras of the FBI's Fourth Precinct. The video had captured his face the night before—at a location tied to an old alias he had long since abandoned. The agency wanted answers: why he had been there, what he had seen. It was clear they didn't trust him, and he suspected they were preparing to subject him to a psychiatric evaluation.

But before things could escalate, he had managed to escape. He had shaken off his pursuers, relying on his instincts and training, only to be ambushed…

He winced as a sharp pain lanced through his skull, a remnant of whatever had been done to him during the ambush. He felt groggy, his thoughts still slightly muddled. It was as if the nightmare he had just experienced had left a lingering fog in his mind.

A noise from the shadows snapped him out of his reverie. He wasn't alone.

"Ha~ You're awake."

The voice was low and mocking, dripping with a kind of twisted amusement. Ivan tensed, his eyes darting toward the source of the voice, though it was difficult to see anything clearly in the dim light.

"I'm sorry I couldn't make this meeting more comfortable," the voice continued, oozing with false sincerity. "But how should I put it? I'm a big fan."

The voice was coming from the darkest corner of the room, where the light didn't reach. Ivan strained his eyes, trying to make out a figure, but the shadows were too deep. The speaker remained hidden, their presence a malevolent weight pressing down on Ivan's already frayed nerves.

"And I'm sure you feel the same way. I know you must be thrilled to finally meet me face to face, considering how special I am to you."

There was something unnerving about the way the man spoke, a blend of condescension and familiarity that set Ivan on edge. He shifted slightly, testing the bonds on his wrists and ankles. They were tight, cutting into his skin. Whoever had tied him up knew what they were doing.

Despite the situation, Ivan managed a sneer. "I've met plenty of people like you. You all think you're special," he spat, his voice laced with disdain. "But in the end, you're all the same—just delusional lunatics."

The man in the shadows chuckled, the sound grating against Ivan's nerves. "Haha, very funny. I can tell you mean that from the bottom of your heart," the man said, his tone playful yet sinister. "But when you say 'delusional lunatic,' I bet you're putting yourself in that category too, aren't you?"

There was a pause, a silence that stretched uncomfortably long. Ivan felt the man's eyes on him, piercing through the darkness, watching him with a predatory intensity.

"That dream you had—a world of laughing, joking people—don't you want to know how it ends?"

Ivan's breath caught in his throat. His heart skipped a beat, a cold chill running down his spine. How did this man know about his dream? The one that had felt so real, so visceral? Ivan hadn't spoken of it to anyone—it had been a private hell, something he was glad to have left behind. And yet, this stranger knew.

"You're wondering how I know about your dreams," the man continued, his voice dropping to a whisper, as if sharing a secret. "Haha, the answer is simple, really. Because, as I said, I'm so special to you."

The man stepped out of the shadows and into the weak light, revealing his face.

Ivan's blood ran cold, and his body went rigid with shock.

Standing before him, illuminated by the sickly yellow glow of the overhead bulb, was a face he knew all too well—his own. It was as if he were looking into a mirror, but the reflection was wrong, twisted in a way that sent a wave of nausea through him.

This other version of himself wore a malevolent grin, his eyes glinting with a mixture of madness and sadistic glee. His features were the same as Ivan's, yet there was something deeply unsettling about them. The eyes were too wide, the smile too sharp, as if someone had taken Ivan's face and warped it into a grotesque mask.

Ivan's mind struggled to comprehend what he was seeing. This wasn't possible. It couldn't be real.

"Surprised?" the doppelgänger asked, tilting his head slightly as he observed Ivan's reaction. "You shouldn't be. After all, who knows you better than you know yourself?"

The laugh that followed was cold and hollow, echoing off the walls of the small room. Ivan could feel the sound vibrating in his chest, reverberating through his very bones.

The doppelgänger took a step closer, leaning down so that his face was just inches from Ivan's. The air between them felt thick and oppressive as if the very atmosphere were suffocating him.

Chapter Text

Ivan didn't blink; his eyes locked onto the figure standing under the flickering light before him. The harsh shadows cast across the stranger's face made it feel like he was staring directly into a mirror—a twisted, uncanny reflection. A wave of unease threatened to rise within him, but he fought it back, grounding himself in the discipline he'd honed over years of relentless work.
Don't blink, don't flinch, don't show fear. The mantra echoed in his mind, as steady and familiar as his own heartbeat. He reminded himself that this had to be some kind of trick—perhaps an illusion created by the infection or maybe a masterful disguise. The infected had exhibited all sorts of strange abilities, and this could be another manifestation of their twisted nature. Ivan repeated these thoughts over and over in his mind, willing himself to remain calm, to not let his expression betray even a flicker of surprise. He knew, better than anyone, that letting your opponent read your emotions was a fatal mistake. In this line of work, the moment you showed your hand was the moment you lost. But despite his training, despite everything he had experienced, he couldn't shake the gnawing feeling that this time was different.
Deep down, an instinct older than reason whispered that this wasn't a disguise or an illusion—this was something far more terrifying.
"Don't pretend you don't want to see me," the figure across from him said, a wide grin spreading across his face. The voice was Ivan's own, but laced with a cruel, mocking edge. "Back at the base, when they showed you the surveillance footage—when you saw me appear—you couldn't control yourself, could you? You received the message I sent you. I greeted you through that lens, and you wanted to see me. Every cell in your body was screaming for it, because deep down, you know we are special to each other."
Ivan remained silent; the only sign of his inner turmoil was the subtle tightening of his jaw. He remembered that moment at the base all too well—how he had been struck by a sudden fever that had left him disoriented, a burning heat that had driven him from the building. He had tried to rationalize it afterward, telling himself that he had acted on impulse, that he didn't want to be confined or restrained by the others, that he needed to discover the truth on his own terms. But no amount of reasoning could dispel the truth he had been avoiding: that deep within him, there had been an undeniable urge to see the man with his own face, the one who had appeared on that surveillance screen.
"Who are you?" The words came out through gritted teeth, each syllable a struggle against the anger bubbling up inside him.
"Hahaha, what an interesting question," the other Ivan laughed, a sound that sent a chill down Ivan's spine. "Have you ever seen someone ask who they are in the mirror?"
"You are not me." Ivan's voice was firm, but there was a tremor beneath it that betrayed his uncertainty.
"Of course I am you." The grin on the other Ivan's face widened. "But if you insist on calling me something else… why not call me Ivon?"
The name hung in the air like a ghost. Ivon—the name Ivan had discarded, the identity he had buried along with the man he used to be. A legally dead person. Ivan didn't respond, his gaze never wavering from the other's face as if he could peel back the layers of skin to see the truth underneath.
"So, it's always been you?" Ivan asked, his voice laced with a dangerous edge. "The source of the infection? The infected people, the monsters in the city… that's all you?"
"It's too simplistic to say it's just me," Ivon replied, his tone almost playful. "It's more accurate to say it's 'us.' You and me, we share the same desires, the same darkness. If you need an explanation, think of me as a part of you, born from the 'nothing' inside your heart. Every time you've felt anxious about the future, every time you've been afraid of the unknown, every time you've lost faith in what you once believed in, I grew a little stronger. I am your shadow, feeding off the shadows within you, becoming more powerful with each passing day. And when poor old Brooke put that gun to his head for you—boom! That's when I truly came into being. That's when I was born."
Ivan's hands clenched into fists, the leather of his gloves creaking under the strain. His knuckles were white, and his heart pounded like a war drum in his chest. "No, I never wanted that—"
"Never wanted what?" Ivon's voice cut him off, dripping with sarcasm. "To break a few necks on a whim? To pick up a gun and unload it into a bunch of random, helpless old fools?" Ivon laughed, a harsh, grating sound that echoed off the walls. "You see, what we actually want is the same. Of course it is—we are the same person, after all. I've been saying this all along. To people, the unknown future is like a big bad wolf, and all of them—those poor, helpless sheep—are at its mercy. They can't run, they can't hide, and they don't know who the wolf will devour next. But what we want is to change that. To tip the scales, to shake things up, to add a little chaos to this boring world. We'll let the sheep become mysterious to the big bad wolf. Let it experience the fear of the 'nothing' that you fear so much. That is your deepest wish, Ivan. You just don't have the guts to admit it yet. But don't worry—that's why I'm here. To do what even you can't do, to become the person you need to be but are too afraid to become."
"It's different," Ivan spat, his voice trembling with barely restrained fury. "I killed only those who deserved it…"
"Those who deserved it?" Ivon's grin was mocking, his eyes glittering with dark amusement. "Ha! I bet you'd like to believe that. But deep down, you know it's not true. Don't worry, though—I know what you really want. And it's all coming together very quickly now. My experiments after the previous events are complete, and I'm ready. The things that happened last night? That was just a small test. Today is the real work. It's time to harvest the infection I've spread, starting with Zone Z. Soon, everything will be just as we want it to be…"
"Stop, you madman," Ivan hissed through clenched teeth. His eyes were blazing with fury and disgust as he stared at the twisted reflection before him. Never in his life had he felt such a deep, visceral hatred—not even for the worst criminals he had ever hunted. His hands itched to reach out and snap the other man's neck, but they were bound behind his back, leaving him helpless.
"You're welcome," Ivon replied with a smirk. "To be honest, I've been looking forward to this for a long… long time. Originally, I should have been able to prepare a lot more, but some strange people have appeared recently. But it's okay, hahaha, they've only made the game more exciting…"
Suddenly, with a loud *snap,* the old chandelier above them went out, plunging the room into complete darkness. The shadows swallowed everything, leaving only the faintest outlines visible. Ivan's heart skipped a beat, and he felt his breath catch in his throat. He knew what this meant.
Batman.
The name echoed in his mind like a whisper. Somewhere along the way, darkness had become his symbol, his calling card. The room was silent for a moment, and then, unexpectedly, a sound broke through the tension—a low, mocking laugh. But it didn't come from Ivon, the source of the infection, the twisted mirror image. No, the laughter came from Ivan himself, despite the fact that he was still bound to the chair. Ivon turned towards him, his expression curious and slightly amused.
"What? Have you finally begun to see the allure of nothingness?"
"No." Ivan's voice was a low, dangerous rumble, laced with a cold fury that sent chills down Ivon's spine. "I'm just laughing because you're about to face disaster."
"Ha, you have so much confidence in that guy?" Ivon scoffed, though there was an edge to his voice now, a hint of uncertainty. "I think you should have realized by now that he's just a mortal. He tries to disguise himself with masks and gadgets, but in the end, he's just a man. I'll prove it to you. Watch, Ivan. He's no different from anyone else. What he offers isn't the hope of defeating 'nothing,' it's just a mirage, an illusion…"
But Ivan continued to sneer, his expression growing more contemptuous by the second.
"You say you're me, that I'm you," Ivan began, his voice calm and deliberate, each word weighted with meaning. "Then no one understands you better than I do. Do you think you can be his opponent? That you can stand against him? Let me tell you something—you're half right in what you said before; you 'are' nothing…
…nothing to him."
"What did you say?" Ivon's voice trembled slightly, the confidence in his grin faltering.
"I said, you're nothing in front of him." Ivan's eyes glinted with a fierce, defiant light as he leaned forward in his chair. "You claim to be the incarnation of 'nothing'? That's laughable," Ivan continued, his voice dripping with scorn. "You might be able to deceive others with your words, maybe even fool yourself into believing you're something more than you are. But if you are truly something born from my heart, then you can't fool me. I know exactly what you are."
Ivan's words hung in the air, each one slicing through the darkness like a knife. Ivon stood motionless, the smug grin on his face slowly fading, replaced by a look of growing unease.
"So, let me spell it out for you," Ivan said, his voice low and menacing. "You are not worthy of being his opponent. I've seen him with my own eyes, and I know what he's capable of. Maybe he's not special in the conventional sense, but the idea that you could infect him, twist him into something like you? That's impossible. You don't have the power to drive someone like him mad."
Ivon's expression hardened, a flicker of anger flashing in his eyes. "And what makes you so sure of that, Ivan? You think you know him so well? You think he's untouchable? Everyone has a breaking point. Everyone can be pushed to the edge."
"Not him," Ivan replied firmly, leaning back in his chair with an air of confidence that only infuriated Ivon further. "You can't break someone who's already embraced the darkness. You can't make a madman madder."

Chapter Text

Here your extra chapter…

My sexy minions.

—-

Ivan and Ivon were not idle during their conversation. The dimly lit room was filled with tension, as both seemed acutely aware of the unknown presence lurking within the shadows. Every creak of the floorboards, every whisper of the wind outside, heightened their senses.
In the midst of their exchange, Ivon's arm began to transform in a grotesque display of bio-mechanical fusion. Flesh twisted and contorted, merging seamlessly with metal as his forearm morphed into a sleek, lethal machine gun. Without warning, he opened fire, the rapid bursts of bullets tearing through the air. The muzzle flashes briefly illuminated the darkness, revealing glimpses of a decrepit, crumbling room. The sharp sound of bullets striking the walls reverberated through the space, and then, as suddenly as it began, the cacophony ceased, plunging the room back into oppressive silence.
Still tied securely to the chair, Ivan smirked, his voice laced with mockery. "Ha, I think you just killed a mouse. Impressive marksmanship."
Ivon didn't bother with a verbal response; instead, he let out a low, unsettling laugh that echoed in the silence. The sound was distorted, as if coming from somewhere deep within him. His movements were swift and fluid. As he spun around, his eyes scanned the shadows with a predator's focus. His free hand began to transform again, this time warping into the shape of a sleek, black grenade launcher. A moment later, a fiery projectile erupted from the barrel, cutting through the gloom and crashing into the far wall. The explosion sent chunks of debris flying, filling the air with dust and the acrid smell of burnt concrete.
Yet, still, there was no sign of Batman.
"Excellent," Ivan continued, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "You didn't even spare the cockroaches next door. Though I must say, with your penchant for destruction, you might want to consider a career as a cockroach buster."
"Ha, that's funny. I like your sense of humor." Ivon's grin widened, but it was the smile of a predator toying with its prey. His footsteps echoed as he approached the smoking crater left by his grenade, eyes darting back and forth as he remained hyper-alert to any movement in the darkness.
He took a few more steps, but suddenly his instincts flared. Without hesitation, he whipped around and unleashed a torrent of bullets toward the ceiling. The barrage was relentless, the sound deafening in the enclosed space. Dust and debris cascaded down like rain, and within moments, the ceiling gave way. A heavy, antique chandelier, its once-bright bulbs long extinguished, plummeted to the ground, shattering into a thousand jagged pieces that scattered across the floor.
"Nice shot. You managed to break a lamp this time," Ivan continued his taunts, seemingly unbothered by the chaos around him. "If you could just untie me, I'd give you a standing ovation."
"Don't worry," Ivon replied with a strange, almost gleeful tone. "Let the bat make his move. He won't be able to dance around for much longer."
As he spoke, Ivon's eyes narrowed. He suddenly pivoted, his arm still in its weaponized form, and unleashed another barrage of bullets into a specific spot in the darkness. But this time, he didn't merely fire a few rounds; he emptied the magazine, his finger clamped down on the trigger as if determined to obliterate whatever was hidden in the shadows.
The continuous muzzle flashes turned the darkness into a strobe-lit nightmare, casting erratic shadows across the room. The roar of gunfire was punctuated by Ivon's maniacal laughter, his voice rising above the violent noise. "Ha! Gotcha! You're just another trickster, but you're not as clever as you think..."
Boom!
Before Ivon could finish his taunt, the wall behind him exploded into a cloud of dust and debris. The heavy, thunderous sound was accompanied by the mechanical growl of a beastly engine. The Batmobile, a pitch-black monstrosity of steel and power, tore through the wall with unstoppable force. It slammed into Ivon with the brutal efficiency of a sledgehammer crushing a fly, sending him hurtling through the air. He crashed through another wall, the impact leaving a gaping hole as he disappeared into the adjacent room, buried under a mound of rubble.
...
Despite the overwhelming force that had just struck him, Ivon's unnatural body began to stir beneath the debris. Groaning, he rolled onto his back, then quickly flipped himself upright with an almost feline grace. His eyes, now glowing with an eerie light, locked onto the Batmobile as it slowly rolled into the room, its tires grinding over the broken floor.
Charlie, sitting safely in his remote location, watched the scene unfold from Batman's perspective. Despite Ivon's seemingly random and chaotic gunfire, it had caused Charlie considerable difficulty in finding an opening. Ivon's level of vigilance was akin to that of a highly trained soldier, his reflexes sharp and unyielding, even as he faced down what should have been overwhelming odds.
Charlie couldn't help but recall his early days of training when he just launched the game; he learned about the heightened senses and rapid reflexes of seasoned individuals. But even in those tutorials, no one had prepared him for this—a heavily infected adversary who could match, and perhaps even surpass, the cunning of Batman.
The Batmobile's stealth mode had allowed Charlie to position it perfectly for this moment. All the while, Ivon had been so focused on tracking Batman that he never noticed the silent, lethal machine closing in on him. But now, as Ivon stood, his form still vaguely human yet grotesquely altered, it was clear that he was far from a normal adversary.
Gun barrels extended from the Batmobile, and with a series of rapid, loud pops, large-caliber bullets sprayed out in a deadly arc, aimed directly at Ivon. The force should have torn him to shreds, but as the smoke cleared, an afterimage revealed Ivon's twisted form dodging to the side with inhuman speed. His laughter, though strained, echoed through the room.
"I see? Your toys are useless against me," Ivon taunted, his voice unnervingly steady. "I can do this with my bare hands..."
But once again, his words were cut short.
The ceiling above them cracked ominously, and without warning, the roof was torn apart. The Bat Fighter, a sleek and deadly aircraft, hovered above the opening. Its Vulcan cannon roared to life, spewing long tongues of flame directly at Ivon's position. The force of the explosion sent him flying upward, his body silhouetted against the fiery backdrop.
...
From his vantage point, Charlie watched as Ivon's grotesque form was torn apart by the relentless assault. But even as pieces of his flesh were ripped away, the strange substance that coated his body seemed to reconstitute itself, barely holding his form together. Where a normal human would have been reduced to a pile of charred remains, Ivon continued to move, driven by a monstrous will to survive.
His skin, once vaguely human, had been entirely overtaken by the jelly-like substance. His limbs were twisted and elongated, more insectoid than human now. The single, glowing eye in the center of his face flickered as if it were struggling to remain active, while the eerie grin beneath it widened, revealing rows of sharp, jagged teeth.
With a final, desperate lunge, Ivon threw himself towards the Batmobile, his arm transforming once more into a massive, grotesque cannon. He fired a rocket point-blank at the vehicle, the resulting explosion rocking the entire building and forcing the Batmobile to skid sideways.
But this time, Charlie was ready.
As Ivon closed in, the Bat Fighter above released a secondary barrage, twin missiles streaking downward with pinpoint accuracy. They struck Ivon directly, detonating in a blinding flash of light and heat. When the smoke finally cleared, Ivon's remains were scattered across the floor, his grotesque form now nothing more than a twisted pile of charred, smoldering flesh.
For a moment, the room was silent, save for the faint whirring of the Batmobile's systems as it recalibrated. Charlie watched intently, waiting to see if Ivon would somehow rise again. But there was nothing—only the stillness of the ruined room and the lingering smell of burnt metal and flesh.
Charlie let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "Isn't this the best type of combat technique," he muttered to himself, a slight grin forming on his lips. "That's why they call it the Bat Fighter."

Chapter Text

There's an old saying: when the truth is within range, and the firepower is properly directed, even the most formidable beings will be reduced to nothing. No matter how monstrous or invincible they may seem, the power of a relentless barrage will inevitably bring them to their knees.

[TL Note - I've never heard of that saying]

Taking advantage of the Bat Fighter's overwhelming firepower, Charlie deftly manipulates Batman to swoop in and retrieve Ivan. Ivon, who was being relentlessly pummeled by gunfire, was far too occupied to interfere. Batman moved like a shadow, easily cutting through the chaos to grab Ivan and leap out of the old, crumbling warehouse through a shattered window.

Any hesitation about deploying the Bat Fighter's heavy weapons in such a confined space was long gone. It seemed as if Ivon, who prided himself on meticulous planning, had chosen this dilapidated warehouse precisely because it was isolated—no civilians, no witnesses, nothing to hold back the full might of Batman's arsenal. It was as if Ivon had unwittingly set the perfect trap for himself, much like a cartoon villain preparing their own downfall.

After thoroughly surveying the terrain, Charlie made the decision without a second thought. He remotely positioned the Batmobile Fighter in the most advantageous spot. Given the careful layout of the site and the deliberate choice of location, Charlie felt it would be almost disrespectful not to unleash the full arsenal at his disposal.

All kinds of weapons fired in unison, and in an instant, the decrepit warehouse was torn to shreds by the overwhelming barrage. The air was filled with the deafening roar of explosions, and high-temperature flames surged into the sky, transforming the entire area into a raging inferno.

Even though Batman and Ivan had retreated to what seemed like a safe distance, they were still caught in the aftermath of the blast. A wave of heat and flames rushed toward them, sweeping over the area with deadly force.

However, Batman's armor—backed by the virtually limitless resources of his vast fortune—was more than up to the task. The armored suit absorbed the brunt of the blast, while his high-tech cape shielded them from the worst of the impact. At such a distance, the flames were nothing more than a brief, harmless flare.

When the two turned to look back, they found the warehouse had been utterly obliterated, reduced to little more than a smoldering wreckage.

It was difficult to imagine anything surviving such a merciless onslaught.

But Ivon did.

The Bat Fighter's bombardment had torn Ivon's mutated body to pieces. One of his arms had been blown clean off, and a massive chunk of his torso had been hollowed out, leaving a gaping wound that extended from his shoulder to his stomach.

Yet, despite the carnage, Ivon had managed to survive, thanks to a hidden escape route he had prepared in advance.

Though he reveled in his maniacal laughter, Ivon was not without a plan. Fully aware of the possibility of being ambushed, he had installed a secret escape route beneath the warehouse, a contingency plan for just such an occasion.

This secret passage led to an underground pipe, allowing him to slip away from the warehouse and into the labyrinthine sewer system below. It was this foresight that had saved him from being obliterated in the warehouse's destruction.

Even so, as Ivon plunged into the murky, stagnant water of the sewer, his entire body was ablaze, resembling a human torch. His tattered clothes and the remnants of his flesh smoldered and smoked as he rolled into the narrow passageway. One of his legs had been completely severed, forcing him to roll into the tunnel like a helpless, broken toy.

And despite the agonizing pain, despite the dire situation, Ivon's twisted sense of humor never faltered. Even as his limbs were shattered and his body torn apart, he continued to laugh—a horrible, grating sound that echoed through the tunnels. The laughter was only interrupted when he choked on the foul, muddy water, forcing him to sputter and cough in between gasps for air.

But he had escaped.

The rushing currents of the sewer system carried him away like a piece of debris, propelling him through the pipes until he was finally spat out into the river that ran along the coast.

Ivon surfaced in the cold, dark water, his chest heaving as he gasped for breath. He spat out a mouthful of water mixed with blood and began to laugh once more, a ragged, wheezing sound that echoed across the water. His laughter was laced with a perverse sense of triumph, as if mocking the very idea that Batman could have outsmarted him. He had escaped while the so-called Dark Knight was likely standing over the ruins of the warehouse, believing he had won.

Just as he was about to bask in the glow of his supposed victory, something caught his attention. A faint, unsettling light began to glow beneath the surface of the water, just a few meters away. It was as if something was stirring in the depths, something dangerous and predatory.

The water began to churn, and the waves parted to reveal a sleek, steel-black shape emerging from the depths. It rose slowly, deliberately, like a shark surfacing for the kill.

The Bat Submarine.

Ivon's triumphant smile froze on his face, his heart suddenly pounding in his chest.

Before he could react, a sea mine detonated almost directly beneath him.

The violent blast sent him flying through the air, his body cartwheeling through the water before being sucked into the swirling vortex created by the explosion. The force of the blast was so great that it nearly tore him apart, but he clung to life with a stubborn, almost inhuman resilience.

Panicking, Ivon turned and began to swim as fast as his broken body would allow, his remaining hand morphing into a grotesque weapon to fight back. But the turbulent water made it nearly impossible to aim, and his bullets were ineffective, bouncing harmlessly off the Bat Submarine's reinforced hull. The sleek, deadly machine pursued him relentlessly, like an underwater predator, its torpedoes exploding all around him.

Ivon was barely holding on, his body battered and torn by the relentless assault. His thoughts raced as he struggled to escape, but he knew he was running out of time. The Bat Submarine was a relentless force, a hunter that would not stop until its prey was utterly destroyed.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Ivon managed to drag himself onto the shore. He was a pitiful sight, his once-powerful body now reduced to a broken, bleeding mess. Half of his limbs were missing, and what remained of his flesh was scorched and blackened. He was barely more than a crawling, writhing mass of pain and desperation.

The Bat Submarine, at least, respected its aquatic nature and did not pursue him onto land. But Ivon knew that he wasn't safe yet. Batman was nothing if not relentless, and Ivon's escape had only bought him a few precious moments of respite.

Ivon staggered into a nearby dark alley, seeking refuge from the relentless pursuit. He collapsed against a broken dumpster, his body trembling with pain as it slowly began to heal itself. Despite everything, a dry, humorless chuckle escaped his lips.

He cursed Batman's lack of creativity. If the Bat had been just a bit smarter, he would have realized that Ivon was too injured to run far. A little patience, and Batman could have ended him right there...

Ivon suddenly froze.

A cold, primal fear gripped him as he sensed something behind him. He turned his head ever so slowly, his breath catching in his throat, only to see the silhouette of the Dark Knight standing there, shrouded in shadow. Batman's presence was so silent, so utterly still, that it was as if he had materialized out of thin air, a ghostly wraith of vengeance.

Panic surged through Ivon. He reacted instantly, his intact arm morphing into a massive axe as he swung it wildly at Batman. But Batman was faster, effortlessly sidestepping the attack with a graceful, fluid motion. In one swift move, Batman closed the distance and delivered a powerful punch directly to Ivon's forehead, the shock gloves discharging a burst of electricity that sent sparks flying from Ivon's twisted, mutated head.

Ivon staggered backward, disoriented and in agony. He tried to retaliate, but before he could react, he felt a sharp pain in his arm. He glanced down to see a Batarang embedded in the joint of his axe-arm, the red indicator light blinking ominously. There was a brief, terrifying moment of realization before the explosives in the Batarang detonated.

The explosion was devastating. Ivon's arm was blown off at the joint, the force of the blast sending the axe spiraling through the air before it clattered to the ground a dozen feet away.

Ivon was hurled to the ground, his body reduced to little more than a shattered wreck. Three of his limbs were now missing, and his once-fearsome form was nothing more than a broken, gasping shell. He lay there, writhing and twitching, trying to crawl away with what little strength he had left.

But there was no escape.

A shadow loomed over him, blocking out what little light there was in the dark alley.

Ivon lifted his head slowly, his vision blurred by pain and exhaustion, and found himself staring up at Ivan. Ivan stood over him, his expression unreadable, a cigarette dangling from his lips as he stared down at the wretched figure before him.

Without a word, Ivan extended his right hand. Ivon watched in horror as Ivan's arm began to deform, metal condensing into a massive gun barrel. The cold, black barrel of the weapon was aimed directly at Ivon's head, its dark maw promising a swift and brutal end. Ivon's one remaining eye widened in terror, his mind racing as he searched for any possible way out of this nightmare. But his body was too broken, his energy too depleted. He was utterly at Ivan's mercy, and he knew it.

For a fleeting moment, Ivon tried to muster a laugh, that deranged, mocking laughter that had carried him through so many close calls. But this time, the sound was hollow, a weak, sputtering wheeze that barely escaped his cracked lips. He wanted to taunt, to make one last jibe at Ivan, but the words died in his throat.

Instead, he could only stare up at the looming figure, the icy barrel of the gun now inches from his face. The reflection in the weapon's polished surface showed a grotesque, twisted version of what he once was—a shadow of the monster he had become.

"Hahaha… good joke, Ivan," Ivon rasped, the words forced out through gritted teeth. "But… whatever, it's all the same… in the end…"

His voice trailed off, the last vestiges of his bravado crumbling in the face of his impending demise.

Ivan remained silent, his expression as cold and unyielding as the steel that formed his weapon. There was no hesitation, no doubt in his eyes as he exerted force on his gun-turned arm. To him, this was not an act of vengeance, not a moment of triumph—it was simply the final, necessary step in ending the threat that Ivon posed.

With a sudden, deafening roar, the gun discharged. The flash of the muzzle lit up the dark alley for an instant, casting harsh shadows that danced and flickered like flames.

The first shot obliterated Ivon's face, reducing the grotesque visage to a bloody mess. The twisted features, the single, malevolent eye, were all but vaporized in the blast. Blood and bits of flesh spattered across the walls, leaving a gruesome trail in their wake.

But Ivan wasn't done. He fired again, and again, each shot a thunderous declaration that this was the end. The second and third rounds hammered home the point, pulverizing what remained of Ivon's head until there was nothing left but a splattered, indistinguishable mass of gore.

The alley fell silent once more, the echoes of the gunfire slowly fading into the night. Ivan stood over the lifeless, shattered remains of Ivon, the smoking gun barrel still aimed at the spot where his enemy's head had once been.

With a calm, steady breath, Ivan exhaled a cloud of smoke, the remnants of his cigarette glowing faintly in the darkness. The gun barrel on his arm began to shift, the metallic structure melting away and retracting into his body until his arm was whole again. He flexed his fingers, feeling the cool air brush against his skin.

Ivan let out a long sigh, the tension draining from his body. The adrenaline that had kept him going through the night was beginning to wear off, leaving behind a strange, hollow feeling. He glanced down at the wreckage of what had once been Ivon and shook his head slightly, as if trying to make sense of it all.

"I didn't even know… I could do that…" Ivan murmured to himself, his voice quiet and introspective. There was no satisfaction in his tone, no sense of accomplishment—only a deep, weary fatigue that seemed to settle into his very bones.

He turned away from the corpse, his gaze shifting to the distant horizon where the first faint light of dawn was beginning to creep over the city. The night had been long, and the battle hard-fought, but there was still so much more to do.

Ivan Lit another Cigarette, letting out a tired sigh.

There was no rest for the weary.

Chapter Text

Charlie was taken aback when he saw Ivan's arm morph into a weapon, similar to the figure lying lifeless on the ground. The transformation was grotesque, a blend of flesh and metal that seemed both unnatural and disturbingly efficient.

What is this? Is he similar to that other guy?

He remembered that Melanie had mentioned Ivan's infection level was already dangerously high. Now, it seemed like the infection had surpassed 100%, pushing Ivan to the brink of something far beyond human—a state where abilities could awaken, turning him into something more than he was, or perhaps... less.

Ivan staggered slightly as the transformation took its toll, his body trembling from the strain. His legs felt like lead, numb from the ordeal he had just endured. He reached out a hand to steady himself against the rough, crumbling wall beside him, then slowly sank down until he was sitting on the cold ground, his back against the wall.

With deliberate, almost mechanical movements, Ivan reached into his pocket and pulled out a battered pack of cigarettes. The action was methodical, as if the ritual of smoking was one of the few things that still grounded him in reality. Before putting the pack away, he glanced at the darkened figure standing silently in the shadows—Batman, ever watchful, ever silent.

"Want one?" Ivan offered, holding the pack out toward the darkness.

Batman remained still, his silhouette barely visible in the dim light. There was no response, not even a shift in posture. The silence was almost oppressive, like the calm before a storm.

Ivan didn't seem to mind the lack of reply. With a small shrug, he pulled a cigarette from the pack and lit it with a flick of his worn, silver lighter. The orange glow briefly illuminated his face, revealing deep lines of exhaustion and weariness etched into his features. He took a deep drag, inhaling the smoke as if it were a lifeline, something to anchor him in the chaos that surrounded him.

"Cheap stuff, but I'm used to it," Ivan said, exhaling a cloud of smoke that curled lazily into the air. A faint smile tugged at the corners of his lips, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Old Brooke's favorite brand. If you'd ever met the old man, you'd know he was a regular smoker, couldn't go ten minutes without lighting up."

His voice was calm, almost nostalgic, as he spoke of the past. There was a softness to his tone, a rare vulnerability that he rarely allowed to surface.

"You know what, Bat?" Ivan continued, his gaze drifting off into the distance as if he were seeing something far beyond the dark alley they were in. "I used to hate smoking. Just seeing someone light up made my stomach turn. Brooke and I used to go at it all the time, arguing back and forth. But you know what he said? He said that tobacco tax revenue makes up a significant portion of the annual budget, and that money is used for important things—like educating kids, saving lives. He actually believed that smokers, by voluntarily harming themselves, were making the world a better place... that they were heroes in their own twisted way. Crazy, right?"

Ivan leaned back against the cold, damp wall, taking another long drag from his cigarette. The smoke filled his lungs, and for a moment, he closed his eyes, savoring the sensation.

"I told him he was full of shit," Ivan said, chuckling softly. "But he didn't care. And his wife? She was always on his case about it, telling him to quit. She was a good woman, warm and kind to everyone she met. She made the best damn burritos—stuffed to the brim with meat, potatoes, and just the right amount of sauce.

Brooke would often invite me over for dinner, and every time, I'd get to enjoy those burritos. They were the kind of meal that made you feel like everything was right in the world, even if just for a little while. But now... well, you'll never find a burrito like that again. Never."

For a moment, Ivan fell silent, his gaze fixed on the glowing tip of his cigarette. The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken thoughts and memories. The cigarette burned quickly, the glowing ember steadily creeping toward the filter. When it was nearly spent, Ivan flicked the butt away with a casual motion, watching as it skittered across the ground before coming to rest in a puddle.

Without missing a beat, he pulled out another cigarette from his pack, lighting it with the same worn lighter. The act was almost ritualistic, a way to keep his hands busy, to keep his mind from wandering too far into the darkness that threatened to consume him.

"And his little daughter," Ivan said softly, his voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking her name would shatter something fragile. "She was six—a little angel. You wouldn't believe how perfect she was, like God spent extra time making her just right."

There was a tremor in his voice, a hint of something deeper, more painful.

"I remember Brooke invited me to her sixth birthday party," Ivan continued, his voice growing quieter, more distant. "She was so full of life, running around, laughing, smearing birthday cake on everyone's face. She got me good, too—had icing all over my face. Her mom caught her and told her not to do that to guests, but the little rascal just grinned and kept making faces at me, even as she pretended to be sorry."

A faint smile tugged at his lips, but it was tinged with sadness, as if the memory was both a comfort and a curse.

"So, I made faces back at her," Ivan said, his voice thick with emotion. "It was a silly little game, but in that moment, it felt like... like maybe I could be a part of something good for once. I didn't have a family before them—no one to care about, nothing to lose. It was just me, my work, and my passions. But for the first time, I started thinking maybe... maybe that's what family is supposed to be."

Ivan took another drag from his cigarette, the smoke swirling around him like a shroud. His eyes were distant, lost in memories that seemed to play out in front of him like scenes from a movie.

"It was in that kid's eyes, you know?" Ivan said, his voice barely audible. "Those bright, beautiful eyes that seemed too pure for this world... I felt like I could see the future in them. Or at least what I hoped the future would be."

He exhaled the smoke, watching as it dissipated into the air, leaving behind only the lingering scent of tobacco.

"And then I saw her again... after Brooke was gone," Ivan continued, his tone growing colder, more bitter. "That little angel—those bright eyes were gone. The light that once shone so brightly in them was snuffed out, replaced by something... empty. The first time I saw those eyes, they were full of life, full of hope. But now... they were just... empty."

Ivan's voice cracked slightly as he spoke, the pain of the memory cutting through him like a knife.

"For the first time, I felt disillusioned," he said, his voice raw with emotion. "The hopeful future I once saw in those eyes... it was shattered by reality."

He glanced through the lingering smoke at the lifeless body lying not far away, the head blown into unrecognizable pieces, a grotesque reminder of the brutality that had just unfolded.

"I thought I'd moved past it, but I was wrong," Ivan said, his voice heavy with regret. "This guy... he reminded me of that, because I was the one who created the demon."

Ivan suddenly looked behind him, his eyes searching the darkness as if expecting something to emerge from the shadows.

"Have you ever felt that?" Ivan asked, his voice filled with a quiet desperation. "When the most important person to you, the one who becomes an inseparable part of you... is suddenly taken away, leaving a gaping hole in your heart that can never be filled? And the worst part... is realizing it's all your fault."

The silence that followed was thick with tension, the weight of Ivan's words hanging in the air like a heavy shroud. After what felt like an eternity, Batman, still hidden in the shadows, finally spoke.

"I understand."

The voice that emerged from the darkness was low and hoarse, strange yet somehow comforting. It carried a sense of shared pain, a connection that transcended the barriers between them. Ivan quickly realized the voice was altered by a voice changer, but in that moment, it didn't matter.

"Hah, first time I've heard you speak directly," Ivan said, a bitter smile crossing his lips. "Damn, I don't know why I'm telling you all this. I thought I'd never say any of this to anyone... never thought I'd let myself be this vulnerable."

Ivan paused, taking another long drag from his cigarette, the smoke filling his lungs before he exhaled slowly.

"But maybe that's why," Ivan continued, his voice growing softer, more introspective. "After that incident, I almost gave up. The future I once saw was gone, replaced by a darkness I couldn't escape. I spent every day aimlessly, looking for fights, looking for a way to end it all... just searching for the right grave to crawl into.

But deep down, I lost sight of what I was fighting for. Maybe that's why this guy was born, hiding behind a smile, pretending to know everything, laughing at everything, but really just covering up his own inadequacies.

Those ancient, evil things... they're always good at finding the worst in people, letting us create...

...our own demons.

I used to think I could be fearless, that I could stare into the void that everyone fears, look the devil in the eye, and tell him I wasn't afraid of making the right choice. But I was wrong."

Ivan's voice trembled slightly as he spoke, the weight of his words pressing down on him like a heavy burden.

"For a moment, I thought I understood why Brooke always stayed out of trouble, why he was so cautious," Ivan continued, his voice barely above a whisper. "Maybe there really are things out there that are bigger than us, things we just can't fight.

Because what we face is often something no human can fight. I mean... a bullet can kill a criminal, if not, just shoot another one... but you can't shoot the darkness itself."

Ivan let out a hollow laugh, the sound filled with bitterness and regret.

"Ha, I never thought I'd be saying this out loud," Ivan said, shaking his head slightly. "But I always felt like you would understand, right, Bat?"

"Yes."

The single word echoed through the alley, carrying with it a sense of finality, of shared understanding. It was a simple affirmation, but it spoke volumes.

"That's exactly why I'm here."

Ivan chuckled, a long, hollow laugh that seemed to resonate in the empty alley.

"Hahaha, that's right," Ivan said, his voice filled with a strange mix of resignation and acceptance. "I think now I understand why I'm telling you this. Remember what I said earlier, about not being able to see the future for a long time?

But recently, I've started to see it again. It's not an easy path, not what I naively expected... but at least I can see it now... thanks to you, and your amazing allies."

Ivan took a final drag from his cigarette, the ember burning brightly for a moment before it dimmed, the smoke curling up into the air.

"So no matter who you are or where you come from," Ivan said, his voice growing softer and more reflective. "There are three cliché words I want to say to you..."

He paused, frowning slightly as he turned to look behind him, only to find that he was alone in the dark alley.

Batman had left without a sound, disappearing into the shadows like a ghost.

Ivan stared at the empty space where Batman had stood, the cigarette dangling from his lips as the realization slowly set in. He was alone, left to grapple with the weight of his own thoughts and the memories that haunted him.

But despite the emptiness that surrounded him, there was a strange sense of peace that settled over Ivan. The conversation, though brief, had lifted a burden from his shoulders, allowing him to see the path ahead with a clarity he hadn't felt in a long time.

With a sigh, Ivan flicked the cigarette butt away, watching as it bounced off the ground before settling in that same puddle. The ember hissed as it was extinguished, leaving behind nothing but the lingering scent of smoke.

Chapter Text

Before the smoke from the cigarette could fully dissipate, helicopter blades cut through the night, growing louder as the aircraft approached. The powerful downdraft from the propellers whipped up a whirlwind of dust and debris on the ground, creating a miniature storm. The armed helicopter descended with a sense of authority, its searchlights stabbing through the darkness like beams of judgment. Ivan sat there, legs crossed, unflinching under the blinding light. He took a drag from his recently lit cigarette, the ember glowing faintly in the harsh white light, and casually waved in the direction of the helicopter as if greeting an old friend.

Moments later, a group of heavily armed agents surrounded him, their weapons drawn and ready. Their movements were precise, coordinated, as they formed a tight circle around Ivan. The tension in the air was palpable, a silent acknowledgment of the potential danger this man posed, even as he sat there seemingly indifferent to their presence.

The leader of the team stepped forward, his presence commanding respect. It was Marcus, the captain of the action team from the Riverton branch. His expression was stern, his eyes sharp as they assessed the situation, taking in the scene with a practiced gaze that missed nothing.

Ivan recognized Marcus immediately. He offered a small, almost playful smile and waved a hand in greeting, the cigarette still dangling from his lips. "Don't get too excited," he said in a calm, almost lazy tone. "I'm not going anywhere, and I'm not going to bite. The person you're looking for is over there."

He gestured toward the grotesque figure lying a short distance away, its head a mangled mess of blood and bone. Marcus followed the direction of his hand, his frown deepening as he took in the sight.

"What... is that?" Marcus asked, his voice laced with confusion and disgust. The thing on the ground barely resembled anything human.

"It's me," Ivan replied, his tone as casual as if he were discussing the weather. There was no emotion in his voice, no hint of the horror that the scene might have elicited in others. When Marcus's frown deepened, Ivan simply shrugged. "It's a bit complicated to explain. Maybe we can talk about it back at headquarters."

Ivan shifted slightly, grimacing as he adjusted his position. "It just so happens that I can't walk anymore, so how about giving me a lift? I need to see Professor Miyazaki anyway. There's something I need to tell him..."

As he spoke, he raised his hand, and under the astonished eyes of the surrounding agents, the flesh and bone began to morph and twist, reshaping itself into the unmistakable form of a gun.

"I don't know what's going on," Ivan said with a wry smile, "but I bet the professor will find this very interesting."

The agents exchanged uneasy glances, their hands tightening on their weapons, but Ivan remained calm and cooperative. With his full compliance, they escorted him back to the mothership after subjecting him to a series of rigorous physical examinations and psychological evaluations.

When Professor Miyazaki heard about Ivan's transformation, his reaction was immediate. His curiosity was piqued, and he hurried over to the medical bay with the kind of eager anticipation that only a scientist on the brink of discovery could muster. His expression was intense, his posture one of barely restrained excitement as he prepared to delve into the mystery of Ivan's awakening abilities.

But before they could begin testing Ivan's new powers, the higher-ups had other, more urgent concerns.

The infection.

Ivan sat across from a panel of high-ranking officials, their faces a mix of skepticism and unease. He recounted the events in a straightforward manner, his voice steady and devoid of emotion.

"In short," Ivan began, "I was just a regular guy—passionate, maybe a bit reckless—before I came to work at the madhouse. But one day, something inside me split. One-half of me stayed here, working for the madhouse, while the other half... well, it turned into something else. Something that laughed all the time, spreading joy in the most twisted way possible."

His words hung in the air, heavy with the implication of what he had become.

"Then, one day," Ivan continued, "the part of me that stayed here finally caught up with the other half. We had a fight, and I killed him. The part that was always laughing, always trying to make everyone smile... that's when the story ended."

His explanation was clear and concise, but the impact of his words left the room in stunned silence. The team at the Ninth Division had dealt with many strange cases before, but this was something entirely different—something that challenged their understanding of the infection and its effects.

They weren't particularly interested in Ivan's personal journey or the mental struggles he had endured. Those details were for Professor Miyazaki to analyze or for the psychologists to unravel. What concerned them was the fact that another individual had seemingly split from Ivan's body—a separate entity born from his mind, but with a physical form of its own.

"I told you before that this could happen," Professor Miyazaki said during a tense meeting with the upper echelons. His voice was calm and measured as he addressed the room. "I've mentioned before that under certain conditions, it's possible for a person's psyche to give birth to a new spiritual individual."

"But you didn't say that the mental body could split into some kind of new monster," Commander Ross countered, his tone skeptical.

"Yes, because this is the first time we've observed such a phenomenon," Professor Miyazaki replied, adjusting his glasses as he spoke. "But I did warn you that there would be unexpected mutations. And now we're seeing exactly that."

He paused for a moment, letting his words sink in before continuing. "When a separated spirit becomes a new individual, it may retain the original owner's memories, emerging from the deepest, darkest recesses of their mind. I've decided to name these entities 'Phantoms.'"

A murmur of unease spread through the room at the introduction of the new term. Naming something gave it a sense of permanence, a tacit acknowledgement that it existed—and that it might happen again.

"What we know so far is that the Phantom that separated from Ivan's body possesses strength far beyond the limits of the human body, surpassing all the special and infected individuals we've encountered. Its physical abilities are exceptional, and it seems capable of weaponizing its body parts—though this will require further testing.

Additionally, those infected by it may be remotely controlled by the original body, and there's a higher likelihood of them leaving behind a spiritual body. If multiple spiritual bodies were to fuse, they could potentially transform into a giant monster.

However, it's still unclear whether these traits are common to all 'Phantoms.' Further observation is needed to determine that..."

"Hold on," Hercules, the head of the Operations Department, interrupted. His voice was sharp, cutting through the professor's explanation. "You just said 'all Phantoms.' Are you implying there's more than one?"

"Oh, absolutely," Professor Miyazaki replied without hesitation. He adjusted his glasses again, his expression serious. "I believe the appearance of 'Phantoms' marks a new phase in the infection's evolution. We're likely dealing with a new source of infection."

The room fell into an uneasy silence as the implications of his words sank in.

"So yes," Professor Miyazaki continued, his tone matter-of-fact, "I think we'll be seeing more and more 'Phantoms' from now on."

...

Meanwhile, Charlie, who had been controlling Batman throughout the mission, took a moment to go offline and catch his breath. The mission had been intense, and Ivan's words weighed heavily on his mind.

What Ivan had said made sense—perhaps there really was a reason why good people couldn't always stand up to evil. No one could be truly carefree, and not everyone had the courage to face the existential fear of "nothingness." Sometimes, doing the right thing comes with a heavy price. People had to carefully weigh their options and consider whether they were capable of bearing the responsibility that came with each choice.

But, as Charlie had expressed through Batman's voice:

"That's why I'm here."

Charlie had stepped beyond the limitations that held others back.

He didn't have to take the risk himself, didn't have to worry about endangering himself or those he cared about. He could act without hesitation, plunging into the unknown that no one else dared to face, staring into the abyss of fear and nothingness, and then grinning as he declared, "Come on, I'm here."

A body of flesh and blood could be hurt, targeted, and brought down.

But if that body became a symbol, it would be indestructible.

Despite having prepared meticulously in advance, relying on Batman's resources and strategy, the mission had still highlighted some of Charlie's shortcomings.

The weapons mounted on the tanks, submarines, and fighter jets had certainly delivered powerful firepower and played a crucial role in suppressing the enemy. But they also highlighted the drawbacks of relying too heavily on heavy weaponry.

First and foremost, the range of the attacks was too broad, making it difficult to avoid collateral damage. In today's situation, the enemy had chosen a remote site for their last stand, which had worked to Charlie's advantage. But if this had taken place in a densely populated urban area, where the enemy could have hidden among civilians, the Bat Fighter's missiles would have caused mass casualties.

These weapons were effective against large, monstrous enemies like the one he had faced in a few missions prior, but they were less effective against humanoid enemies with superhuman physical strength, extreme endurance, and high agility.

Just like this time. Even though Charlie had the element of surprise on his side, Ivon had still managed to escape the firepower of the fighter jets. If it hadn't been for Charlie's pre-reconnaissance and detective mode scans, predicting Ivon's escape route in advance and setting up an ambush, Ivon might have actually gotten away.

It was clear now—Charlie needed stronger heroes, allies who could face these challenges head-on.

It was time to draw cards from his favorite feature; the Card Pool.

Chapter Text

As was his usual practice, Charlie decided that it was essential to cleanse himself—both physically and mentally—before attempting to draw from the card pool. He believed that washing away any lingering bad luck or negative energy was crucial for improving his chances of success. After all, when dealing with the unknown, every little bit of preparation mattered.

He knew exactly what he needed: a superhero who could deliver powerful, sustained attacks in the heat of battle. Someone who could stand on the front lines and take the brunt of the enemy's assault, dealing out punishment in return. Ideally, this hero would be even stronger than Captain America, or at least bring unique abilities that complemented the team's existing strengths without overlapping roles.

Batman, with his vast arsenal of gadgets and sharp intellect, was a versatile and balanced hero, capable of handling most situations with precision. However, Batman was still fundamentally an assassin, a shadowy figure who thrived on stealth and subterfuge. He wasn't built for direct, head-on confrontations, especially against overwhelming odds.

There's a famous painting titled "The Seven Giants of the Justice League," often hailed as a masterpiece by fans of the superhero genre. But if you look closely, you'll notice something odd: although it's supposed to depict seven heroes, only six are actually visible in the image. To the untrained eye, this might seem like a simple oversight by the artist, perhaps a miscalculation. But true fans, those who know the lore inside and out, recognize the subtle joke hidden in the composition. The missing hero is none other than Batman, who is "stealthing" in the background, unseen but ever-present, silently influencing the battle in ways only he could.

[TL Note - if you guys find the painting, post the image here]

In truth, there's a reason for Batman's elusive presence. Batman isn't built for the kind of grand, epic battles that define the Justice League. While his teammates clash with gods, aliens, and otherworldly beings, Batman's strengths lie in the shadows, in strategy, and in precision strikes. In a team fight, where raw power and endurance are the keys to victory, Batman's approach often seems out of place.

There's even a famous scene in the early Justice League comics that illustrates this point perfectly. After a particularly grueling battle, the team is regrouping, tending to their wounds, and discussing tactics for the next fight. It's at this moment that Batman and Green Lantern—known as Hal Jordan—get into a heated argument.

The source of their disagreement was a clash in their fighting styles. During the battle, Hal had taken to the skies, his green power ring blazing like a miniature sun. "Fear my light!" he had shouted, unleashing a brilliant beam that illuminated the entire battlefield. But in doing so, Hal had inadvertently exposed Batman, who had been sneaking up on the enemy, hidden in the shadows. The sudden burst of light ruined Batman's stealthy approach, making him painfully visible to both friend and foe.

Batman, understandably furious, lashed out at Hal afterward. "What the hell were you thinking?" he demanded, his voice cold and cutting. "Do you have any idea what you've done? I was about to take out their leader, and you lit me up like a goddamn firefly!"

Hal, never one to back down from a challenge, fired back with equal intensity. "And what about you, Batman? Maybe if your only 'superpower' wasn't sneaking around on your knees, you wouldn't have this problem!"

It was a confrontation that laid bare the fundamental differences between them. Hal's powers were grand, flashy, and designed to inspire fear and awe. Batman's strengths were subtle, rooted in silence, deception, and calculated risk. It was no wonder that after this incident, Batman became even more reluctant to join in full-blown team battles, preferring instead to work alone, where his methods could shine without interference.

As the roster of heroes continued to grow, Charlie found that drawing new ones with unique, non-overlapping abilities was becoming increasingly difficult. But after several days of careful planning and grinding for points—along with the rewards earned from taking down the night's boss—Charlie had finally amassed enough resources for more than 20 draws.

With a deep breath, he began the process, hoping for something extraordinary.

The first hero that appeared was a familiar face, though not as well-known in the movie adaptations. It was Green Arrow, also known as Oliver Queen. Despite not being as prominent as some other heroes, Oliver had carved out a significant presence in the superhero world. He had eight seasons of a popular TV series under his belt, and his image had even been used to promote a well-known chewing gum brand. In many ways, Oliver was the modern Robin Hood—a vigilante who fought for justice with his bow and arrows.

Oliver was a man of many talents, skilled in both combat and charm.

His prowess with a bow was unmatched, both in the battlefield and in more personal settings.

However, despite being a master archer, Oliver's most memorable moments in combat often involved close-quarters bow fighting rather than traditional long-range sniping. His understanding of the bow seemed to go beyond mere marksmanship; for him, it was a versatile tool, as effective in a brawl as it was from a distance.

While Charlie recognized that Green Arrow could be a valuable asset, especially in missions that required precision and archery skills, he couldn't help but feel that Oliver was more of a niche pick. He would certainly be useful in the right circumstances, but he wasn't the game-changing powerhouse Charlie had been hoping for.

This wasn't lost on others in the superhero community, either. There's a well-known anecdote from the early days of the Justice League, where Green Lantern Hal Jordan had openly mocked Green Arrow during his application to join the team. Pointing to Batman, Hal had said, "Sorry, but we already have one who's good at nothing. We don't need a second."

The next hero to emerge was another female character, but she stood in stark contrast to the previous heroines who often wore revealing outfits and relied on their agility and acrobatics. This new heroine was petite, with a lithe, almost childlike frame, and none of the exaggerated curves that had become a staple of comic book designs. Her entire body was clad in a sleek, black battlesuit that hugged her form like a second skin.

In simpler terms, while the earlier heroines had leaned towards the mature, older sister archetype, this one had more of a loli vibe.

Her face was completely obscured by a black mask, but the pointed bat ears and the golden bat symbol on her chest made it clear that she was part of the Bat family—a young Batgirl.

This was the third Batgirl, Cassandra Cain.

Unlike the character's portrayal in the 2020 Birds of Prey movie—where Cassandra was reduced to a simple pickpocket—the original Cassandra Cain had a much richer and more complex backstory.

Her father, David Cain, was a top assassin from the League of Assassins, a shadowy figure known for his lethal skills. Although he didn't have many high-profile kills to his name, within the DC universe, he was considered one of the top martial artists, capable of going toe-to-toe with the likes of Batman (or so it was said).

But it was her mother who was the real legend. Cassandra's mother was Lady Shiva, renowned as the greatest martial artist in the DC universe—a woman who had long been recognized as the pinnacle of martial arts mastery. Lady Shiva was a force of nature, someone even Batman respected, if not feared.

However, as is often the case with such titles, being the best in the world is both a blessing and a curse. It's a title that inevitably invites challengers, those who seek to prove themselves by taking down the reigning champion. And the one who eventually surpassed Lady Shiva was none other than her own daughter, Cassandra.

Cassandra's most significant achievement was defeating her mother—not just once, but multiple times. These victories solidified her status as the top martial artist of the new generation in the DC universe. Even when the "Rebirth" storyline attempted to reset the balance by having Lady Shiva regain the upper hand, Cassandra quickly reclaimed her title with a decisive and dramatic victory.

This loli had the skills to best DC's martial arts gods, earning her the title of the world's greatest fighter. After investigating her background, Batman discovered that Cassandra's father, David Cain, had subjected her to brutal, inhumane training from a very young age.

The purpose of the training was to develop a brand-new martial art, one that had never been seen before, and it required starting with a child who hadn't yet learned to speak. Cassandra was taught to read micro-expressions and muscle movements, allowing her to predict her opponent's moves with uncanny accuracy. This made her virtually unbeatable in hand-to-hand combat, as she could counter any attack before it even began.

However, the price of mastering this technique was the loss of her ability to speak. She could only communicate through gestures and drawings, a limitation that added to her mystique and made her an even more intriguing character.

A loli, mute, the strongest assassin—a combination that made her both adorable and deadly. If not for the bat symbol on her chest, she could easily be mistaken for a character from a two-dimensional anime studio.

What made Cassandra even more appealing to Charlie was that she wasn't just cute and formidable; her character's nationality was rooted in the East.

It seems that in the minds of American writers, martial arts is always tied to the East. Whenever they design a martial arts master with superpowers, there's almost always a connection to the ancient traditions of the Far East.

Cassandra's unique fighting style, with its predictive capabilities, was intriguing. It seemed like it could be more effective than Captain America's combat skills.

If Charlie could somehow incorporate her abilities into his own, it would be a significant upgrade.

But perhaps it was the new shower gel he used that day, or maybe it was just good luck, but when Charlie redeemed his remaining single lottery tickets, he drew a hero he had long been hoping for.

A true powerhouse of the supernatural kind.

Moon Knight.

---

Let's Pay homage to Jackie Chan here; The man, the myth, the FCKING GOAT!!!!

[Also I don't know who the hell moon night is, so can you readers give me an introduction]

Chapter Text

I looked up Moon Knight fight scenes on YouTube and almost had an 0rgasm.

GOD DAMN, he's cool!

---

Moon Knight, a Marvel superhero, stands out not just for his abilities but for his striking visual presence. Draped in a flowing, ethereal white cloak that billows like mist in the moon, he is instantly recognizable, especially by the crescent moon darts that he wields with deadly precision. These darts, polished to a silver gleam, are as much a symbol of his vigilante justice as they are a representation of his connection to the moon.

His reputation precedes him in New York City, where he often steps into the role of an investigator, much like the police. It's a role he relishes—scouring crime scenes, piecing together clues, and bringing justice to those who might otherwise escape it. Because of his methods and the way he operates in the shadows of the night, fans have affectionately dubbed him the "Marvel Batman." Yet, despite the similarities in their vigilantism, there is one striking difference: while Batman cloaks himself in darkness, Moon Knight is a beacon of white—a glowing figure in the night, standing out boldly against the dark backdrop of the city.

This choice of attire, entirely white from head to toe, is not just a statement; it's a challenge. Under the shroud of night, where shadows are allies, and stealth is key, his appearance is an open declaration to his enemies: "Here I am. Come and face me." His presence is almost paradoxical; one would expect an assassin or a vigilante to blend into the darkness, but Moon Knight does the opposite. He thrives in being seen, in drawing the attention of criminals before striking them down. This fearless approach is part of what makes him so feared—and respected—among both his enemies and his allies.

When he first learned about this hero, Charlie couldn't help but admire the audacity of such a figure. There was something both awe-inspiring and terrifying about a man who wears white in the dead of night, who hunts the wicked while daring them to come at him.

But Moon Knight is more than just a street-level hero; he is an avatar of the moon god, Kongsu, from Egyptian mythology. In his original comic book origins and the later TV series adaptations, he is portrayed not as a mere mortal but as the chosen incarnation of Kongsu on Earth. This divine connection grants him powers far beyond those of an ordinary human.

His abilities, bestowed by the moon god, are impressive. They include superhuman strength that allows him to lift weights far beyond what a human could manage, extraordinary endurance that lets him fight tirelessly for hours, and a healing factor that mends wounds at an astonishing speed. Perhaps most intriguing is his ability to perceive spirits and beings invisible to the naked eye—a gift from the moon god that allows him to see what others cannot, making him a formidable opponent against supernatural threats.

Traditionally, it is said that Moon Knight's powers wax and wane with the phases of the moon. When the moon is full, his strength is at its peak; when it is new, his powers diminish. However, the reality is far more complex—his abilities are directly tied to the whims of Kongsu. If the moon god is pleased, Moon Knight can exhibit his full powers even during the day or in the vacuum of space. But if Kongsu is displeased, Moon Knight might find himself stripped of his powers entirely, vulnerable, and exposed.

At his most powerful, Moon Knight's healing factor can evolve into full-blown immortality, making him nearly invincible. Yet, his relationship with Kongsu is fraught with tension. The moon god is often depicted as a demanding master, constantly pushing Moon Knight to the brink, seeking to extract every ounce of potential from his "employee." In many ways, Kongsu is the epitome of a ruthless capitalist, always looking to maximize the value of his investment.

As Charlie, the player, delved deeper into the character, he began to recognize a pattern common among American comic heroes: their power levels fluctuate wildly depending on the storyline. Batman, for instance, can range from struggling against low-level thugs to battling cosmic threats alongside the Justice League. The same goes for Moon Knight, whose strength has varied dramatically throughout his history. There have been times when, with Kongsu's power behind him, he could take on an entire team of Avengers single-handedly. Yet, when that divine support is withdrawn, he's been defeated by common street criminals.

Charlie noticed that the characters he draws from the hero pool in his game have their abilities capped within a certain range. They aren't at their lowest point, but neither are they at their peak. Moon Knight is no exception.

However, Charlie looked forward to the day when he could unlock a more advanced hero pool, perhaps drawing stronger, more powerful versions of these characters. But for now, what intrigued him most about Moon Knight was not just the divine powers but his unique condition—a dissociative identity disorder that made him both a hero and a complex character study.

In the MCU TV series, Moon Knight is portrayed with three distinct personalities. The first is a seasoned mercenary, a battle-hardened veteran who has seen the worst of humanity and has the skills to survive any encounter. The second is a timid, unassuming worker at a museum gift shop—a man who seems out of place in the violent world of superheroes. The third is a brutal, no-nonsense driver who doesn't hesitate to kill if it gets the job done. Each personality is fully developed, with its own memories, emotions, and motivations, leading to intense internal conflict as they vie for control within the same body.

This internal battle adds a layer of psychological complexity to Moon Knight's story, turning his struggles into a metaphor for the broader themes of identity and morality. How do you define yourself when you're literally torn between different lives? Can you trust yourself when your mind is divided? These questions make Moon Knight a fascinating character, both on and off the battlefield.

Yet, for Charlie, the real test was in the gameplay. It was time to put Moon Knight to the test and see how he fared against the challenges in the game. Which unfortunate criminals would become his next targets?

Not long after entering the game, an exclamation mark appeared on the screen, signaling a new target. It turned out to be a pickpocket, running through the crowded streets after stealing someone's bag.

Charlie felt a slight twinge of disappointment. The pickpocket was hardly worthy of being a punching bag, let alone a target for a hero like Moon Knight. However, considering the pickpocket's agility and speed, Charlie decided to use him as target practice instead.

Positioning Green Arrow on the high ground, Charlie manipulated the hero to take a vantage point on the balcony of an unoccupied building. From this elevated position, he could see the pickpocket's shadow moving quickly along the sidewalk below.

With practiced precision, Charlie aimed the bow and released an arrow. It sliced through the air with a whistle, heading straight for the target.

The arrow hit with pinpoint accuracy.

"Ahhh~!!" The pickpocket screamed as the arrow struck, sending him sprawling to the ground. The pain was immediate and intense, and his cries echoed through the street.

Passersby who witnessed the scene were horrified. They froze, staring at the pickpocket writhing on the ground, blood pooling around the arrow. A chill swept through the crowd as they realized how easily a similar fate could befall them.

Among the onlookers, someone with keen eyesight spotted the archer. Although it was dark, and the archer's face was obscured, the distinct green hat was unmistakable. They whispered among themselves, spreading the word about the green-hooded hero who had taken justice into his own hands.

For his part, Charlie hadn't intended for Green Arrow to deliver such a severe blow. Though Charlie had experience with bows and arrows in other games, this was his first time using one in this game, and he needed time to adjust to the mechanics. He had originally aimed for the legs, hoping to incapacitate the pickpocket without causing too much harm.

But mistakes happen, and Charlie was quick to move on. After all, this was just a game, and minor errors like this were part of the learning curve. It wasn't as if he had any dark intentions; he was just playing a role, experimenting with the character's abilities.

Charlie considered that Green Arrow might be useful for future missions that required special arrows or sniping tasks, but otherwise, his role in the team seemed limited. With that in mind, Charlie switched out Green Arrow for Daredevil, the team's designated "police dog" substitute.

Daredevil's heightened senses made him an invaluable asset for detecting events faster and more efficiently than Green Arrow could. Once Charlie had Daredevil in place, the city seemed to come alive with activity. The quiet streets were suddenly teeming with hidden dangers and secret plots.

As Daredevil moved through the city, Charlie focused on using his enhanced hearing to detect any suspicious activity. It wasn't long before an exclamation mark popped up, signaling that something was amiss.

Charlie brought Daredevil to a halt near a rooftop on 32nd Street in the Z area. There, deep underground in a shadowy alley, Daredevil picked up on a hushed conversation—a conversation that would have been impossible to hear without his superhuman abilities.

The voices belonged to two men, their tones low and menacing.

"That grocery store again? How long has the stall owner been behind on protection fees?"

"It's been more than a month. He believed we got spooked after seeing the Bat-Signal one night and suddenly stopped cooperating. I think he believes Batman's going to protect him."

"Ha, that fool needs a reminder of how things work on this street. Send the boys down there to teach him a lesson. It's fine if he loses an arm or a leg—just make sure he gets the message."

"Got it. I'll handle it."

Charlie narrowed his eyes, understanding that this was more than just a routine shakedown.

It looks like he found a suitable sandbag.

---

Green Arrow Vs. Hawk-Eye, who is the better archer

Chapter Text

Step one: secure the lighting.

This was a lesson learned after countless encounters while playing as Batman. Darkness had always been an invaluable ally for heroes like them—those who preferred the shadows, who thrived in the night, and who left their enemies guessing. Charlie operated Green Arrow with precision, cutting off the light source in the underground club just moments before the action began. The abrupt plunge into darkness sent the gangsters into immediate disarray, their bravado crumbling in an instant.

In the old days, a blackout would have been shrugged off as a power outage, nothing more than a temporary inconvenience. The most it would provoke was some grumbling about the city's unreliable power grid. But that was before a certain sharp-eared vigilante started making appearances, his arrival heralded by the sudden loss of light. Now, to these criminals, a blackout meant something entirely different—it meant trouble, the kind of trouble you couldn't outrun or hide from.

Once upon a time, the advice to "learn to protect yourself" was given to young women venturing out alone at night. Later, that advice extended to young men as well, who needed to be just as cautious. But now? Now, even hardened gangsters, the self-proclaimed tough guys of society, had to learn to protect themselves when they ventured into the night. Whether this shift was progress or regression was up for debate, but one thing was clear: fear had evolved.

A large group of gangsters, men who once swaggered through the streets, now avoided the night altogether. The mere flicker of a streetlamp could send them into a panic. They had grown so jumpy that even a cat rummaging through trash under a streetlight could make their hearts race. If that cat's ears happened to be pointed, the gangsters would scream, certain that the bat had come for them. Batman had done his job well—too well, perhaps.

But this time, it wasn't Batman they were dealing with.

An arrow whistled through the air, slicing through the darkness with a deadly precision. The target, a gangster standing on edge, searching the shadows for threats, didn't even have time to react before the arrow pierced his chest. The man's scream was a raw, primal sound, tearing through the tense silence and sending a wave of panic through his comrades.

"Is that you, Yamada? Is that the bat?" one of the gangsters shouted, his voice trembling.

"Where is he!?" another demanded, his flashlight trembling in his hand.

Panic spread like wildfire. The gangsters, who had been trying to maintain their composure, now fumbled with their phones, turning on flashlights in a desperate attempt to pierce the suffocating darkness. Beams of light flickered erratically, cutting through the blackness but revealing nothing of their hidden assailant.

A second arrow flew, its green shaft barely visible as it darted between the scattered light. Another scream followed as a second gangster fell, clutching at the arrow embedded in his side.

The gangsters were in full-blown terror now. Those near the door made a mad dash for it, but as they fumbled with the handle, they found it locked—securely sealed as if welded shut. Panic turned to dread as the realization set in: they were trapped, locked in their own club with a ghostly shooter who was systematically picking them off.

He was nowhere, and yet everywhere. The darkness was his ally, and every shadow held the potential of his next strike. To him, every gangster in that room was a target.

Charlie had initially had low expectations for Green Arrow, but once he got the hang of it, he found it surprisingly enjoyable. He'd spent years playing melee units—characters that charged in recklessly or soaked up damage like tanks. This was his first experience playing a true shooter.

In the past, his strategies had revolved around closing the distance, figuring out how to sneak up on enemies, and getting within striking range before they could even draw their weapons. But now, with Green Arrow, everything was different. His range was his advantage, and the game had shifted from closing in to finding the right angle, constantly moving, and picking off targets from a distance.

It was a refreshing change. Charlie realized that he could play Arrow as a marksman, utilizing the character's skills to their full potential. Yet, as the saying goes, an archer who can't handle close combat isn't a true fighter.

Once the significant threats were neutralized and Charlie felt he had tested Oliver's archery skills enough, he decided to take things up a notch. He manipulated Green Arrow to leap down from his vantage point, landing squarely in the midst of the remaining gangsters.

"There he is... ugh!" One of the gangsters managed to shout, but his words were cut short as Green Arrow's alloy compound bow slammed into his mouth, knocking him out cold.

The gangsters who hadn't been hit by arrows recoiled in shock, quickly closing ranks. Though Green Arrow was no Batman, he was still a master in his own right, more than capable of handling the likes of these low-level thugs.

Some of the gang wielded knives, others picked up anything they could find to defend themselves, but none of them stood a chance against Green Arrow. He wielded the compound bow like a seasoned melee weapon, striking with such precision and force that the men were sent sprawling. Some rolled on the ground, clutching their wounds, others groaned in pain, and a few simply lay there, playing dead, hoping to avoid further punishment.

Their leader, who had been hiding behind a desk, now cowered, his arms wrapped around his head in a desperate attempt to make himself as small as possible. He prayed that Green Arrow wouldn't notice him, but fate was not on his side. After dispatching the last of the gangsters, Green Arrow strode purposefully through the wreckage, his boots crunching on the debris, and yanked the leader out from behind the table.

"You have failed this city!"

The words, cold and mechanical, were spoken with chilling finality.

The leader, now trembling uncontrollably, scrambled to beg for mercy. "Wait a minute... It's all a misunderstanding! I'm just a regular businessman, honest and hardworking, never involved in anything illegal. You must be mistaken... Ahhh!!"

Green Arrow said nothing, letting the leader's pitiful words hang in the air. With calculated precision, he nocked an arrow and drove it into the man's knee. The scream that followed was one of pure agony, echoing off the club's walls.

"Calm down," the leader stammered, tears of pain and fear streaming down his face. "No matter what you've heard, it's all rumors! There's no basis, no evidence, you can't..."

"It's the sheriff who needs evidence."

The modulated voice from under the hood was devoid of any sympathy, only cold, hard truth.

"Do I look like a sheriff?"

The leader froze, the question hitting him like a ton of bricks.

Yes, this was the real terror for people like him.

Cops, courts, judges—they all had to follow the rules. And people like him, who thrived on the streets, had long since figured out how to play the game. They knew the loopholes, the bribery, the tricks to get out of legal trouble. The law could be bent, manipulated to work in their favor.

But these vigilantes? These lunatics dressed in costumes? They didn't play by the rules.

Like the man in front of him—he didn't need proof, he didn't need evidence. Maybe he didn't even know what their club was involved in. Maybe he was just out on a stroll, looking for something to do, and their club was unlucky enough to be in his path.

"Your gang, other strongholds," the hooded man demanded, his voice like a death sentence. "I want the addresses."

After days of vigilante work, Charlie had started piecing together the underground network of the city. He had a rough idea of which gangs controlled which areas. In most neighborhoods, the strongholds belonged to specific gangs, and they respected each other's territories. Crossing into someone else's domain was considered an act of war.

This was insider knowledge, something ordinary citizens wouldn't have a clue about.

So when Charlie found a stronghold, he could make an educated guess about which gang it belonged to. Beating up a group like this was satisfying, but he wanted more—he needed more. These guys looked tough on the surface, but in a fight, they crumpled like paper. There was no challenge, no thrill.

And he had only tested Green Arrow so far—there were two more heroes waiting in line for a test. There simply weren't enough thugs to go around.

Waiting for targets to appear on the street was too slow. Charlie needed to speed things up. He figured he could extract a few addresses from this sorry excuse for a leader and hit the strongholds one by one.

The leader's face turned ashen as he realized the implications of Charlie's question. Desperation overtook him, and he stammered out a response: "Our organization is compartmentalized. I don't know the location of the other strongholds. Ugh!!"

Green Arrow didn't hesitate. He ripped the arrow from the leader's knee, only to drive it back in with brutal force.

"Wrong answer," Green Arrow said coldly. "Think again."

The leader, now in unimaginable pain, broke down completely. Tears streamed down his face as he sobbed, his resistance shattered by the relentless torment. Finally, with nothing left to lose, he spat out the addresses, his voice barely a whisper.

He knew what this meant. The lunatic would go door to door, leaving a trail of devastation in his wake. And when his fellow gang members found out who had given up the locations, they'd make sure he paid dearly for it.

But just as the leader thought his nightmare was over, that the worst had passed, he saw Green Arrow pause mid-step, turning back toward him.

"Oh, right," the vigilante said, his tone almost casual, as if remembering something trivial. "Call more people tomorrow. I'll be back."

The leader's expression froze, horror washing over him anew as he realized that tonight's terror was just the beginning.

---

Chapter Text

Charlie was still eagerly anticipating Batgirl Cassandra's test.

It wasn't that he had any particular fondness for the character, nor did he have any special preference for non-attribute heroes. However, there was an unspoken truth in the gaming world: while e-sports didn't require love, most players preferred seeing a slim and agile girl on screen rather than a hulking brute twisting around the monitor during a third-person perspective action game.

[TL Note - Sus]

Switching to Batgirl, Charlie guided her through the dark alleys of Riverton City, quickly making his way to the second location provided by the gang leader. As the girl in black tights approached the edge of a rooftop, she crouched gracefully before landing silently on the building's ledge. Her black cloak fluttered slightly under the bright moonlight, casting long shadows that seemed to pulse with a life of their own. The cloak, while similar to Batman's, gave off a different aura—softer, more fluid, yet equally menacing. Batgirl exuded a unique vibe, distinct from the grim presence of Batman, yet unmistakably from the same dark lineage.

Being a protégé of Batman, Batgirl operated with similar gear, all provided by the Dark Knight himself. As Charlie pressed the X key, the screen shifted into the familiar blue-tinged detective mode. The world around Batgirl was immediately dissected into detailed schematics, highlighting points of interest, enemies, and objects she could interact with. Yet, Charlie couldn't help but notice a subtle difference.

Despite the apparent similarities, it seemed that Batman might have cut some corners on Batgirl's equipment. The detection range of her visual sensors was noticeably smaller than Batman's, and the precision, though adequate, lacked the razor-sharp accuracy that Batman's gear boasted. Some functions, which were staples of Batman's detective mode, were simply absent from Batgirl's arsenal.

Nevertheless, Batgirl's detective mode, while simplified, was functional and efficient. It provided the essentials: a wall-penetrating perspective that allowed her to see enemies lurking behind solid surfaces, night vision to pierce through the darkest corners of Riverton City, and an armed scanning function to identify which enemies were carrying weapons.

As Charlie continued to maneuver Batgirl, he noticed another peculiarity—she didn't have a hang glider. Despite wearing a cloak similar in design to Batman's, it was clear that her version was made from different material. Batman's cloak, when electrified, would harden, allowing him to glide over the city like a spectral bat. Batgirl's, however, remained soft and pliant, no matter how much electricity coursed through it, rendering her unable to glide in the same way.

Cassandra Cain, trained from a young age as the ultimate assassin, was a master of various combat techniques. Her stealth abilities were unparalleled, her movements as silent as a shadow, and her assassination skills honed to perfection. Stealth and assassination were second nature to her, and in most situations, she could eliminate her targets without them ever knowing she was there.

But tonight, Charlie decided to throw caution to the wind. Instead of sneaking around and taking down enemies one by one, he opted for a more direct approach. He guided Batgirl to blast through the ceiling of the enemy stronghold, sending debris raining down on the unsuspecting criminals below, before parachuting into the heart of the enemy's lair. Batgirl landed in the center of the room, her presence immediately drawing the attention of every thug in the vicinity.

It was then that Charlie discovered a significant difference in the fighting system between Cassandra and Batman.

Firstly, the warning signs that appeared above the heads of enemies before they attacked showed up earlier for Batgirl than they did for Batman. These indicators also lingered longer, giving Charlie more time to react. This allowed for smoother, more calculated responses during combat.

Additionally, Batgirl's ability to counter enemy attacks was more comprehensive. Charlie noticed that the number of yellow and red warning signs, which indicated particularly dangerous attacks, was significantly reduced. Instead, most enemies displayed blue markers, signaling that their attacks could be easily countered. By simply clicking the right mouse button, Cassandra would effortlessly dismantle the incoming attack and respond with a swift and precise counterstrike.

This feature made perfect sense, given Cassandra's unique abilities. Trained in predictive combat, she was capable of reading her opponent's movements before they even executed them. Her combat style was reminiscent of the legendary Dugu Nine Swords, a technique that allowed her to break any attack with ease.

Even when facing enemies armed with guns, Batgirl was unfazed. Despite the speed and accuracy of a bullet, Cassandra's training allowed her to read the subtle shifts in muscle movement and micro-expressions of her enemies. This ability enabled her to predict the trajectory of the bullets and the intentions of the shooters, allowing her to dodge projectiles with uncanny precision.

For Charlie, all it took was a single click of the right button, and the girl on the screen would gracefully sidestep the bullet, avoiding the lethal trajectory by a hair's breadth.

Of course, dodging wasn't always so simple, especially when facing heavy weaponry like machine guns or Gatling guns. Even so, Cassandra's predictive abilities extended to these situations, though they required more skillful maneuvering on Charlie's part.

One of the most surprising aspects of controlling Batgirl was how effortless it felt. Among all the heroes Charlie had played, Cassandra was the most energy-efficient. He even felt that, with his current level of stamina, he could play as Batgirl until dawn without feeling fatigued. The main reason was that controlling her required so little effort. As Batgirl, he effortlessly took down groups of thugs in the stronghold, her movements so fluid and efficient that it felt like second nature.

Charlie realized this was due to Cassandra's physical characteristics. As a young woman, she likely hadn't fully developed physically, and even compared to male heroes without superpowers, she lacked raw strength.

Instead of relying on brute force, Cassandra's combat style focused on skill and precision. Every move she made was calculated to conserve energy, avoiding unnecessary exertion. Her training had ingrained in her the importance of using minimal effort to achieve maximum results, making her incredibly easy to control.

However, this efficiency came with drawbacks. Cassandra's lack of physical strength meant that her attacks were less powerful than those of her male counterparts. Additionally, her equipment, though functional, was a simplified version compared to Batman's. She had basic tools like darts and smoke screens, but her arsenal lacked the variety and versatility that Batman's gear offered.

Despite these limitations, Batgirl had a powerful weapon in her arsenal: explosive bat darts. These darts packed a punch, compensating for her lower physical strength. Overall, Charlie still considered her one of the top heroes in his current roster.

After breaking an unknown number of bones and leaving many criminals incapacitated, the test reached its final stage. The last character was Moon Knight.

Charlie had deliberately saved the most crucial scene of the night for Moon Knight.

This particular location was far more heavily guarded than the previous ones. Important figures within the gang were stationed here, and the criminals guarding the place were the most ruthless, cold-blooded killers. These were the kind of men who wouldn't hesitate to pull the trigger, even in the face of certain death.

More than half of the criminals were armed with firearms, and even if something were to happen, the FBI wouldn't dare to make a move here easily. The stronghold was a fortress, a place where law and order were concepts that simply didn't apply.

But Charlie wasn't concerned with the rules of law and order. He wasn't a magistrate, bound by the constraints of justice. He was the player, and Moon Knight was the perfect weapon for the task at hand.

Unlike Batman, who often relied on stealth and strategy, Moon Knight took a more direct approach. There was no sneaking around this time. Moon Knight parachuted directly to the main entrance of the stronghold, his heavy boots hitting the ground with a resounding thud. He approached the main door, his white cloak trailing behind him like the shroud of a vengeful spirit, and kicked the door with such force that it deformed and collapsed with a thunderous crash.

Moon Knight strode in, the two men guarding the entrance immediately snapping into action. Without hesitation, they drew their guns and opened fire. The bullets struck Moon Knight's battle suit, rippling across the surface as if hitting a thick, unyielding wall. There was no sign of impact, no feedback, just the quiet absorption of force as the bullets disappeared into the suit's dense material.

Unperturbed, Moon Knight continued forward. With a flick of his arm, his snow-white cloak billowed out, deflecting several bullets. The men guarding the entrance barely had time to react before their own bullets ricocheted back at them, striking them with deadly precision. They fell to the ground, their lifeless bodies crumpling under the weight of their own misjudgment.

Charlie was momentarily taken aback. He hadn't expected Moon Knight's counterattack to be so effortless. A single click of the right mouse button had sealed the fate of the two men, their lives extinguished with a simple, almost casual motion.

But Charlie didn't feel any sympathy for the criminals. These were hardened killers, men who had no qualms about taking lives, and they had been the first to open fire. Still, it was a stark contrast to the other heroes Charlie had controlled. Most of them refrained from killing unless absolutely necessary, and even then, it was usually reserved for non-human targets.

But Moon Knight was different. Pressing the counterattack button meant certain death for his opponents, a fact that was both unsettling and strangely exhilarating.

It made sense, though. Moon Knight might share similarities with Batman, earning him the nickname "Marvel's Batman," but he was far from a carbon copy. Before becoming Moon Knight, he had been a mercenary, a man who lived by the sword and understood the harsh realities of life and death. Killing wasn't against his principles; it was part of who he was.

Moreover, Moon Knight served the moon god, Kongsu, a deity who shared the Punisher's ruthless philosophy. To Kongsu, there was no room for mercy or leniency when dealing with evil. His doctrine was simple: see evil, cut evil. There was no need to seek approval from human authorities, and certainly no need to consult other gods.

The door was shattered, and the sentry post lay in ruins. Panic spread quickly through the stronghold. The big shots, sensing danger, immediately retreated to the rear, while the remaining thugs gathered in the main hall, armed to the teeth.

More than a dozen guns were trained on the entrance, the only point of access to the hall. The tension was palpable as the criminals waited, fingers on triggers, ready to unleash a storm of bullets at the first sign of movement.

The moment they heard footsteps approaching from outside, the first thug squeezed the trigger.

The others followed suit, their guns roaring to life as they unleashed a torrent of bullets at the door. The sound was deafening, a symphony of destruction as the muzzle flashes lit up the dimly lit hall. Bullet holes peppered the door, and casings clattered to the floor like rain.

The gunfire continued unabated for a full minute, a relentless barrage of lead and steel. When it finally ceased, the room fell into an eerie silence.

Boom.

The door, now riddled with holes, suddenly exploded inward with a force that sent it flying across the room. It hit the ground with a sickening crunch, the force of impact enough to flatten two thugs who had been standing too close. Their bodies crumpled like ragdolls, their lives snuffed out in an instant.

A figure emerged from the darkness, pale and ghostly. The white cloak trailed behind him like a shroud, and his masked face was partially obscured, save for a pair of eyes that gleamed in the dim light—bright and mysterious, like the moon itself.

Moon Knight stood at the threshold, his presence commanding the room.

"It's my turn."

Chapter Text

The afterimage swept into the hall like a whirlwind of white. Under Charlie's skillful control, the Moon Knight launched into the air with a fluidity that defied gravity. His white cloak billowed behind him, unfurling like a crescent moon, cutting a sharp contrast against the dim lighting of the hall.

The first move was swift and brutal—a flying kick delivered with precision. As the kick connected, Charlie could almost hear the bones cracking in the unfortunate thug's body through the screen. The man let out a gut-wrenching scream, his body propelled backward with such force that he was embedded into the concrete wall several meters away, his form half-swallowed by the solid structure.

The Moon Knight landed gracefully, his movements almost too fast to follow. With a deft motion, he detached the crescent moon emblem from his chest, revealing it to be a razor-sharp crescent dart. The weapon was impossibly thin, yet it gleamed with a deadly golden hue under the stark fluorescent lights that lined the hall.

Without a moment's hesitation, the Moon Knight flicked the dart with a casual elegance, as though it were a simple gesture. The dart sliced through the air, its trajectory precise and unerring. It found its mark in the neck of a nearby gangster, who barely had time to register the attack before blood spurted from the deep wound, staining the floor crimson.

As the gangster's body crumpled, the Moon Knight was already moving. In a seamless flow of motion, he darted towards another thug, his hand reaching out to snatch the returning dart from the air. Before the second man could react, the Moon Knight drew the blade across his throat in one swift, efficient motion. The man's eyes widened in shock before he too collapsed, lifeless.

The speed of his assault was otherworldly. The entire sequence—a deadly combo of kicks, throws, and slashes—unfolded in the span of mere seconds, leaving the remaining gangsters stunned and disoriented. Only now did they comprehend the danger they were in, and in a panicked frenzy, they scrambled to raise their guns, hoping to lock onto the elusive figure in white.

Three of them, positioned directly behind the Moon Knight, hastily leveled their weapons and unleashed a hail of bullets. The air was thick with the staccato rhythm of gunfire, but instead of the bullets tearing through flesh, they struck the flowing white cloak. Miraculously, the bullets didn't pierce it. Instead, the fabric rippled like the surface of a lake disturbed by raindrops, absorbing the impact with an almost supernatural ease.

With a calmness that belied the chaos around him, the Moon Knight turned to face them. He gave a slight shake of his cloak, and in an instant, the very bullets they had fired were reflected back, hurtling toward their shooters with deadly accuracy. The three gunmen barely had time to gasp in horror before their bodies were riddled with the bullets they themselves had discharged, collapsing into lifeless heaps.

The hall fell into a stunned silence, broken only by the faint echoes of gunfire still reverberating off the walls. The remaining gangsters, even the most hardened among them, stared in wide-eyed disbelief at the scene unfolding before them.

"What the… did he just shoot the bullets back?!" one of them muttered, his voice tinged with panic. "Is this some kind of Matrix bullshit?"

They couldn't wrap their minds around what they were witnessing. The sheer impossibility of the Moon Knight's abilities filled them with a primal fear, the kind that grips a person when faced with something beyond understanding, something that defies all known laws of reality.

But the Moon Knight was far from done. In a blur of motion, he appeared before another gangster, his movements so fast they seemed almost teleported. A glint of golden light caught the eye as his hand moved, and where it struck, blood erupted in violent sprays, painting the walls in gruesome patterns. The man didn't even have time to scream before he was dead on the spot.

Another gangster, a muscular behemoth towering over two meters tall, clenched his jaw and stepped forward with surprising bravery. In his massive hands, he gripped a heavy crowbar, muscles bulging as he swung it down toward the Moon Knight's head with all his might.

The force behind the blow was staggering—enough to bend the crowbar on impact. The man felt a shockwave of pain reverberate through his arms from the recoil, nearly causing him to drop the weapon. Yet, the Moon Knight, who had taken the full force of the blow directly to his head, merely turned around, his movements slow and deliberate.

Beneath the white mask, the Moon Knight's eyes burned with an intensity that sent a chill down the man's spine. The muscular thug faltered, instinctively taking a step back. His confidence drained away in an instant, replaced by a gnawing terror. He tried to hide the bent crowbar behind his back, plastering a nervous grin on his face as if to say, "Hey, buddy, I was just messing around… no hard feelings, right?"

But there was no escaping the inevitable. The Moon Knight raised his hand, his fingers spreading wide as he pressed them against the thug's chest. The force that followed was like an unstoppable tidal wave, hurling the man backward as if he had been struck by a speeding truck. He flew across the hall, crashing through the thick concrete wall with a deafening bang, leaving behind a human-shaped silhouette in the rubble.

The remaining gangsters were frozen in place, their minds struggling to process what they had just witnessed.

"What the hell is this thing?!" one of them finally managed to choke out, his voice quivering with fear.

As the saying goes, the most terrifying things in life are often those that cannot be understood. When faced with an entity that defies logic, that shatters the rules and realities you've always known, you find yourself powerless. There is no strategy, no escape, only the cold, creeping dread as you're swallowed by the unknown.

And that was precisely what they were dealing with.

In their eyes, the Moon Knight had transcended from being a bizarre lunatic in an unusual costume to a ghost-like figure—a specter of death that moved through their world with an eerie, unstoppable force.

Charlie, watching the scene unfold through the screen, was coming to a realization of his own. The Moon Knight was a lot more formidable than he had initially imagined.

The Moon Knight's strength was tied to the blessing of the Moon God, which varied depending on the phase of the moon. At first, Charlie wasn't sure how powerful the character would be in this particular instance. Now, it was clear that the Moon Knight's current strength was on par with some of the most powerful super-soldiers, perhaps even comparable to an American superhero.

But what impressed Charlie the most was the Moon Knight's extraordinary self-healing ability, granted by the mystical Moon Armor. This power allowed the Knight to recover from wounds that would have incapacitated or killed an ordinary person. A bullet to the chest? A knife to the back? It didn't matter—the Moon Knight could shrug off such injuries as if they were mere inconveniences.

It all made sense now—the reason the Moon Knight wore that striking, target-like white suit in the dead of night. He didn't need to hide or sneak around like other heroes. With his immense strength and regenerative capabilities, he could boldly stride into a hail of bullets, confident that he would emerge unscathed. He wasn't just a warrior; he was a living embodiment of the phrase, "Might makes right."

Charlie's thoughts were interrupted by a new prompt on the screen. A small notification appeared, indicating that pressing the Caps Lock key would switch between the Moon Knight's primary and secondary personalities.

Curiosity piqued, Charlie pressed the key as instructed.

The change was instantaneous and dramatic. The Moon Knight's appearance shifted right before Charlie's eyes. The flowing, majestic cloak vanished, and the gleaming white battle armor seemed to dissolve into thin air. In its place was a figure that was all too familiar yet jarringly out of place—a person who looked uncannily like a certain fast-food mascot, dressed in a plain white suit with a ridiculous hood.

The gangsters, still reeling from the previous encounter, were equally shocked. Just moments ago, they had been facing an unfathomable force of nature, a being that seemed to defy all logic and reason. And now… now they were staring at what appeared to be a weirdly dressed man in a fast-food mascot costume. It was as if the universe itself had played a cruel joke on them.

"Is this some kind of sick joke?" one of the thugs muttered, his voice filled with confusion and disbelief.

They say that 20% of a hero's image comes from their cape. Whether or not that's true, it certainly felt like it in this case. Without the Moon Knight's iconic cloak, the once-feared figure now looked more like a bizarre joke, a man wearing a white stocking over his head.

To make matters worse, there was a crescent moon symbol emblazoned on the forehead of this ridiculous hood, a mocking reminder of the Moon Knight's true identity. If you didn't know better, you might think this was some sort of twisted cosplay gone wrong.

This was the Moon Knight's second personality, Steven.

After the switch, Charlie continued to control the character, pressing the attack button to see how this new personality would handle combat. The Moon Knight, now in a simple white suit, stepped forward with deliberate calm, raising his hand and delivering a swift blow to the nearest thug. The strike was precise, and the man collapsed instantly, his body convulsing from the impact.

In this form, the Moon Knight didn't rely on deadly weapons like darts. Instead, Steven wielded two sturdy sticks, choosing to incapacitate rather than kill.

Steven was a gentlemanly figure, embodying many traits of a moral hero—chief among them a strict no-kill policy. He was the conscience of the Moon Knight, a counterbalance to the more brutal and lethal tendencies of the other personalities.

It didn't take long for Charlie to realize that this version of the Moon Knight had a similar trait to a certain vigilante hero—no matter what moves were executed, they were designed to incapacitate rather than kill.

However, this adherence to non-lethal combat came at a cost. The Moon Knight in Steven's form was noticeably weaker, his strikes less powerful, his agility slightly reduced. Charlie could feel the difference in control, as if the character had been intentionally handicapped to uphold his moral code.

Steven's combat style was also less refined, relying more on physical strength than the masterful techniques of the primary personality. As a working-class hero, Steven's skills were grounded in practical, straightforward moves rather than flashy, deadly combos.

Although Steven's personality might be essential for balancing the character's morality, it also added a layer of complexity to the gameplay. It was like playing in a challenge mode, where the stakes were higher, and the margin for error was smaller.

But Charlie wasn't done experimenting. He pressed the personality switch button once more, eager to see what the final personality would bring to the table.

The transformation was immediate and chilling. The Moon Knight's appearance morphed again, this time taking on a much darker and more ominous form. The once bright and clean white hood now seemed to absorb the light, casting deep shadows over the character's face. The entire figure exuded an aura of menace, as if the darkness itself had come to life.

This was the Moon Knight's third personality, Jack—a persona known for being the most violent, ruthless, and powerful of them all.

As soon as Charlie resumed control, he felt the change. The Moon Knight in Jack's form was faster, stronger, and far more aggressive. The combat style was brutal and unforgiving, every move designed to inflict maximum damage with ruthless efficiency.

If the primary personality was unafraid to use lethal force, then Jack had no reservations whatsoever. Bones were shattered, necks were twisted, and bodies were torn apart with terrifying ease. The gangsters who had somehow survived the earlier encounters now found themselves facing a nightmare beyond anything they had ever imagined.

The hall quickly became a slaughterhouse, the floor slick with blood as the Moon Knight tore through his opponents with savage ferocity. Charlie barely had to do anything—the character seemed to operate on pure instinct, driven by a relentless need to destroy.

It was both exhilarating and terrifying. The power of the third personality was undeniable, but it came with a heavy cost. The brutality of Jack's form was uncontrollable, even for Charlie. A few careless clicks, and the enemies would be reduced to a gruesome mess, their lives snuffed out in an instant.

Charlie quickly learned the key differences between the three personalities.

The primary personality was the most balanced, offering a good mix of offense and defense with a healthy respect for life. It was the go-to form for most encounters, capable of handling a variety of situations with grace and power.

Steven, the second personality, was the weakest in terms of raw strength but the most energy-efficient. His no-kill policy made him the ideal choice for non-lethal encounters, where the goal was to subdue rather than eliminate. However, his reduced combat abilities meant that he was best suited for dealing with lesser threats.

Jack, the third personality, was the ultimate trump card—a force of nature that consumed the most energy but delivered the most devastating results. However, his sheer brutality and lack of control made him a double-edged sword, to be used only when absolutely necessary.

With this newfound knowledge, Charlie felt like he had unlocked the secret to the Moon Knight's true potential. No longer content to wait for trouble to find him, he decided to take the fight to the streets, hunting down criminals before they could even think about causing harm.

For the next few nights, the local gangs in the area found themselves under siege. They faced a relentless onslaught, with the Moon Knight striking from the shadows and leaving a trail of devastation in his wake.

The leader of one such gang, who had initially been targeted by Green Arrow, quickly found himself at the end of his rope.

On Monday night, the mysterious hooded figure appeared out of nowhere, storming into their hideout and beating them senseless without uttering a single word. Before leaving, the figure had ominously promised to return the next day.

And true to his word, he did. The gang leader, thinking he could outsmart his tormentor, had bolstered his defenses, bringing in extra muscle and weapons. But it was all for nothing. The same figure returned, tearing through their ranks with ease, leaving the reinforcements as little more than cannon fodder.

Charlie, delighted by the experience points he was racking up, couldn't resist taunting his enemies before departing each night. He would casually remark on the "great service" he received, promising to return again soon.

By Wednesday, the gang had the misfortune of crossing paths with Cassandra, the bat loli with the uncanny ability to predict their every move. Once again, they were left battered and bruised, their morale crushed.

By Thursday, the gang leader had had enough. He decided to abandon their hideout, reasoning that it was better to flee than to continue being hunted like animals. He gathered his remaining men and relocated to a new safehouse, hoping to escape the relentless attacks.

But Charlie had anticipated this move. While controlling Green Arrow earlier in the week, he had planted trackers on the gang's vehicles, ensuring he could follow them wherever they went.

This time, it wasn't a vigilante or a bat loli who came for them—it was the Moon Knight, in all his terrifying glory. The gang leader and his men barely had time to settle into their new hideout before they were set upon once more, this time by the unstoppable force that was Jack.

Once again, Charlie refrained from using Jack's personality too often, knowing the risks that came with such raw power. While the primary personality could still deliver lethal blows, it was more controlled, allowing Charlie to hold back if necessary.

After days of relentless attacks, Charlie had honed his skills with the Moon Knight to perfection. He had earned ample experience, leveling up his character to new heights of power and ability. The thrill of victory was intoxicating, and he couldn't wait to see what other challenges awaited him.

But in his pursuit of power, Charlie had overlooked one crucial detail.

The gang leader, now a broken shell of his former self, had finally reached his breaking point. After days of being hunted, beaten, and humiliated, he decided to take a drastic step.

Early on Friday morning, the gang leader appeared at the FBI office, leaning heavily on crutches. His body was a mass of bruises and bandages, evidence of the relentless beatings he had endured over the past week. His once imposing figure was now hunched and defeated, every step a painful reminder of his fall from power.

The agent on duty, who had long known of the gang leader's reputation as a ruthless criminal, was stunned to see him walk through the doors voluntarily. This was the last person anyone expected to see at the FBI office, especially in such a pitiful state.

"What the hell is he doing here?" the agent wondered, narrowing his eyes as the gang leader hobbled toward the counter.

He half-expected a trap, some kind of ruse designed to catch the authorities off guard. After all, criminals of this caliber didn't just show up at the FBI office and ask to be detained. Something was seriously off.

But before the sheriff could voice his suspicions, the gang leader shakily reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small, battered notebook. His hands trembled as he placed it on the counter.

"Please… you have to lock me up," the gang leader pleaded, his voice weak and filled with desperation. "This notebook… it has everything. All my crimes—everything I've done. Smuggling, arson, theft… even the stupid stuff, like deflating old ladies' wheelchair tires. I'm guilty, and I'll confess to it all. Just… get me off the streets. Please."

The sheriff blinked in disbelief, struggling to process what he was hearing. This was unheard of—a hardened criminal, walking in and confessing to everything? Something had driven this man to the brink of madness, and the sheriff couldn't help but wonder what had pushed him over the edge.

"What happened to you?" the sheriff finally asked, his voice tinged with both curiosity, concern, and a hint of amusement. "Why do you want to turn yourself in?"

The gang leader, his eyes wide with fear, looked up at the sheriff, his voice trembling as he whispered, "There's something out there… something unstoppable. I can't fight it anymore. It's like a ghost, and it's coming for me. I just want to be safe… please… lock me up and throw away the key."

And with that, the once-feared gang leader, a man who had terrorized the city for years, broke down completely, his composure shattered by the relentless pursuit of a force he couldn't comprehend.

The sheriff, still reeling from the bizarre turn of events, reached out to take the notebook, knowing that this was just the beginning of a very strange and terrifying story.

Chapter Text

I re-read this about six times, and honestly, this chap feels like the worst translation/edit I've done. I'm not sure why it's so bad, but oh well... I give up.

Enjoy I guess

---

Charlie got up early in the morning, multitasking as he brushed his teeth and checked the news on his phone. He scrolled through the headlines until one caught his eye...

A notorious gang leader had marched himself into the FBI office with evidence in hand.

In a surprising turn of events, a notorious gang leader reportedly surrendered to authorities, exhibiting an unusual level of desperation. Witnesses claim the man was eager to turn himself in, with one source stating, "He even requested indefinite detention just to avoid having to deal with things when he eventually got out."

Despite the dramatic nature of the surrender, the agent on the scene declined to comment, leaving many questions unanswered. The specifics of the situation remain undisclosed, fueling speculation about the motives behind the gang leader's actions.

As this story develops, authorities are continuing their investigation, and more details are expected to emerge. In related news...

---

Charlie, who had been orchestrating events from the shadows, was left speechless.

It's one thing to turn yourself in, but to bring your own evidence and beg to stay in prison? That was a new one.

Charlie hadn't anticipated that his nightly vigilante work would push someone to such extremes. At most, he thought these guys might skip town, lay low in another city, and wait for the heat to die down.

He had even been toying with the idea of tracking them down, imagining the day he'd fly the Batwing over to pay them a visit after they'd settled in their new hideouts.

He could picture it: the gang leader, having found some semblance of peace, surrounded by cronies and indulging in the good life—eating hot pot, singing songs. And then, out of nowhere, the lights would cut out, and a 1.8-meter-tall bat would drop from the sky, fast-forwarding straight to "Batman is still chasing me!"

[TL Note—I take back everything bad I've said about the author. This man is too innocent.]

These days, Charlie has been trying to expand his operations beyond Riverton. After all, having every superhero in the city wandering around all day might eventually lead someone to suspect that there was more at play. To be safe, he had even sent Batman to patrol other cities a few times.

It turned out his remote-controlled heroes could operate just fine in other locations. The only limitation was that Batman was currently the only one with a long-distance flying vehicle; the other heroes didn't yet have the means to travel quickly between cities.

But this gang leader had found an escape route: prison. As long as he surrendered quickly enough, Batman wouldn't have time to catch him. The guy had learned the value of a fast retreat.

Of course, for Batman, even if behind bars, it wasn't out of the question for him to go in and rough someone up.

However, once someone was in prison, they were no longer flagged as a hostile target, and it would be a time-consuming and ultimately pointless endeavor.

But it didn't really matter. Charlie was casting a wide net. The criminals in the entire city, and even in the surrounding areas, were his experience packs. If one slipped away, plenty were left, so he wasn't worried.

During the day, while taking a break from his nocturnal activities, he'd recover his energy, attend classes to adjust his mood, and check the Ninth Special Service Division app to see if there was any new information.

It's been a few days since the incident with Ethan. With no tasks issued by the division, his chat logs remained empty. However, yesterday afternoon, just as he was about to log into the game, he finally got some news from Tara.

The news wasn't significant; it was simply Tara informing him of the duties he would be responsible for as a new agent. Looking at the details of his assigned role, Charlie raised a brow, guessing that this role might be because he had mentioned that he was a college student or perhaps due to the lack of physical prowess displayed during his examination with the professor.

Tara mentioned that the job would likely involve odd tasks online, like sorting data, filing, or doing some online statistics.

After scrolling through the app for a while, he didn't find any further updates about his assignment and closed the app. Just as he was about to place his phone down, it vibrated in his hand, lighting up with a notification from another messaging app:

"Mom is coming over tonight."

Charlie was startled by the sudden notification.

He didn't know when it had become a habit, but he always made sure to prepare whenever his mother visited. He'd lock up his Reading' materials on the hard drive and hide any questionable items that could cause awkward questions.

But, as the saying goes, even the wisest can make mistakes; Charlie had occasionally been caught by his mother with strange items or "study materials."

So he preferred that his mother didn't see his room if possible, but that was just wishful thinking.

That evening, his mother, Megan, arrived at his apartment. The moment she stepped through the door, she was taken aback, gasping audibly. It was a pity she wasn't exclaiming, "My son is destined for greatness," but rather, "How can it be this messy?"

Charlie, with a dark expression, tried to explain that he wasn't messy, just that things were arranged a certain way. But throwing the dirty clothes that hadn't yet made it to the laundry basket and were fermenting didn't exactly help his case.

After failing to dissuade his mother from cleaning, Charlie had no choice but to join her in the house-cleaning project.

"Mom, leave the headphones on the table. I use them every day and won't find them if you move them..."

"Hey, put that box there; don't move it. The computer accessories are still useful..."

At first, he tried to defend his "strategic" placement of items, but he quickly gave up.

Charlie knew his mother likely understood that tidying up wouldn't make much difference. After a couple of days, everything would return to its original place, and the apartment would look the same as before.

She knew, but she didn't care.

"The temperature will drop in a few days, so remember to wear more layers. I'll take out the thick quilt for you and put it on the cabinet."

"And your closet is a mess, with everything scattered around. I've sorted it for you by season: here's autumn, and here's winter... Make sure you remember and don't throw things around casually next time."

Megan kept talking while she worked, not pausing for a moment.

[TL Note - This is so fake; no mom acts like that. I mean, she'll clean up your shit... After slapping you around for a bit]

Charlie didn't say much, just kept nodding.

As people grow up, they leave their hometowns and familiar environments to face the unknown. Some might become famous, others highly respected professionals, and some might even wear capes and save the world multiple times.

But no matter how much time passes, in front of their mothers, they're always just kids who need to be cared for.

Megan kept talking—about how Charlie's cousin was doing, how his uncle was hospitalized, how unreasonable his father was at home, and how he messed up the house...

When she asked how Charlie was doing, he just smiled and said everything was fine on his end.

All he did now was attend classes, slack off while getting paid, and at night, drive superheroes around to relieve stress. What could be wrong?

If there was anything bad, it was probably for the people who got beaten up.

"Why are you out of laundry detergent?" Megan shook the nearly empty bottle.

"Uh, I was planning to get some in the next couple of days..."

"Go as soon as you think of it, or you'll forget later."

There was a business district right across the street from the apartment. It only took ten minutes to go shopping, but every time Charlie thought he'd get it next time, he always seemed to forget.

It wasn't until his mother urged him that he finally went out to buy laundry detergent.

As he walked through the business district, Charlie stopped when he passed by a Starbucks shop on the second floor. He was surprised to find that it wasn't crowded.

That was unusual. The chain stores across the city always had long lines. Even at less busy times, there was at least a half-hour wait.

Charlie never understood queuing for half a day simply for a cup of Coffee. As a nerd, he'd rather clear another level in his game. So even though the shop was right across from his home, he had never tasted it.

Seeing that there was no line today, he thought he might as well try it and bring a cup back for his mother to taste. So he walked in.

"Hello, what would you like?"

The server had a very friendly attitude, smiling all the way and speaking in such a sweet tone that it was almost too much.

Charlie chose two options recommended by online reviewers and ordered a glass of each.

"Okay, here's your receipt."

The server tore off the printed receipt and handed it to Charlie. As their fingers touched, Charlie noticed that her hand felt unnaturally cold.

"We have a promotion this week: order one medium cup of coffee and get a free snack of your choosing."

The server smiled and placed a beautifully packaged small box on the counter.

But for some reason, that delicate box made Charlie feel uneasy.

He lifted the lid of the box and froze the moment he saw what was inside.

It looked like a tentacle.

A squirming tentacle that seemed to be covered in blood and ink.

Chapter Text

Charlie stared in disbelief at the box's contents.

Could this writhing, grotesque thing really be meant for consumption?

The slimy, twisting mass inside looked like something out of a nightmare, yet here it was, presented to him as if it were completely normal.

The server, seemingly calm, returned behind the counter as if nothing had happened. With practiced ease, she began preparing the two cups of Coffee that Charlie had ordered, working alongside her colleague.

Charlie's eyes followed her movements, watching as she placed a shaker under the spigot of a large thermos and turned it on.

What he saw next made his stomach churn. Instead of the expected Coffee or water, a thick, viscous liquid, dark as night and sluggish in its flow, oozed from the spigot. It was as though the very essence of the tentacle-like thing in the box was being poured into the container—an unsettling mixture of what looked like blood and ink.

The liquid hit the bottom of the pot with a sickening squelch, congealing into a thick, paste-like mass. The stench was unmistakable—metallic and pungent, the sharp scent of blood cutting through the air, mingling with the other aromas in the shop. Yet the server remained unfazed, casually swirling the shaker as if she were blending a simple, everyday drink.

Charlie immediately turned his head away, trying to process what he was witnessing.

He quickly realized that something was terribly wrong here. The unsettling scene before him screamed of infection—some kind of contamination had taken over this place.

But a small part of Charlie's mind urged caution. After everything he had experienced—transmigration, secret government operations—he knew better than to trust his eyes completely. It was possible, however unlikely, that this could be some sort of hallucination or trick of the mind.

But the odds were slim. Charlie knew he was special, immune to certain things that might affect others. The idea that he could be hallucinating was far-fetched.

Regardless, there was no time to dwell on the possibilities. The priority was clear: he needed to get out of there, and fast. But his exit wouldn't be as easy as he hoped.

As soon as he rose from his seat and took a few steps toward the door, a smiling server appeared in front of him, blocking his path. Her smile, which might have seemed warm and inviting under different circumstances, now sent a shiver down his spine. It was too perfect, too calm—like a mask concealing something sinister.

Despite the growing sense of unease, Charlie wasn't one to panic easily.

He wasn't the same naive, aimless person he used to be. After days of intense training and missions, his physical condition had improved dramatically. He had gained fighting skills, honed reflexes, and even superhuman abilities. He could hold his own against threats that would send most people running in fear.

With the strength of a super soldier and the combat prowess of a seasoned warrior, Charlie knew he could take down ordinary infected people without breaking a sweat. Self-defense was the least of his worries.

"I'm Sorry, sir, but your coffee is ready," "the server said, her voice sweet yet unsettling.

"Hold on to it for a moment. I need to make a quick phone call," Charlie replied calmly, keeping his voice steady. I'll be back soon."

Charlie preferred to avoid a confrontation if possible. He figured he could slip away quietly and return later, better equipped to deal with whatever was happening here.

But as he spoke, he noticed something disturbing. All the other customers in the shop had risen from their seats simultaneously as if they were marionettes controlled by an unseen hand.

They stared at him with vacant eyes, their expressions blank yet somehow filled with an unspoken menace. It was as if their very souls had been drained, leaving behind nothing but hollow shells.

A chill ran down Charlie's spine. He had seen scenes like this in movies and shows, but experiencing it in real life was a different story altogether. It was surreal, like stepping into a nightmare.

Thanks to his countless battles, Charlie quickly shifted into combat mode. He assessed the situation, mapping out potential escape routes in his head.

With the strength and skills he had acquired, Charlie was confident he could take down everyone in the room if it came to that. But considering the possibility of surveillance cameras and witnesses, he preferred a more discreet approach.

If he moved quickly, he could incapacitate two or three targets and break through the window to escape. With any luck, he could avoid a full-blown confrontation with the infected and deal with any repercussions from the Service Division later.

But then, something unexpected happened.

The lights went out, plunging the shop into darkness.

Charlie's breath caught in his throat. He wasn't used to being the one caught off guard. Usually, he was the one who turned out the lights on others, not the other way around.

The lights flickered back on for a brief moment, just long enough for Charlie to glimpse a figure standing by the door.

It was a woman, or at least it appeared to be. She had pale skin, but her face was mostly obscured by long, dark hair that hung in delicate strands, giving her an eerie, ghostly appearance. She wore a red coat, the fabric dark and heavy as if soaked in blood.

Charlie noticed that all the infected around him had turned to face the door, their empty eyes now focused on the newcomer.

The lights flickered again, and when they came back on, the woman was gone.

Charlie's heart raced. In that brief moment of darkness, something had changed. The woman had moved—no, she had vanished from the doorway.

And then, in the next instant, she was right before him.

No one saw how she had moved so quickly. It was as if she had teleported, crossing the distance between them in the blink of an eye. One moment, she had been by the door; the next, she was standing inches away from Charlie.

He instinctively took two steps back, his fists clenching in readiness, but something felt off. This wasn't following the usual horror movie script.

In ghost movies, when a female ghost suddenly appears right in front of the protagonist, typically, they would reveal a terrifying face to make the hero scream in terror. But this ghost—this woman—was different. She had her back to him.

Yes, she stood with her back to Charlie, facing the waiter who had blocked his path.

The lights flickered off again. There was a sickening thud, like the sound of a blunt object smashing into flesh.

When the lights came back on, the waiter was flying through the air, crashing into a dining table with enough force to shatter it. The woman in red still stood in front of Charlie as if she hadn't moved at all.

As strange as it may sound, Charlie suddenly felt a bizarre sense of security. Despite her grotesque, eerie appearance, the sight of the woman's blood-red back brought him an inexplicable feeling of protection.

The other infected people began to move as well.

Their expressions remained mechanical, almost robotic, but they all started closing in on Charlie, their movements eerily synchronized.

The woman in red finally made a visible movement, but not like a normal person would. She seemed to glide rather than walk, her movements smooth and graceful, as if she were floating above the ground. Her clothes rippled gently with each motion, giving the impression that she was weightless. Despite the elegance of her movements, every strike she delivered sent infected people flying as if they were mere ragdolls.

At first glance, her actions did not resemble combat—they looked more like a dance, a bloody ballet. Her long black hair swirled around her, partially obscuring her pale, ghastly face. The way she moved was both mesmerizing and terrifying.

But what struck Charlie the most was the realization that she seemed to be...protecting him.

It sounded absurd, even to himself, but there was no denying it. She moved in a calculated pattern, keeping herself between Charlie and the infected. Her every move was designed to shield him from harm.

This only deepened the mystery.

What did this mean? Why was she defending him?

Could it be that this strange, blood-soaked woman was somehow on his side? It seemed impossible, but the evidence was right before his eyes.

The fight didn't last long. Within moments, all the infected in the shop had been neutralized, their bodies strewn across the floor. The woman, now drenched in blood, cast a final glance at Charlie before retreating.

Charlie then noticed another figure standing in the doorway.

A small, delicate girl with a cute, innocent appearance watched him intently, her head tilted in curiosity.

Chapter Text

"Sorry, ma'am, but there's been an incident here. The area is still being secured, and we can't allow anyone past this point..."

"My son is inside!" Megan pushed past the two Secret Service agents attempting to block her way. "Move aside—I have to..."

"Mom, it's fine. I'm right here."

Charlie emerged from behind the cordon, his phone in hand, displaying his credentials from the Secret Service Division. The agents, recognizing the authorization, immediately stood down, saluting before stepping back.

Megan rushed to her son, wrapping him in a tight embrace. "Are you hurt? Are you okay? I never should have called you out. I'm so sorry..."

"It's okay, Mom. Really, I'm fine. See?" Charlie reassured her, gently patting her back. "I'm completely unscathed. It was just a minor incident—nothing to worry about..."

To Charlie, it genuinely felt like a small matter. But he knew that from his mother's perspective, it was far from routine. Even though the infection event seemed low-risk, such occurrences weren't something most people encountered in their daily lives. Even now, with the public more aware of infection sources, 99% of people only hear about these incidents on the news. Rarely do they intersect with ordinary lives.

For instance, Charlie had already experienced a minor infection incident at his university, and now it had happened again, just weeks later.

The odds of encountering two infection incidents in a row were astronomical. It was like having an unimaginable streak of bad luck, the kind that could easily leave someone feeling cursed. Charlie's situation felt akin to repeatedly stumbling upon the rarest and most dangerous events imaginable, like encountering the world's only few high-level anomalies by mere chance.

As he comforted his mother, Charlie became aware of someone watching him. He followed the sensation and soon met the gaze of a young girl standing a short distance away.

It was the same girl he had seen earlier at the coffee shop.

She was dressed in a charming white dress, her large, light blue eyes locked onto Charlie's with unwavering focus. When their eyes met, she smiled at him.

At that moment, Charlie began to piece together what had just happened.

The girl's name was Fana; she was a colleague, a fellow agent at the Service Division.

But unlike Charlie, who was more of a paid observer with minimal field experience, Fana was a fully-fledged field agent despite her youth. She possessed a unique ability that set her apart from most agents, possibly making her one of the most valuable operatives within the Division.

Just days earlier, Fana had become the first agent in the Division to split and control her own "Phantom."

The concept of a Phantom was introduced by Professor Miyazaki some time ago. It suggested that when the infection rate in certain individuals exceeded 100%, part of their mental body could detach from their physical form and manifest as an independent entity.

Ivan's case showed that a Phantom might emerge from the darkest corners of a person's psyche. It could develop its own consciousness, act independently, and, in some cases, even pose a threat to its host.

But Fana's experience with her Phantom was different. Shortly after her Phantom manifested, she proved that it wasn't necessarily uncontrollable.

The woman in red that Charlie had seen in the shop was Fana's Phantom.

Unlike Ivan's Phantom, which seemed like a rogue element, Fana's Phantom was more like an extension of her will—a remote-controlled protector. It was a manifestation of condensed spiritual energy endowed with powers beyond ordinary human capabilities. The Phantom could act on her behalf, defending her and even using specific special abilities.

This discovery immediately catapulted Fana from relative obscurity within the organization to a position of significant importance.

Today, she had been out shopping alone when she detected the scent of the infected person and pursued it, coincidentally crossing paths with Charlie.

Plainclothes agents from the Ninth Division had been following her and observing her actions. Once the situation escalated, they quickly alerted headquarters, and within minutes, reinforcements arrived to secure the scene.

Now, it all made sense to Charlie. No wonder the response team had shown up so fast—Fana had been the first on the scene, and her presence had triggered an immediate response.

Charlie's view of the Service Division had taken a hit over the past few weeks. Initially, he had regarded the organization with a sense of awe, but that had faded as he witnessed its inefficiencies. It began to feel less like a powerful and well-oiled machine and more like a chaotic, mismanaged entity—akin to a football team that consistently lost despite having all the resources needed to win.

But seeing Fana and her Phantom in action had slightly restored Charlie's faith in the organization. For the first time in a while, it seemed like the agency had some real, tangible fighting power.

After the scene was secured, Charlie was told to head home and rest, leaving the investigation to the professionals. He was informed that his official position would be ready in the next few days, and he could then focus on his own assignments.

Charlie had no objections to this. After exchanging a few words with the person in charge, he led his mother back home.

He thought that was the right course of action.

It made sense to him—this was a job for seasoned investigators, not a rookie like himself with no real experience. What was the point of dragging a newbie into a situation that required expert analysis?

It would be absurd, akin to drafting an inexperienced gamer into the military just because they excelled at video games.

It was completely unreasonable.

Megan went to bed early that night, as she always did. She had maintained the healthy habit of going to bed around nine for years.

Once his mother was asleep, Charlie finally had some time to himself.

He quickly closed the door to his room, put on his headphones, and powered up his computer. After navigating through a series of loading screens, the familiar figure of Batman, his designated character, appeared on the monitor.

Although the incident earlier wasn't something a rookie like him should get involved in, it was definitely within Batman's wheelhouse.

Usually, Charlie would remote control his hero to patrol and solve problems, but with an infected person having shown up so close to home, he felt a personal obligation to get to the bottom of it. Whether motivated by a sense of superhero duty or simply by the gamer's obsession with leveling up, he couldn't just let it go.

He needed to figure out the source of the infection and ensure that nothing similar would happen near his home again.

Charlie himself wasn't a detective, but that didn't matter—Batman was. The game provided a simplified detective mode, guiding the player through the investigative process. While it couldn't replicate the real-world expertise of the world's greatest detective, it was still a useful tool.

At the moment, the professional investigators from the Service Division were still combing through the coffee shop, making it difficult for Charlie to sneak Batman in for a closer look. But that wasn't a problem. The investigation's progress was being uploaded in real-time to the Division's app, which meant Charlie could monitor it remotely.

The last time he used Batman to investigate Ivan's case, he left a backdoor in their system. This allowed Charlie to access the investigation files without raising any alarms.

In a way, it was like having an all-access pass to a highly secure facility. 

Chapter Text

There's a saying: "Once you do something, you become familiar with it, and the more you do it, the more comfortable you become." The first time you try something, it may be challenging, but it gets much smoother the second time. This principle holds true for hacking as well.
With the backdoor left from the previous attempt, infiltrating the system of the madhouse was significantly easier this time. There was no need for the remote control master to physically access the human server again. The barriers that once stood tall were now mere hurdles, easily bypassed.
Using the portable computer on his glove, equipped with screen projection, Charlie quickly dove into the digital labyrinth that was the madhouse's system. The shadows of encrypted data and layers of security peeled away like an onion, revealing the core of the information he sought.
The investigators in charge of the current incident were still deep in their work, piecing together the puzzle. However, they had already made a preliminary determination: the incident was vector-based, with the infection spreading through the strange tentacles and nauseating liquid that Charlie had witnessed in the coffee shop.
Unlike airborne pathogens, this type of infection required direct consumption of the infected medium. The working theory was that the tentacle-like snacks or the cup of sinister liquid provided at the shop were the culprits.
Charlie was puzzled. He had seen strange things in his time, but the idea that anyone would willingly consume those twitching tentacles or that foul-smelling liquid seemed absurd. Could anyone really be tricked into swallowing something so grotesque?
But then, he recalled the number of infected people he had seen in the shop that night. This realization led him to question the increasingly bizarre tastes and preferences that had developed in this twisted version of reality. The line between what was acceptable and what was repulsive seemed to have blurred.
As he continued digging, Charlie found a supplementary note in the investigation files. It explained that, while the true appearance of the tentacles and viscous liquid might drive most people to madness, in the eyes of those under the influence, these items could appear as the most tempting of delicacies.
It was like an illusion—a cruel trick of the mind. People thought they were consuming something desirable, only to realize too late that they had ingested something horrifying. It was as if the very nature of perception had been twisted, like in old tales where a seemingly perfect path led straight into a trap.
The source of the infection remained elusive. It was confirmed that the infected were mostly the clerks and customers from the shop, but the origin of the contamination was still under investigation.
A new piece of information caught Charlie's eye: the owner of the coffee shop had disappeared several days ago.
The FBI had received a missing person report and sent an agent to investigate, but there had been no progress. What could have been a routine case of disappearance had now taken on new, sinister significance in light of the infection incident at the shop.
The investigators from the Ninth Division naturally included this disappearance in their inquiry. After finishing their work at the coffee shop, their next destination was the owner's residence.
Charlie decided he would get there first.
Batman sprang into action. In the dead of night, a flurry of black wings flew across the city, making their way to the quiet, locked blocks where the owner's home was located.
The owner lived in a modest house, around 60 square meters in size. A quick scan using detective mode revealed the structure of the entire building. It confirmed what Charlie had suspected—there was no one inside.
Ordinary tumbler locks were no match for Batman's skills. He easily picked the lock, and the door creaked open. Charlie stepped inside, his boots sinking slightly into the soft carpet as he entered the dimly lit home.
According to the reports, the owner, Ferb, and his wife lived here. They had been seen entering the house one evening, but after that, they simply vanished. The next day, neither of them showed up for work, and their absence had led to the initial missing person report.
What could have happened that night? The house seemed ordinary, but the air was thick with unease. It was as if something terrible had occurred here, something that left no visible trace but still lingered in the atmosphere.
Due to the time that had passed, this case was different from Charlie's last investigation, where he had followed Ivan within a day. Many clues might have faded or been covered up by newer ones. The longer the interval, the fewer traces there were to find, and the harder it became to piece together the truth.
But Batman's keen eyes found something. The detective mode highlighted suspicious areas, marking them with glowing indicators. It was as if the house itself was guiding him, revealing its secrets to the master detective.
The first clue that drew his attention was in the kitchen sink.
The edge of the drain was marked by the detective mode with faint, almost imperceptible orange-red traces. They were scattered around the drain, reminiscent of drops of spilled orange juice. But Charlie knew better than to dismiss them as something so innocuous.
He entered detective mode, scanning the area. The Batcomputer quickly analyzed the residue, comparing it to known samples.
The results were chilling. The traces had a chemical composition similar to the tentacles and viscous liquid found in the coffee shop. It seemed likely that something similar had been in this sink, or perhaps a liquid of the same origin had been poured down the drain.
This was evidence enough to suggest that the infection had reached this home. Given that the reaction occurred in the kitchen, it was plausible that someone had unknowingly used the infected medium while preparing food.
It was highly probable that both Ferb and his wife had become infected.
But this discovery didn't answer the most pressing questions: why had they disappeared, and where had they gone?
Charlie stepped out of the first-person perspective, his mind racing as he continued to explore the house in detective mode.
The house was eerily silent, as if it were holding its breath, waiting for something. The cold night air seeped through the cracks in the windows, making them creak and groan, adding to the oppressive atmosphere.
Batman opened a cupboard, and another object was highlighted in the detective mode—a small cup with cartoon patterns, clearly designed for a child.
At first glance, it seemed like a harmless piece of kitchenware, but it gnawed at Charlie's mind. He knew something was off.
The reports had clearly stated that only Ferb and his wife lived here. They had no children. So why was there a child's cup in the house?
The detective mode had flagged the cup because it stood out in an otherwise mundane scene.
While it was possible for adults to use children's cups, when taken in conjunction with other clues, the implications became more troubling.
Batman continued searching the house and found more evidence. There were three toothbrushes by the sink—two for adults and one small toothbrush clearly meant for a child.
He opened a cabinet and found three bowls—one large, one medium-sized, and a small one, the latter with cartoon characters printed on the rim.
It was as if the house was whispering to him, telling him that a child had lived there.
But who was this child? And why was there no record of them?
Charlie re-entered scanning mode, allowing Batman to extract DNA samples from the bowls, cups, toothbrushes, and combs. The Batcomputer could then cross-reference this data with the Service Division's database. If there was a match, they could identify the child and possibly unravel the mystery.
But just as Charlie was about to begin the scan, his instincts flared—danger was near.
The screen snapped out of the first-person perspective as a sudden noise, like a blunt object smashing through a wall, echoed through the house. The sound was followed by a blur of movement, and before Charlie could react, a massive figure burst through the wall.
The creature was enormous, its hulking frame moving with unnatural speed. Its eyes glowed with a malevolent light, and a dangerous, bright red exclamation mark appeared above its head—a clear indication of hostility in the detective mode.
The beast lunged at Batman, claws outstretched, its growl reverberating through the small house. The walls shook as the creature charged, its sheer size and strength overwhelming.

Chapter Text

The red warning signal on the screen flashed with an urgent intensity, a clear indication that no defense could prevent the incoming attack—only swift evasion could save Batman from the imminent danger. But the enemy had arrived with terrifying suddenness. One moment, Charlie was deeply engrossed in activating detective mode to scan the room for clues; the next, a hulking figure had burst through the wall, catching him entirely off guard. The milliseconds it took to process the situation were all it took for the assailant to close the distance.

Batman was struck squarely in the chest by the massive figure. The impact was like being hit by a freight train, sending him hurtling backward with tremendous force. He crashed through the wooden door, splintering it into pieces, and tumbled into the living room, his armored body skidding across the floor before coming to a halt.

The figure that had attacked him loomed in the shattered doorway. He was a monstrous sight to behold, his once-human form grotesquely transformed by some unnatural force. He wore only a strained white vest that barely contained his swollen, muscular body; the fabric stretched to its limits by the bulging mass of his torso. His facial features were horrifically distorted—his eyes, bloodshot and bulging, seemed ready to pop out of their sockets. His breathing was heavy and labored, his chest heaving with each rasping breath, sounding like the snarl of a cornered beast.

This grotesque visage made it nearly impossible to recognize any trace of the man's original identity. However, the advanced scanning system in Batman's helmet quickly initiated a facial recognition analysis. Despite the nightmarish alterations, the system swiftly identified the attacker.

"Ferb?" Charlie whispered in disbelief as the name appeared in the corner of his HUD.

It was almost inconceivable. Ferb, the mild-mannered owner of the coffee shop who had recently gone missing, was now standing before him as a monstrous parody of his former self. The infection—whatever it was—had twisted him into something far beyond human.

"You think you can take her from me? Never!" Ferb snarled, his voice slurred and thick as though speaking through a mouthful of gravel. "Not while I'm here!"

Charlie's mind raced, trying to make sense of Ferb's words, but there was no time to ponder. Ferb let out a wild, guttural scream, and with terrifying speed, he charged at Batman once more.

Batman reacted instantly, side-stepping just in time to avoid Ferb's wild swing. The force of Ferb's charge was so great that it sent him barreling into the wall, which cracked under the impact. Batman countered with two precise strikes to Ferb's vital points, each blow delivered with the expertise of a master martial artist. Any ordinary man would have been incapacitated, nerves paralyzed by the strikes. But Ferb was far from ordinary now—he barely flinched, his eyes burning with feral rage.

Ferb was not just strong—he was fast. His movements were swift and unpredictable, and the warning indicators in Batman's HUD flashed rapidly as the infected man launched another flurry of attacks.

Batman dropped low, sliding between Ferb's legs to evade a crushing blow, and as he came up behind him, he flicked his wrist, sending a bat dart flying. The dart embedded itself in Ferb's palm, but instead of falling back, Ferb merely looked at it with an almost mocking expression—until the dart detonated in a burst of electricity. Sparks flew as Ferb's massive body convulsed, the smell of burning flesh filling the air as black smoke curled from his skin.

Batman rose to his feet, prepared to deploy his next gadget, when a sudden, dull thud reverberated through the room.

Charlie's gaming headset, equipped with advanced surround sound, allowed him to hear every noise as though he were right there in the suit. He could tell from the sound's direction and intensity that it had come from behind him.

But it was almost too late.

The back wall of the house exploded inward as another figure crashed through, sending debris flying in all directions. A shrill, piercing cry filled the air as the new attacker—a woman with wild, tangled black hair and long, claw-like nails—lunged at Batman with deadly intent.

There was no time for evasion. Charlie's reflexes kicked in, and he quickly pressed the right button to initiate a defensive maneuver. Batman raised his arm just in time to block one of the woman's slashing claws, but the other raked across his chest, leaving a deep gouge in the outer layer of his suit. The scratch exposed the reinforced fabric and armor beneath, a testament to the sheer force behind her attack.

Batman reacted swiftly, delivering a powerful backhand to the woman's face, which sent her reeling backward. As she staggered, the facial recognition software identified her—it was Chloé, Ferb's wife—the missing woman.

Even as he registered her identity, Charlie saw another red warning flash across his screen—Ferb was charging at him again, and Chloé had already recovered and was lunging at him once more.

The infection that had transformed the couple was far from ordinary. It had made them something more than human, endowing them with both tremendous strength and a terrifying level of instability.

The intensity of the infection had granted them superhuman abilities, but it had also pushed them to the brink of physical collapse. Their attacks were relentless, their speed almost unnatural. To an expert fighter like Batman, their techniques were riddled with flaws—openings that he could have exploited easily in any normal circumstance. Yet their sheer speed and the resilience of their mutated bodies made them formidable foes. Every strike that should have incapacitated them only seemed to drive them into a deeper frenzy.

Batman was forced to use every ounce of his skill, his movements a blur of precision and agility as he deflected and countered their attacks. His dark silhouette moved like a shadow through the chaos, his cape swirling around him as he dodged and evaded with inhuman grace.

Ordinarily, Batman avoided direct confrontation. His greatest strength lay in preparation—observing from the shadows, formulating a strategy, and striking with calculated precision. He would select the perfect tools for the job, employ the most effective tactics, and systematically dismantle his enemies.

But there was another option—one that was simpler, more direct, and brutally efficient.

Without hesitation, Batman spun on his heel, smashing a nearby window with a swift kick, and leaped out onto the lawn outside. The infected couple, driven by their frenzied state, immediately followed, crashing through the shattered glass and charging after him with blind rage.

As soon as they reached the lawn, Batman crouched low, planting his fist into the ground with a powerful strike. A smoke bomb exploded from his gauntlet with a loud bang, enveloping the area in a thick, impenetrable fog. The dark cloud swallowed the surroundings, obscuring everything in a dense veil.

The couple charged through the smoke, their eyes wild as they searched for their prey. But the lawn was empty—at least, it appeared to be.

Ferb's instinct kicked in, and he suddenly looked upward. His eyes widened in horror as he saw the figure standing high above them on the roof—

—A knight clad in pure white, standing tall and unyielding, his pristine cloak billowing in the night wind. The bright full moon illuminated him from behind, casting his silhouette in stark contrast against the inky sky.

It was Moon Knight, the form of Mark Spector.

The knight's white cloak unfurled like the wings of a crescent moon. With a swift, graceful motion, Moon Knight glided down from the roof, his legs together as he delivered a powerful kick to Ferb's chest. The impact was devastating—Ferb's massive body was lifted off the ground and sent flying backward, crashing into the earth like a fallen titan.

Chloé screamed—a high-pitched, animalistic shriek that cut through the night. She sprang forward, her clawed hands slashing through the air. Moon Knight moved with effortless precision, catching her wrist in midair, his grip like iron. With a fluid motion, he twisted her arm and drove a knee into her abdomen. The force of the blow sent her hurtling backward, her body collapsing into the flower beds that lined the lawn.

"No... You can't... You won't break us apart... No one... No one!" Ferb cried out, his voice a mix of desperation and rage as he struggled to his feet.

He stumbled forward, mumbling incoherently as he swung a powerful fist at Moon Knight. But Moon Knight was more than a match for him. He caught Ferb's fist with one hand, his grip unyielding. From the palm of Moon Knight's hand, a shockwave of energy exploded, sending ripples through the air. The sheer force of it caused his white cloak to billow like a banner in a storm, but Moon Knight himself remained unmoved, as solid and unyielding as a mountain.

With a swift motion, Moon Knight deflected Ferb's next attack and struck him in the abdomen with a backhand punch. Ferb's body convulsed as he was lifted off his feet, a geyser of blood erupting from his mouth.

"No... You can't take her... No one can... My family... Our..." Ferb gasped, his words becoming weaker with each breath.

"Who is this 'she' you're talking about, Ferb?" Moon Knight demanded, his voice cold and commanding as he stepped closer. "Is she your child? What happened?"

"Our child... Yes... No one can take her... Our child..." Ferb's voice was fading, his strength draining as the infection ravaged his body from the inside out. He tried to push himself up one last time, his hands trembling with the effort, but the toll was too great. His body finally gave out, collapsing to the ground with a heavy thud. The life that had been twisted and corrupted by the infection ebbed away, leaving behind only a broken shell of the man he once was.

Chloé, too, lay motionless in the flower bed, her wild eyes staring blankly into the night sky. The twisted, manic energy that had driven her was gone, leaving her body lifeless and still.

Charlie, controlling Moon Knight, exhaled slowly, the tension in his muscles releasing as the immediate threat dissipated. The couple had been formidable in their infected state, but they were no match for the relentless precision and power of Moon Knight. With the danger neutralized, he knew he had to return to the task at hand.

Switching back to Batman's form after the cooldown period, Charlie began to methodically extract DNA samples from the house. The scene was one of eerie silence now, broken only by the occasional creak of the house settling or the distant sounds of the city. The aftermath of the fight left the house in disarray—broken furniture, shattered glass, and the faint scent of smoke and blood lingering in the air.

Batman moved through the house with purposeful efficiency, collecting samples from the children's cups, toothbrushes, and combs he had identified earlier. Each sample was carefully stored and prepared for analysis. As he worked, the bat computer within his suit began processing the data, comparing the DNA against the extensive databases of the Ninth Division.

The minutes ticked by as Batman finished his work, his mind focused on unraveling the mystery of the child the couple had mentioned in their final moments. Who was she? And how did she connect to the horrific transformation that had overtaken the couple?

As Batman finished uploading the samples and began to analyze the data, the results started to come in. But before he could delve into the findings, a sudden, sharp ping echoed through his HUD, drawing his attention to the map display.

A large, pulsating exclamation mark had appeared on the map, marking a location not far from Batman's current position. Unlike the usual task markers, this one was bright red, oversized, and pulsing with an ominous rhythm. It was a clear sign of something urgent—something that demanded immediate attention.

Chapter Text

It was the first time Charlie had ever encountered such a mark on the map. The symbol was not only larger than usual, but its ominous bright red color was impossible to ignore. It radiated a sense of foreboding, as if screaming to the players that this event was no ordinary occurrence. The color of death was a stark contrast to the typical symbols he was used to, making this one stand out like a beacon in the dark.

From his extensive gaming experience, Charlie knew that in most games, the more conspicuous something was, the more critical it tended to be. It was usually a sign of the main plot or an essential event. However, considering the alien nature of the game he found himself in now, Charlie couldn't quite convince himself that this was the case. The game he was playing didn't follow traditional rules; it was more unpredictable, more dangerous.

His recent experiences had taught him a valuable lesson: the appearance of exclamation marks on the map might not be system-generated. Instead, they seemed to be tied to the hero character he was currently controlling—Batman. The marks appeared not because the game recognized something important, but because the character he was guiding sensed something of significance.

Perhaps Batman had spotted something while gliding through the air, or maybe he had picked up a signal over the radio. It could even be a gut feeling, an instinct that something was off. Whatever the reason, it was clear that when Batman perceived a potential threat or clue, a mark would appear on the map, urging Charlie to investigate.

Given the uniqueness of this mark, Charlie knew he couldn't ignore it. The prospect of uncovering something new and potentially dangerous was too intriguing to pass up. He quickly uploaded the DNA information for comparison, allowing the system to analyze any possible matches. Then, with a swift command, he manipulated Batman to raise his claw gun. The device shot out, anchoring itself to the edge of a nearby building. Batman's cloak spread wide like the wings of a bat, and with a silent leap, he disappeared into the shadows, merging seamlessly with the night.

The marked location wasn't far, and it didn't take long for Batman to reach it. The rooftops provided ample cover as he glided silently through the city, his form rising and falling with the natural rhythm of the urban landscape. The city below was a patchwork of light and shadow, with the occasional flicker of neon signs and the steady hum of distant traffic filling the air.

When Batman finally arrived, Charlie activated detective mode, scanning the area for any signs of life. The scan confirmed what he had suspected—it was a blind spot for surveillance, an area hidden from the prying eyes of cameras. He manipulated Batman to descend into the shadow on the top floor of a nearby building, blending into the darkness like a ghost. From this vantage point, he could observe the situation below without being detected.

The building in question was old, its once-vibrant paint now a faded memory, peeling away in large, unsightly patches. It was clear that the structure had seen better days; time had taken its toll on the once-proud edifice. The walls were cracked, and the windows were either boarded up or shattered, creating an eerie, abandoned atmosphere. The only sign of life was the collection of cars parked haphazardly near the entrance. A group of soldiers in black combat uniforms surrounded the building, their weapons gleaming under the dim streetlights. They were heavily armed, their faces hidden behind tactical masks, and their movements were precise, disciplined.

Switching to Batman's first-person detective mode, Charlie zoomed in on the scene, letting the camera focus on the details. He scanned the faces of the soldiers, analyzing their gear and posture. That's when he noticed something familiar—Melanie was among them. Her face, partially obscured by her helmet, bore an unmistakable determination.

Is there a party hosted by Special Service Lunatic Asylum? Charlie mused.

The thought crossed his mind, but the situation seemed too serious for it to be a simple gathering. He quickly realized that figuring out what was going on wouldn't be too difficult. After all, now he—or rather, Batman—had a special service pass. As long as the information was stored in the Riverton branch's database, he could access it.

Charlie activated the computer mounted on Batman's wrist, the interface lighting up with a soft blue glow. He entered the necessary queries, his fingers moving quickly across the holographic keys. Within seconds, the system provided the information he sought.

It turned out that the asylum (A.K.A., Service Division) had organized an event today. Based on reports from "ordinary people," they had identified an infected individual within the area. What made this case particularly concerning was the high level of infection detected. The infection wasn't just a mild case; it was severe, potentially deadly. Tonight was the scheduled capture operation to neutralize the threat.

[TL Note - Are you guys alright with calling the Division, mental asylum, or names of a similar nature... it's more of a joke on Charlie's behalf]

The realization hit Charlie like a cold wave. This wasn't just a routine operation; it was something far more dangerous. The Special Service team was dealing with an infected individual whose condition was advanced, making the situation far more volatile. The thought of encountering such a powerful infected sent a shiver down his spine.

This served as a stark reminder that despite the chaos and inefficiency that sometimes plagued the Service Division, they were still doing their job. They were out there, confronting dangers that most people couldn't even comprehend. While Charlie had often been the one to swoop in, claiming experience points and leaving the cleanup to the professionals, he couldn't deny the crucial role they played in maintaining some semblance of order.

The capture plan they had in place was not a simple one. They weren't just sending agents in to search room by room, as that would be both inefficient and extremely dangerous. The infection level inside the building was akin to something out of a horror film—a place where evil lurked in every shadow, and danger was never far away. Entering such a location directly would be a death sentence for most.

Instead, they used a different approach. A large amount of tear gas was released into the building, its noxious fumes forcing the infected out into the open. The plan worked almost immediately. A woman with wild, disheveled hair burst through a window, her eyes blazing with a primal fury. She charged into the open space with a speed and aggression that took the soldiers by surprise. But they were ready for her.

As soon as she appeared, powerful concussion bombs were deployed, exploding with a deafening roar. The woman's hearing and vision were instantly compromised, her senses overwhelmed by the sudden assault. She stumbled, her feet unsteady as she tried to regain her balance, but the ground seemed to shift beneath her, and she fell hard onto the cold, unforgiving pavement.

Despite the force of the concussion bombs, Charlie knew these weapons had limited effects on the infected. Their resilience was remarkable, and it wouldn't be long before she recovered. But the mobile team wasn't about to give her that chance.

The moment she stopped moving, a hail of bullets rained down on her. The sound was deafening, like the roar of an unstoppable force. The bullets tore through her flesh, each impact sending shockwaves through her body. Blood sprayed in all directions, painting the ground in a grotesque pattern. The sheer power of the onslaught forced her to the ground, where she continued to twitch, her body convulsing under the relentless assault. Bullet casings fell like metallic rain, clattering to the ground with a rhythmic, almost eerie sound.

The infected were known for their extraordinary physical strength and resilience, but even they had limits. This woman was no exception. Her body, now twisted and broken, was a grotesque parody of its former self. Her bones were shattered, her limbs mangled beyond recognition. Her legs, once strong and agile, were now twisted like grotesque pretzels. She was barely recognizable as a human being.

Yet, despite the horrific damage, she continued to crawl. Her movements were slow and agonizing, but there was a tenacity in her that was both terrifying and pitiable. She clawed at the ground, dragging her ruined body forward with an iron will that refused to surrender.

"No, you can't… no one can take her, I won't allow…"

The words were barely audible, a raspy whisper that seemed to come from deep within her shattered body. Others might not have noticed, but from his high perch, Charlie heard it clearly. The sentence struck him with a sense of déjà vu. It was the same reaction that Ferb had exhibited earlier, the same desperate resolve.

But the infected woman's strength was waning. With one last, pitiful effort, she collapsed, her body finally giving out. She lay there, motionless, a tragic figure in a pool of her own blood.

The threat had been neutralized, and the situation seemed under control. The Service Division agents began their cleanup operation, moving in to contain the scene and assess the degree of infection. Unlike the earlier encounter at the coffee shop, where the infected individual's condition had been less severe, this woman was beyond saving. Her fate had been sealed the moment she stepped out of that building.

To Charlie, it seemed like a perfect ending. The danger had been dealt with, the infected neutralized, and the area secured. But something still felt off. Why had such a prominent red mark appeared on the map for what turned out to be a relatively straightforward capture operation?

Was it because it was rare for the Secret Service Lunatic Asylum to mobilize so many agents? The thought nagged at him, but before he could delve deeper into it, something else caught his attention.

...

Nixon, a member of the mobile team, stood at attention, his body tense and alert. The target had been captured, but Nixon knew better than to relax. In the Service Division, letting your guard down was a mistake that could easily cost you your life. Their enemies often defied logic and reason, and even in the aftermath of a battle, the unexpected could strike at any moment.

The team's surroundings were still thick with tension. The air was heavy with the lingering scent of tear gas and the metallic tang of blood. The ground was littered with spent bullet casings, and the once-intact building now bore the scars of the intense firefight. Dust and debris filled the air, creating a hazy atmosphere that made it hard to see clearly.

As Nixon scanned the area, his gaze inadvertently fell upon Melanie, the operation leader. She was standing with her back to him, directing the cleanup with her usual composed demeanor. But something was off. Greg's eyes widened in horror as he noticed a pair of decaying hands, almost skeletal, emerging from the darkness behind her. The hands seemed to materialize out of nowhere, as if conjured by the shadows themselves.

A moment later, a head followed—a grotesque, rotting visage that barely resembled anything human. The skin was peeling away, revealing patches of bone underneath, and the eyes, or what was left of them, glowed with a sickly green light. The head rested on Melanie's shoulder, tilting slightly as if whispering into her ear. The decaying mouth moved, but no sound came out, only a ghastly mimicry of speech.

Nixon's heart pounded in his chest, a cold sweat breaking out across his forehead. He reacted instinctively, raising his gun and pointing it directly at the horrifying apparition. But just as he was about to shout a warning, the figure vanished. It didn't disappear gradually or slip back into the shadows—it was just gone, as if it had never been there.

Melanie turned around at the sound of Greg's gun being raised, her expression a mixture of confusion and concern. The other agents also noticed and immediately tensed up, their weapons at the ready.

"Greg, what are you doing?" Melanie's voice was icy, cutting through the tension like a knife.

Greg hesitated, lowering his gun but unable to find the words to explain what he had just seen. His mind raced, trying to make sense of it. Had it been a hallucination? A trick of the light? But it had felt so real, so tangible.

"I... I thought I saw..." His voice trailed off as he realized how ridiculous it would sound. There was nothing behind Melanie now, just empty space.

Melanie's frown deepened, and she seemed to be weighing his response. In the Service Division, even the strongest agents could be infected under the right circumstances, and hallucinations were one of the more common early symptoms.

"Are you feeling alright?" she asked, her tone more measured now. "You didn't get exposed to anything, did you?"

Greg opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, their communication devices crackled to life with urgent voices.

"Team leader! We've got an infected!"

The sudden shout through the earpieces sent a shockwave through the team. Melanie immediately turned towards the source of the alarm. Emerging from the shadows at the edge of their perimeter was another infected, this one almost on top of the agents before anyone had realized it. The creature was terrifyingly close, its twisted form lunging at the nearest agent, its jaws snapping with a hunger that seemed insatiable.

The team's formation broke apart in an instant. Some agents fired their weapons at the infected while others were forced into close-quarters combat, knives drawn as they fought off the feral onslaught. The infected's eyes burned with a frenzied light, its movements fast and erratic, making it difficult to land a killing blow.

Melanie's mind raced. They had thoroughly scouted the area before beginning the operation; every resident had been evacuated, and no one was supposed to be around except for their primary target. Where had these additional infected come from? How had they avoided detection?

But there was no time for questions now. "Third group, use C formation!" she barked, her voice cutting through the chaos. "Everyone else, provide support!"

Even as the orders left her mouth, another distress call crackled through the comms.

"Infected! Group Five requests immediate support!"

Melanie turned to see another group of infected appearing from yet another direction, this time taking down an agent who was struggling to keep his attacker at bay. The infected pinned him to the ground, snarling as it tried to tear into him. The scene was one of sheer madness, and the agents were now fighting on multiple fronts, the ambush throwing their carefully laid plans into disarray.

Ambushed! There was no doubt about it now. Somehow, their movements had been anticipated, their actions countered. But by whom? And why had they allowed the operation to proceed until now?

As the battle raged on, Melanie made a quick decision. Stabilizing the situation was her top priority. "All units—"

Before she could finish, the ground beneath them began to tremble violently. The sudden quake caught everyone off guard, and the agents struggled to maintain their footing. Buildings around them groaned under the strain, cracks spiderwebbing across their surfaces as they threatened to collapse.

The tremors intensified, and the ground started to split open. Huge cracks snaked across the landscape, widening rapidly as sections of the street began to sink into the earth. Smoke and dust filled the air, obscuring vision and choking the agents as they tried to regain control of the situation.

From within the widening cracks, something massive and otherworldly began to emerge. Thick, pulsating tentacles, each as wide as a tree trunk, slithered out of the earth, wrapping themselves around the surrounding buildings with crushing force. The ground buckled as these monstrous appendages reinserted themselves into the earth, anchoring whatever lay beneath.

The agents watched in horror as a gigantic, nightmarish entity slowly forced its way out of the ground.

Chapter Text

In an instant, a wave of terror washed over everyone present. The air seemed to grow heavier, pressing down on their chests and making it difficult to breathe. The source of this fear loomed before them—a massive, grotesque figure that defied the very laws of nature. Its body was a twisted amalgamation of flesh and scales, pulsating with a sickly glow that seemed to ooze malevolence. Thick, sinewy tentacles protruded from what could loosely be called its face, writhing and twisting as if with a mind of their own. The scales covering its body weren't ordinary; they were made of some unknown substance, shimmering with an eerie, otherworldly light that made them appear almost alive.

Every movement of the creature sent tremors through the ground, each step a thunderous quake that rattled the very bones of those who faced it. Its presence was overwhelming, a force of nature that seemed to bend reality around it. The sheer size of the monstrosity, coupled with its nightmarish appearance, made it nearly impossible to comprehend, let alone confront.

Panic rippled through the ranks of the agents. Melanie, ever the composed leader, could feel the weight of the situation pressing down on her. Her voice, usually steady and authoritative, was tinged with urgency as she barked orders into her headset, requesting immediate support from headquarters. But the only response she received was a desperate rustling, the telltale sign of interference—or worse, complete silence from the other end.

Around them, the world began to warp and twist in ways that defied explanation. The surrounding buildings, once solid and reliable, seemed to separate from reality, their structures splitting along invisible lines that carved through the sky itself. The sky above appeared to tear apart, dividing into two distinct halves by a line that seemed to shimmer with a translucent quality. The two halves of the sky reflected each other like a pair of twisted mirrors, with everything within those reflections moving at an unnaturally rapid pace, creating a chaotic, kaleidoscopic effect that disoriented those who looked too closely.

The ground beneath their feet was not spared from this bizarre phenomenon. Tiles and stones began to lift off the surface, floating upward as if gravity had suddenly lost its hold. The floating debris aligned themselves in a strange pattern, forming what looked like a suspended escalator leading up into the sky. The scene was surreal, as if the very fabric of the world was unraveling before their eyes.

From the far end of this makeshift escalator, a figure emerged—a stark contrast to the chaos around him. He was dressed in a perfectly tailored black tuxedo, complete with a bow tie, exuding an air of elegance that seemed almost mocking in the face of the devastation. A mask with a hypnotic swirl pattern covered his face, obscuring his features and adding to his unsettling presence. In his hand, he held a thick black cane, which he tapped lightly against the floating bricks as he walked. It was as if he were taking a leisurely stroll through a park, not traversing a battlefield where reality itself was breaking apart.

The masked man moved with an eerie grace, stepping lightly on the suspended bricks as though he were floating on air. He seemed unaffected by the bullets that suddenly rained down on him from all sides, fired by the panicked agents who had instinctively turned their weapons on him. Their training kicked in, but this time, it wasn't just protocol guiding their actions—it was pure, primal fear.

Later, when questioned about the incident, the agents would all say the same thing: they didn't know why they had fired. It wasn't a conscious decision; it was as if their bodies had acted on their own, driven by an overwhelming need to eliminate the threat before them. It was as if every instinct they had screamed that this man, more than anything else they had ever faced, was a danger that had to be stopped.

The sound of gunfire echoed across the battlefield, but the masked man continued his calm, unhurried walk. The bullets, which should have torn through flesh and bone, never reached their mark. Instead, they stopped mid-air, just two or three meters away from him. It was as if time itself had frozen in place, suspending the bullets in a bizarre tableau of violence halted mid-action.

For a moment, the bullets hovered there, suspended in the air like a deadly cloud. Then, without warning, they vanished, dissolving into nothingness as if they had never existed. The masked man didn't even glance at the projectiles—his attention remained focused on his destination as he descended from the sky, his cane tapping lightly against the floating bricks.

"Ninth Special Service Division," he said, his voice smooth and tinged with amusement. "I've wanted to meet you for a long time…"

Before he could say more, Melanie acted. With a swift, practiced motion, she hurled a small device at the masked man's feet. The object rolled smoothly across the floating bricks, coming to rest directly in front of him.

A sound and light grenade.

This particular device was designed for maximum disruption. Upon detonation, it would unleash a deafening blast loud enough to rupture eardrums, accompanied by a blinding flash capable of temporarily blinding anyone caught in its radius. It was a tool of last resort, meant to incapacitate even the most dangerous foes.

But as the grenade detonated, something impossible happened. The masked man simply snapped his fingers, and the explosion vanished. The sound, the light, the very force of the blast—all of it disappeared as if erased from existence. The grenade itself was gone, leaving behind no trace of its detonation.

Then, in the blink of an eye, the grenade reappeared—this time, within the ranks of the agents on the other side of the battlefield. The explosion, now unleashed among the unsuspecting agents, was devastating. The bright flash and thunderous roar blinded and disoriented them, leaving several of them incapacitated in an instant.

Melanie's heart skipped a beat. What kind of power was this? How could someone simply redirect an explosion like that, as if it were a harmless trick?

As she struggled to comprehend the situation, the giant tentacled creature above them moved with terrifying speed. Its thick, powerful appendages crashed down onto the ground, each impact sending shockwaves through the earth that cracked and shattered the surface. The force was so great that it seemed to warp the very landscape, twisting and bending the buildings around it.

The infected creatures surged forward, their grotesque forms a nightmarish tide that threatened to engulf the agents. Some agents were firing frantically at the infected, trying to hold them back, while others were locked in desperate close-quarters combat, fighting to free themselves from the creatures that had latched onto them. All the while, the giant shadow above loomed ominously, its presence an ever-present threat.

The world was falling apart around them.

"Personally, I hate violence," the masked man said, his tone calm and almost conversational, as if he were discussing something mundane. "But this is humanity's choice, isn't it? To use force against everything they don't understand. People reject the unknown, and that is why the great gods have deemed humanity unworthy…"

He trailed off, his gaze shifting as something caught his attention. His eyes, visible through the mask, narrowed in curiosity. Slowly, he turned around to face a new arrival.

The moon hung high in the sky, casting its pale light over the chaotic scene below. The moonlight, usually soft and serene, seemed to take on a sharp, almost divine quality as it bathed the figure that now descended from above. Cloaked in white, the figure moved with an otherworldly grace, as if he were a part of the very moonlight that illuminated him. His cape billowed out behind him like a pair of wings, and when he landed, the impact was marked by a dull, echoing thud that resonated through the ground.

Moon Knight.

The masked man's lips curled into a smirk. "I was wondering when you lunatics in fancy clothes were going to show up."

Moon Knight said nothing in response. His silence was more menacing than any threat could have been. With a sudden burst of speed, he kicked off the ground, his cape spreading wide as he became a blur of white. In an instant, he was upon the masked man, closing the distance with deadly precision.

The masked man, still calm, didn't move. He watched as Moon Knight approached, his expression unreadable behind the swirling mask. Above them, one of the giant tentacles reared back and then slammed down, aiming to crush Moon Knight with overwhelming force. The impact was so powerful that the ground beneath them sank, sending debris flying in all directions.

But when the dust cleared, the masked man's smirk faded.

Moon Knight had not only survived the blow, but he had used it to his advantage. In the blink of an eye, he had closed the distance and was now directly in front of the masked man, his fist already swinging toward his target.

The masked man barely had time to raise his cane in defense. Moon Knight's punch connected with the cane, and the force of the impact sent shockwaves through the air. The masked man staggered back, his cloak billowing out as he struggled to maintain his footing. The ground beneath them cracked, unable to withstand the force of their clash.

For the first time, the masked man's eyes showed something other than amusement. There was a flicker of surprise, even fear, as he realized that Moon Knight's speed and strength were far beyond what he had anticipated. The tentacle's attack, which should have pulverized any normal human, had been nothing more than an inconvenience to him.

The masked man flipped in mid-air, landing lightly on his feet. His cane, still in hand, was slammed into the ground, sending a wave of energy rippling through the earth. At the same time, he stretched out his left hand, fingers splayed wide.

A crack appeared in the ground, spreading rapidly as it raced toward Moon Knight. The earth on either side of the crack began to rise, forming two towering walls that closed in on him with a deafening crash. The force behind the move was immense—enough to crush steel, let alone flesh and bone.

But it was futile.

With a resounding bang, Moon Knight burst through the closing walls, emerging unscathed from what should have been a fatal trap. He was relentless, like a silver bullet that had been fired and would not stop until it hit its mark.

"Impossible," the masked man muttered, his voice tinged with disbelief. His calm demeanor was gone, replaced by a growing sense of dread.

The white-clad figure before him was no ordinary opponent. There was something about him—something unstoppable, like a force of nature that couldn't be reasoned with or deterred.

The masked man's mind raced as he tried to comprehend what was happening. His earlier confidence was crumbling in the face of this relentless adversary. He could feel the cold grip of fear tightening around his heart.

"I don't know who you are," the masked man sneered, trying to regain his composure, "but no one can stand before the supreme Lytos…"

Before he could finish, Moon Knight closed the distance again, moving with blinding speed. The masked man raised his cane to block the strike, but Moon Knight's fist was already there, slamming into the cane with such force that the ground beneath them trembled.

The impact sent the masked man flying backward, but he managed to twist in mid-air, landing on his feet with practiced agility. He gritted his teeth, realizing that his usual tricks weren't going to work against this opponent.

With a surge of desperation, he channeled all of his energy into his cane. The ground in front of him suddenly dropped away, swallowed by a void of darkness. The very earth seemed to disappear, leaving behind nothing but a gaping chasm that stretched into infinity.

It was as if the masked man had erased the space between him and Moon Knight, leaving only an endless abyss that no one could cross.

But even that was not enough.

Moon Knight, undeterred by the disappearance of the ground beneath him, continued to advance. He walked across the void as if it were solid ground, his steps steady and unwavering. The sight was surreal, almost impossible, like something out of a cartoon where the laws of physics simply didn't apply.

But here, it wasn't funny. It was terrifying.

The masked man watched in horror as Moon Knight crossed the void, his white cloak billowing out behind him like the wings of an angel—or perhaps a reaper. Nothing could stop him, not even the erasure of space itself.

In a last-ditch effort, the masked man swung his cane at Moon Knight, aiming for a decisive blow. But Moon Knight caught the cane with one hand, effortlessly stopping the attack. With his other hand, he blocked a punch from the masked man, the force of their clash sending shockwaves through the air.

For a brief moment, they were locked in a stalemate, the masked man's eyes cold and calculating. But beneath that cold exterior, there was a flicker of fear—a realization that he was up against something far beyond his understanding.

"You… can you see the 'reality'?" the masked man asked, his voice trembling slightly as he stared into the eyes of his relentless foe.

Chapter Text

A few minutes ago...

Charlie was overwhelmed with a mix of confusion and awe when he first laid eyes on the giant creature that emerged from the chaotic distortions in the sky. The creature was nothing short of a nightmare, a hulking behemoth with writhing tentacles and a grotesque, twisted form that seemed to defy the very laws of nature. It was as if a being from another dimension had been forcibly dragged into their reality, its mere presence warping the world around it.

Although the red exclamation mark on the map had alerted him to something significant, Charlie never anticipated that it would lead to such an earth-shattering revelation. This was beyond anything he had encountered before—an encounter so explosive that it felt like the very fabric of reality was on the verge of unraveling.

But the appearance of the masked man threw him even more off balance. The way the man manipulated space, bending it to his will as if it were nothing more than clay in his hands, was terrifying. Each wave of the masked man's hand caused the world around him to ripple and shift, like a stone dropped into a still pond, sending shockwaves through the environment that distorted reality itself. Charlie couldn't help but feel a sense of dread—taking this man down would be no simple task.

After weighing his options, Charlie decided to switch his character to Moon Knight. If he was going to help the madhouse team, he'd need the kind of power and resilience that only Moon Knight could provide. Worst-case scenario, he could always retreat and try again later. The cooldown time was a small price to pay for survival.

As he prepared to dive into the fray, searching for the perfect angle to enter the battlefield, Charlie's thoughts were interrupted by an unexpected voice in his earphones. The voice was calm, almost philosophical, yet it carried a weight that made Charlie's pulse quicken.

"People are always like this. They trust their own eyes, are easily fooled, and can be easily deceived."

Startled, Charlie spun Moon Knight around, his heart pounding in his chest. There, standing behind him, was a figure that seemed almost out of place—a being with the head of a vulture. The creature's appearance was skeletal, its long, sharp beak giving it a menacing look. The body, however, was humanoid, clad in a flowing gray-white robe. In one of its taloned hands, it held a halberd-like weapon, its sharp tip curving like a crescent moon.

This was Kongsu, the ancient Egyptian moon god who had granted Moon Knight his powers.

Charlie recognized him instantly, but that recognition only deepened his surprise. It wasn't every day that you encountered the actual deity behind your character's abilities in a game. Was this some kind of special bonus feature? A "buy one, get one free" deal where Moon Knight came packaged with Kongsu himself?

Everyone familiar with Moon Knight's story knew the lore: Mark was a mercenary who had found himself at death's door in an ancient Egyptian temple. There, he had met Kongsu, who had offered him a second chance at life—but at a price. Kongsu's words had been clear: "Mark Spector, open your eyes. I am Kongsu. I see potential in you, and you are worthy to become my avatar, serving justice in the world. I cannot act on Earth alone, so together we must fight evil…"

Perhaps Mark had felt a surge of hope when he heard those words, thinking he was about to gain powers akin to an Ultraman-like hero. He eagerly accepted the offer, thinking he was stepping into a role of a lifetime. But instead of joining some benevolent cosmic force, Mark found himself shackled to a private entity with dubious motives, embarking on a grueling life of servitude under the whims of a god with a twisted sense of justice.

In both the comics and the MCU, Kongsu's goal had always been clear: to destroy evil and protect those who traveled by night. But Kongsu was no saint. He was a manipulative entity, willing to do whatever it took to achieve his ends, even if it meant exploiting those who served him. Charlie couldn't shake the feeling that this vulture-headed deity was up to something more than he let on, a puppet master who preferred to stay in the shadows.

"What's the meaning of this?"

It was Moon Knight, now visible on Charlie's screen, who voiced the question. The digital rendering of the character conveyed the tension that Charlie felt in his own chest.

"See with your heart, Mark Spector, not with your eyes," Kongsu replied, his voice resonating with an ancient, almost otherworldly wisdom. He punctuated his words by striking his crescent-shaped wand against the ground, the impact creating a small shockwave. "These are mere illusions, nothing more than fancy tricks."

"Can you help me or not?" Moon Knight's voice was filled with determination, but there was an edge of frustration—he needed clarity in the face of such overwhelming odds.

Kongsu let out a disdainful snort, the sound echoing as if it came from the depths of a vast cavern. "I am the Moon God. Dispelling this inferior illusion is child's play for me."

With that, Kongsu raised his crescent-shaped wand high above his head. Transparent waves of energy radiated from the tip of the crescent, spreading out like ripples in a pond, but with a force that seemed to shake the very heavens. The energy shot into the sky, its brilliance piercing through the twisted, distorted reality that had engulfed the battlefield.

As the energy cascaded over the scene, the changes were immediate and profound. The split sky, once fragmented like a broken mirror, seamlessly knitted itself back together. The colossal tentacled creature, which had loomed like a nightmarish entity from another realm, simply vanished, as though it had never existed. The sunken buildings that had appeared ready to collapse snapped back into place, standing tall and intact as if nothing had ever happened. And the agents below, who had been locked in mortal combat with invisible foes, were suddenly revealed to be fighting shadows, swinging at the empty air or turning on each other in their confusion.

It had all been an illusion—a grand, elaborate trick designed to warp the perceptions of those trapped within it.

The lore surrounding these Egyptian gods, such as Kongsu, was complex and steeped in mystery. In the mortal world, they were akin to ghosts, intangible and unable to physically interact with anything or anyone. Their powers were vast, but they were also limited in direct influence, especially when it came to harming mortals. This restriction meant that Kongsu needed a proxy, someone like Moon Knight, to act on his behalf and carry out his will. Without Mark, Kongsu would be powerless, unable to enact his divine retribution or protect the travelers of the night.

But despite his manipulative nature, Kongsu had proven himself reliable in battle. When his goals aligned with Mark's, the Moon God could be a formidable ally, and in moments like this, when the stakes were highest, Charlie found himself grateful for the deity's intervention.

With Kongsu's assistance, Charlie steered Moon Knight back into the fray, moving with renewed purpose. The illusion had been shattered, and now it was time to face the true threat head-on. As Moon Knight leaped into action, the world around him returned to its original state, the battlefield clear of the monstrous distractions that had plagued it moments before.

But even with the illusion dispelled, the masked man remained a formidable opponent. His ability wasn't purely visual deception; it was something far more insidious—he had the power to create dreams and manipulate those trapped within them.

He had crafted a waking nightmare, pulling all those within range into a dreamscape where he reigned supreme. In this twisted realm, the lines between dream and reality blurred, making it nearly impossible for the dreamers to tell which was which. Everything within this dream world was under his control, and the dreamers were mere puppets, their senses manipulated at his whim.

However, it was still just a dream.

While the masked man couldn't physically harm the dreamers with his creations, he could distort their perceptions, bending their reality to his will. What they saw, heard, and touched in the dream world was indistinguishable from reality, making them easy prey for his manipulations.

In this dream world, the masked man was supposed to be invincible. He could create any reality he desired, trapping his enemies in a web of illusions from which there seemed to be no escape.

But for Moon Knight, backed by Kongsu, the dream world held no power.

As soon as the illusions fell away, Moon Knight moved with deadly precision. In close combat, he was a force of nature, his every move calculated and devastating. The masked man, despite his best efforts, found himself on the receiving end of a relentless assault. Moon Knight's fists connected with brutal efficiency, each blow landing with the force of a sledgehammer, driving the air from the masked man's lungs and leaving his bones feeling like they had been shattered into pieces.

The masked man quickly realized that this wasn't just any opponent. This was no mere special being, no infected individual with enhanced abilities. No matter how powerful the infection, it still left its host bound to the limitations of a mortal body. Even if they gained strange new powers, their physical strength couldn't possibly reach the levels that Moon Knight was displaying.

No, this was something else entirely.

"Are you a 'Phantom'?" the masked man asked, his voice low and filled with suspicion as he locked eyes with Moon Knight. There was a note of fear in his voice now, a crack in the facade of calm he had maintained.

But Moon Knight offered no answer. His silence was as menacing as any threat could have been. The next moment, a powerful kick from Moon Knight's leg sent a shockwave through the masked man's body, the impact so severe that he felt his spine shift, as if it had been knocked out of alignment by the sheer force.

The masked man's mind raced, trying to make sense of what was happening. It was clear now that his opponent hadn't fallen into the dream world he controlled. The space distortions, the rewritten realities within the dream—none of it seemed to affect Moon Knight. It was as if the knight could see right through the fabrications, cutting through the illusions to perceive the true reality beneath.

But the masked man wasn't one to panic easily. Despite the agony coursing through his body, he forced himself to think clearly. He could feel no physical pain, and neither the displacement of his organs nor the dislocation of his bones hindered his thoughts.

So, the dream effects didn't work on this guy? Fine. But the masked man knew his dream world didn't need to directly affect his enemy to be effective.

With a single thought, the masked man shifted his focus to the agents scattered around the battlefield. Instantly, several of them turned their weapons on Moon Knight. The sound of gunfire erupted once more as muzzle flashes lit up the darkened scene, and a barrage of bullets tore through the air, heading straight for the white-clad figure.

The agents were still trapped in the dream world, their senses twisted and manipulated by the masked man's influence. From their perspective, they were still engaged in a desperate fight against the infested and the giant creature that had appeared earlier.

But in reality, the agents had turned their weapons on Moon Knight, believing they were targeting the monstrous threats they had been fighting moments before.

From the agents' perspective, the space around them had begun to warp again, like a mirror folding in on itself. The bullets they fired seemed to fall into cracks that connected different dimensions, only to emerge from those cracks in a different space, all aimed directly at Moon Knight.

But Moon Knight stood his ground, his white cloak billowing out like the wings of an avenging angel. The bullets, which should have torn through him, instead seemed to disappear into his cloak. It was as if the fabric absorbed the kinetic energy of the bullets, causing them to ripple across its surface like stones skipped across a pond.

Then, with a casual flick of his wrist, Moon Knight reversed the direction of the bullets. The dense rain of metal suddenly shifted course, sweeping back toward the masked man like a deadly tidal wave. Countless bullets tore through the air, each one homing in on the masked man with unerring accuracy. In an instant, they ripped through his body, and he crumpled to the ground, his form shredded by the relentless assault.

The scene from a third-person perspective was even more astonishing. The agents, still caught in the dream world, saw the masked man unleash his power, causing the bullets to shift towards Moon Knight. But when Moon Knight retaliated, the bullets changed direction again, this time tearing through the masked man as if enacting some grand cosmic retribution.

The agents, dazed and confused, began to question what they were witnessing. Had they somehow stumbled into a battle between gods? Was this even real?

What was happening here?

Chapter Text

The mobile team was shaken to its core. They had come to the stark realization that they were way out of their depth. What had started as a strange but manageable mission to contain an infected outbreak had spiraled into something far more surreal. It was as if the world had suddenly shifted genres—from a tense, ghost-hunting action sequence to a full-blown, fantastical battle between gods. They were just mortals, caught in the crossfire of a clash between two titanic forces, and all they could do was cower and hope to survive.

The atmosphere was thick with tension and disbelief. The sky above them had been torn asunder by the battle, and the ground trembled with every powerful blow exchanged between the combatants. On one side was Moon Knight, his white cloak billowing like the wings of an avenging angel. On the other was the masked man, a figure of menace who seemed to command the very fabric of reality itself. The earth shook, and the air buzzed with energy as the two clashed, each strike more devastating than the last.

But finally, the seemingly endless battle reached its conclusion. Moon Knight's next punch connected squarely with the masked man's face, and the impact was nothing short of catastrophic. The white mask, which had previously hidden the man's identity, crumbled under the force of the blow. It shattered into a thousand pieces, the fragments scattering like confetti in the wind. The masked man's head snapped back violently, and he staggered before collapsing onto his back, blood spurting from his mouth.

For a brief moment, time seemed to slow down. The sound of his cheekbones shattering echoed in his ears like distant thunder, a deep, resonant noise that drowned out everything else. His cane, which had been his tool of power, was knocked from his grasp and clattered away across the ground. The man's body, once poised and confident, now fell heavily, the elegance of his tuxedo starkly contrasting with the violence of his fall.

As his body hit the ground, the world around them began to change. The reality they had been fighting in, the world that had seemed so solid and terrifying, began to dissolve like a mirage. The enormous tentacled monster that had towered over them, its many limbs writhing with malevolent intent, flickered and then vanished into thin air. The landscape, which had been torn apart by the battle, began to revert to its original state. The sunken buildings that had appeared on the verge of collapse now stood tall and unscathed, as if nothing had ever happened.

The infected creatures, which had seemed so real and so dangerous just moments before, also disappeared. The agents, who had been firing their weapons at what they thought were real enemies, suddenly found themselves shooting at nothing but empty space. Confusion swept through the ranks as they began to realize the extent of the deception. Some agents looked around in bewilderment, finding that they had been wrestling with shadows or grappling with their own teammates, mistaking them for enemies in the chaos.

Melanie, who had been caught in the thick of it, frantically scanned the battlefield. The infected figure she had been facing just moments before had vanished. Her heart pounded in her chest as she turned toward where the masked man had fallen, expecting to see him there.

But what she saw left her breathless with shock.

There was no masked man. The figure that Moon Knight had been beating mercilessly was not the ominous figure in the white mask, but the very infected woman they had initially set out to capture.

The woman's body was riddled with bullet holes, her flesh torn and bloodied. Her head was shattered, with half of her brain grotesquely exposed, yet somehow, she was still alive. A low, pained moan escaped her lips as she muttered, "No... my child, no one can take my child..."

The horrifying realization dawned on them.

There had never been a masked man at all, no reinforcements of infected, and certainly no giant tentacled creature. They had all been deceived by an ability user who had never even shown themselves. This unseen assailant had dragged them into a massive, elaborate dream, a carefully constructed nightmare where reality and illusion blended seamlessly. The infected hordes, the monstrous entities, the space-warping distortions—all of it had been a fabrication of the dream maker.

The masked man? He was nothing more than the infected woman, transformed within the dream to become the embodiment of their fears. Her movements had been controlled by the dream master, turning her into a puppet for their twisted game.

From the very beginning, when the mobile team had smoked the infected out of the building and opened fire, they had already been ensnared in the dream. Every action they had taken, every enemy they had fought, had been nothing more than an illusion, a figment of the dream maker's imagination. The infected woman had never been subdued; she had never even been truly present.

On Charlie's end, after the moon god Kongsu had enhanced his abilities, he had maneuvered Moon Knight to approach the masked man. As he got closer, the illusions began to fall away, revealing the truth. On Charlie's screen, the masked man dissolved, and the image of the infected woman took his place.

Elsewhere...

A man's previously tense body relaxed.

He sat in an elegantly furnished room, his posture refined, dressed in an immaculate tuxedo. A swirling mask obscured his features, and an oddly shaped cane leaned against the armrest of his chair. Behind the mask, his eyes narrowed in thought.

"It doesn't look like it went well," he mused, his tone calm but laced with irritation.

A sultry female voice broke the silence from behind him.

A woman approached, her every step radiating confidence and allure. She was a vision of temptation, her sparse clothing revealing more than it concealed. Her curves were barely covered by the fabric, leaving large swathes of pale skin exposed. The long slit in her skirt reached up to her hips, and the way she moved suggested that she might be wearing nothing underneath.

Every movement she made was a deliberate display of seduction, her hips swaying, her lips curling into a knowing smile. A faint, intoxicating fragrance trailed behind her as she moved closer to the man in the mask.

There's an old saying that "some things may look pure on the outside but be wild on the inside," but there are also those who say, "Even if there's a black hole there, it's a place I'd explore in my lifetime." Men aren't unreasonable, but when the head below takes control, the one above can only follow.

However, the man in the mask seemed entirely unaffected by her presence. He didn't even flinch as she approached, his mind still preoccupied with the events that had just transpired.

"Dreams have no effect on him," he muttered under his breath, more to himself than to her. "But that's impossible."

"Oh? There are still people who can resist the 'Dream Walker'?"

The woman's voice was playful, tinged with curiosity. She draped a snow-white arm over the man's shoulder, her body pressing against his as she leaned in close.

"Who could be so special?"

The masked man calmly shrugged off her touch, his voice cold and detached. "A white knight. We've never met before, but he is powerful... and not only that. He can see through illusions and perceive reality even within the dreamscape."

"Oh? So powerful?"

The woman's laughter was light, almost musical. She didn't seem the least bit deterred by the man's aloofness. Instead, she leaned in closer, her body brushing against his as she casually displayed her assets.

"Then... do you want me to handle him?"

She asked with a confident smile, her tone seductive.

"No matter how strong he is, he's still a man. And as long as he's a man, he has weaknesses. You just need to know how to exploit them..."

"No." The masked man interrupted, his voice sharp, giving her a sidelong glance. "Put away your tricks. Not everyone is susceptible to your games. He's a strong fighter, perhaps a disciplined one... but it doesn't matter. He was unexpected, but he's not insurmountable. He won't be so lucky next time..."

"Then why not go in and deal with him now?" the woman teased, toying with his bow tie.

The masked man hesitated, his thoughts momentarily disrupted. He stared at her through the mask, his gaze cold and calculating.

The woman giggled, "You're not sure, are you? Because you're not as confident as you claim. Oh, don't tell me you have other plans for him—like the dead villains love to say in movies, it's not that complicated.

The truth is simple. The white knight... he scares you, doesn't he?

Because you've met someone you can't control, someone who isn't affected by your dreams, someone you can't read or manipulate, someone you don't understand..."

As she spoke, she moved closer, until she was almost whispering in his ear.

Her hand slid from his shoulder to his chest as she spoke softly.

"Don't worry, I know how it feels. That long-forgotten sensation when something exceeds your expectations, when something makes you question your own power..."

The masked man suddenly grabbed her wrist, stopping her from moving further.

"Everyone has fears, deep down, their worst nightmares. And unfortunately for them, digging those up is what I do best," the masked man said in a low, menacing voice.

"Just wait. The white knight—whoever he is—I'll find his fears and torment him with the darkest nightmares.

Until he's exhausted, desperate, trapped in a nightmare of endless cycles, his spirit broken...

...then I'll mercifully grant him death."

Chapter Text

Crash.

One moment, Charlie was blissfully wrapped in the warm cocoon of his bed, savoring the last remnants of a dream. The next, he was jolted awake by the harsh rays of sunlight piercing through the curtains and landing directly on his face. He squinted against the sudden brightness, his groggy eyes slowly adjusting to the new day. As his vision cleared, he saw his mother standing by the window, her figure framed by the drawn curtains. She stood there like an avenging angel, the light streaming around her, giving her an almost ethereal glow. But the look on her face was far from heavenly. She was looking at her son, who was still curled up in bed like a caterpillar in a cocoon, with a mix of affection and exasperation.

"Still not up by ten? You think it's still morning?"

Charlie wanted to defend himself, to say that for a hardcore gamer, late mornings were a given, but he couldn't muster the energy. Instead, he groggily reached for his phone on the bedside table. His fingers fumbled with the screen as he tried to unlock it. Finally, he managed to check the time, his expression shifting from sleepy confusion to mild indignation.

"It's not even nine yet!"

But his mother didn't argue. She didn't need to. With the calm authority of someone who had already won the battle, she turned and walked out of the room, leaving Charlie to stare after her in disbelief. He lay in bed for a few more minutes, trying to cling to the remnants of his interrupted sleep. Eventually, though, he gave up and, with a heavy sigh, swung his legs over the side of the bed and forced himself to stand, yawning as he stretched.

Last night's mission had been intense, and the rewards were more than satisfying. But what irked him was that the enemy, the one who had manipulated dreams and created chaos, had managed to escape. Charlie's instincts told him that defeating that foe would have earned him a treasure trove of experience points. It was frustrating to think that the opportunity had slipped through his fingers, leaving him with unfinished business.

He could only wait for the next chance to confront the elusive enemy.

Maybe it was because he'd called upon the moon god Kongsu for help, but operating as Moon Knight had drained him more than usual. The battle had left him feeling exhausted, his energy sapped. By the time the fight was over, he had barely managed to log off the game before collapsing into bed. He had swallowed a quick supplement, hoping it would help restore his energy, and then drifted into a deep, dream-filled sleep.

Now that he was awake, Charlie felt somewhat rejuvenated. The rest had done him good, and as he got dressed and headed to the bathroom to freshen up, he felt a bit more like himself. When he returned to his room, he noticed his mother was tidying up, smoothing the sheets, and fluffing the pillows as she made the bed.

At first, Charlie didn't think much of it. But then, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the unused box of supplements on the bedside table. A jolt of panic shot through him, and he almost blurted out, "Mom, it's not what you think!" But he quickly bit his tongue, holding back the impulse.

Luckily, this time, his mother didn't ask any awkward questions like she had when she once saw his figurine collection and wondered aloud why some of them weren't fully dressed. Instead, she kept quiet, going about her task as if nothing was amiss.

But Charlie knew better. He was certain she had seen the box of supplements. It was too late to explain, and besides, how could he possibly explain? Telling her that he was playing a game that required supplements to maintain his energy sounded ridiculous, even to him.

He sighed inwardly, glancing at the box again. The supplements were effective, no doubt about that, but they always seemed to carry the wrong implication. It wasn't the first time he'd been misunderstood because of them.

If only he had the protection of the moon god Kongsu like Moon Knight did. In Egyptian mythology, Kongsu, the god of light and night, was said to protect travelers and enhance male vitality. Charlie figured that working for Kongsu must come with some hidden perks that Moon Knight surely enjoyed...

After grabbing a quick bite for breakfast, Charlie decided to take his mother out for lunch. He wanted to do something nice for her, especially after yesterday's events.

He had originally planned to take her to the business district across the way, where there were a couple of restaurants he had been wanting to try. But the incident at the milk tea shop the day before had left the entire area under quarantine. Even though the Secret Service had cleared the infection, the district was still locked down, and it didn't look like it would reopen for at least a week.

So, Charlie and his mother headed to the only other nearby business district. It was a bit further away, but it was their only option.

However, with the first business district closed, everyone in the area seemed to have flocked to the second one. As it was the weekend, the streets were teeming with people, all looking for a place to eat, shop, or simply pass the time.

Even on the drive there, it was clear that the area was busier than usual. The roads were jam-packed with cars, the traffic moving at a snail's pace. Charlie could hear the cacophony of honking horns even through the closed windows of the car. The frustration of the drivers was palpable, and it wasn't long before the sound of blaring horns gave way to the more colorful language of drivers who had lost their patience. The shouts and insults flying between car windows were almost enough to make Charlie smile, reminding him of a relative with a notorious case of road rage.

This relative was known for muttering curses like "Stupid Btch" and "Dumb Ass N***" while driving, and though these curses were potent, they came with a risk. If used on the wrong person, they could escalate into a full-blown argument where no one came out unscathed.

When they finally arrived at the mall, it was a sea of people. The crowds were dense, and even though it wasn't quite lunchtime yet, there were already long lines forming at the entrances of the most popular restaurants.

But Charlie had anticipated this. He had wisely reserved a spot online earlier, and by the time they arrived at the restaurant, there were only a couple of tables ahead of them. They took a seat in the waiting area just outside the restaurant, settling in for what would hopefully be a short wait.

The two hadn't talked much since they left the house, the silence between them comfortable but tinged with unspoken thoughts.

Yesterday's unexpected incident had prompted Charlie to tell his mother that he had taken up a part-time job with the Service Division. Although he played it down, explaining that it was more of an observer role where he just watched from the sidelines, the nature of the job was still dangerous. His mother, Megan, hadn't said much in response, but Charlie could sense her unease.

"There's something you don't know," she began, her voice soft but steady as she stared at the railing in the corridor for a few moments before continuing. "It was the year you first left us to come here for college.

Because… you had never left home before. You were always with us. So, it made me very uneasy, very anxious… Your dad laughed at me, said I was worrying too much. He said you were a man now, that you should've been independent long ago. He told me that at your age, he was already out on his own.

But I couldn't help it. I was still uneasy. Especially in those first few days… I would dream about you every night and wake up in the middle of the night, wondering if you were homesick, if you could adapt to living on your own, if you were handling everything okay...

I knew your dad was right, but I just couldn't rest easy. I couldn't sleep peacefully."

She paused, then turned to look at Charlie, her eyes soft with maternal concern.

"So, I bought a plane ticket and flew to Riverton."

Charlie was taken aback. "You? You came to Riverton? When I first started college?"

"Yes."

"But you… Dad… you didn't tell me…"

"Because I didn't want you to know how worried I was, and I didn't want you to think I was interfering too much in your life." Megan's voice was gentle, but there was an undercurrent of emotion. "I only stayed for one day. I got off the plane at six in the morning and found your address.

I watched you go out, saw you get breakfast, go to class… I watched from outside the classroom, saw you attend your lectures, have lunch… and then go back to your apartment at the end of the day.

You seemed fine—spirited, independent—something I hadn't really seen when you were with us.

I flew back that same night. Your dad picked me up at the airport after work and teased me, saying I'd never learn how to let go."

Charlie was at a loss for words. The image of his mother, quietly following him through the day, watching him from a distance, filled him with a mixture of gratitude and guilt.

"I never knew…"

"You've grown up; you've got your own life, your own plans. I know you're dealing with things…

...things we may not fully understand.

We won't try to persuade you to abandon your goals. But we want you to know that no matter where you are or what you face… your dad and I, we'll always be here for you."

Charlie's throat tightened, and he felt his eyes prick with unexpected tears. He wanted to say something, anything, but the words were lodged in his throat, refusing to come out.

"... I'll go check how many tables are still ahead of us," he finally managed to say, though it wasn't what he wanted to express.

He didn't know why those words had come out, but he needed a moment to compose himself. Taking a deep breath, he stood and started to walk toward the counter. But as he moved, he felt the weight of someone's gaze on him.

Charlie paused, instinctively turning his head in the direction of the gaze. Sitting in the waiting area, a few seats away, was a girl who seemed almost too perfect to be real. She was delicate, like a porcelain doll, her features refined and ethereal. She wore a white dress that made her look even more like a work of art. Her light blue eyes were large and unblinking, fixed intently on him as if she were trying to figure him out.

She didn't look away when their eyes met. Instead, she tilted her head slightly, as if curious about him, and continued to stare, her expression unreadable.

Chapter Text

Charlie quickly recognized the girl sitting in the waiting area. After all, they had just met yesterday under circumstances that were anything but ordinary. In fact, she had saved him from a potentially disastrous situation.

Her name was Fana, the only agent of the Ninth Special Service Division known to have complete control over her "Phantom," an ability that set her apart from everyone else in the organization.

As they locked eyes, Charlie felt a moment of hesitation. It wasn't often that someone as quiet and enigmatic as Fana would catch his attention, let alone respond to it. But he couldn't just ignore her, especially after what had happened the day before. There was a brief, almost awkward pause as they looked at each other, and Charlie found himself caught off guard by the intensity of her gaze. Her large, light blue eyes seemed to pierce right through him, as if she could see everything he was thinking.

For a second, Charlie considered how strange it was to be in this situation. Here they were, in a bustling restaurant, surrounded by the mundane chatter of people enjoying their weekend, yet across from him sat a girl who had faced horrors that most people couldn't even imagine. The surreal contrast of it all left him momentarily stunned.

But remembering that they were technically colleagues and that she had, in a way, just saved his life, he decided to break the silence. It would be rude not to acknowledge her, especially when she had gone out of her way to help him. He raised his hand in a small wave and offered a friendly greeting.

"Your colleague?" Megan, his mother, chimed in as soon as Charlie returned, her voice breaking through the moment. She had been watching the exchange with curiosity. Megan, too, had seen Fana the night before outside the coffee shop's blockade. The image of the quiet, doll-like girl had stuck with her.

"That's right," Charlie replied, nodding.

Megan's interest seemed to grow. She offered Fana a warm smile, the kind that mothers reserve for their children's friends, and greeted her with genuine warmth. Fana, who had been sitting quietly, tilted her head slightly as if considering the gesture. After a brief pause, she returned the wave with a small, delicate hand.

Noticing the empty seats around Fana, Megan gave Charlie a gentle nudge with her elbow, signaling him to follow her lead. Without waiting for his response, she stood up from where they were sitting and made her way over to Fana's table.

Charlie hesitated for a moment, but quickly followed his mother's lead, realizing that it would be awkward to stay seated across the room while she engaged Fana in conversation. He picked up their belongings and joined his mother as she approached the table where Fana was seated.

"Mind if we join you?" Megan asked, her voice warm and inviting.

Fana looked up at them, her large, light blue eyes blinking in mild surprise. After a brief moment, she nodded, indicating that she didn't mind the company. Megan smiled and took the seat directly across from Fana, while Charlie slid into the chair beside her, placing himself diagonally across from the girl.

"Thank you," Megan said as she settled into her seat. She glanced around the bustling restaurant before commenting, "This place is so charming, isn't it? It's unusual to see so many people waiting this early in the morning."

Fana nodded slightly, her expression still unreadable, though there was a hint of curiosity in her eyes as she listened to Megan.

Megan turned to Fana with a casual question, "What number are you waiting for?"

Fana reached into her pocket with careful, deliberate movements, pulling out a small, folded piece of paper. She opened it and peered at the number before replying in a soft, almost ethereal voice, "A46."

"A46... Huh? What's our number?" Megan asked, turning to Charlie.

Charlie pulled out the crumpled note he had stuffed into his pocket earlier. He smoothed it out and glanced at the number. "A47," he answered.

Megan's face lit up with a smile. "What a coincidence! We're right after you. Looks like we'll be getting seated soon—only a couple of tables ahead."

As she spoke, Megan recalled that the seats they are currently occupying were previously empty. It struck her as odd that such a young girl would come to a place like this all by herself, especially on a weekend morning when most people would be out with friends or family.

"Did you come alone?" Megan asked, her tone laced with mild surprise.

Fana nodded slightly, her expression as unreadable as ever.

Charlie was surprised, too. It wasn't every day you saw someone come to a busy restaurant like this alone, especially someone as young and striking as Fana.

"Not with any friends?" Megan inquired, her curiosity piqued.

"Friend," Fana echoed, her voice carrying a soft echo of the word. She paused for a moment, then shook her head slowly. "No."

The way she said it left Charlie unsure of whether she meant she wasn't with friends today or if she didn't have any friends at all. The ambiguity hung in the air, making the silence that followed feel even heavier.

"Alone?" Megan repeated, her voice tinged with concern. "Well, why don't you join us? We can share a table—it'll be more fun than sitting by yourself."

Charlie almost wanted to suggest that Fana might prefer some time alone, considering how quiet and reserved she seemed. But before he could say anything, he noticed a faint glimmer in Fana's eyes at the invitation. She nodded slowly, as if she were still processing the offer but didn't want to refuse.

A few minutes later, the waiter led them to a table that had just been cleared, and the three of them sat down together.

As they settled in, Megan began to chat animatedly, taking the lead in the conversation. Charlie knew this side of his mother well; she had always been talkative, able to carry on a conversation with just about anyone. But today, she seemed particularly engaged, perhaps because she was curious about Charlie's work and the people he worked with. Or maybe, Charlie thought, she was just a little anxious about her son, who was over twenty and still hadn't shown much interest in finding a partner.

Fana, for her part, seemed content to let Megan lead the conversation. She responded to questions and comments with brief, polite answers, her voice gentle but her words few. Despite her reserved demeanor, she seemed to be paying close attention to everything being said, nodding occasionally as if to show she was listening.

Charlie found himself observing Fana closely. There was something about her that set her apart from anyone he had ever met. She was beautiful, undeniably so. In fact, he couldn't recall ever seeing anyone more striking in person. Her features were delicate, almost ethereal, with a youthful appearance that made her look like a character from a fantasy novel. But there was something else, something that made him uneasy.

It wasn't just her looks. There was an aura around her, something that hinted at a depth of experience and knowledge far beyond her years. It was the kind of aura that could only come from someone who had faced unimaginable things and come out the other side. And then there was her role as the first agent capable of controlling a Phantom—a fact that was both impressive and unsettling.

In a place like the Service Division, where the strange and the terrifying were commonplace, someone with Fana's abilities stood out even more. There was something about her that reminded Charlie of a "clinical subject," someone who had been through experimental treatments in a facility that didn't always play by the rules.

While Charlie was grateful for her help yesterday, he couldn't shake the feeling that there was something dangerous about her. The Phantom she controlled was a mystery in itself. Even though Miyazaki—the elusive figure who was somehow involved with the Service Division—had assured everyone that Fana's Phantom was stable and safe, Charlie wasn't entirely convinced. He couldn't help but think that someone like Fana, with powers as unpredictable as hers, could easily become a liability.

The image of the Phantom, as described in the Service Division files, was unsettling. It was said to be something born from the darkness or obsession within a person's heart, a physical manifestation of their spirit's deepest fears and desires. The fact that Fana's Phantom took the form of a red-dressed female ghost with disheveled hair made Charlie wonder what that said about Fana herself.

It wasn't just curiosity that made Charlie uneasy. There was a very real fear that getting too close to someone like Fana could lead to something disastrous. He couldn't help but think that maintaining a professional distance was the safest course of action. The last thing he wanted was to end up as another tragic story in the annals of the Service Division.

As he continued to observe her, Charlie noticed something else. Fana spoke very little, not because she couldn't, but because she seemed reluctant to engage in conversation. Her voice, when she did speak, was soft and pleasant, but she seemed to prefer silence. It was as if she was content to listen rather than contribute.

It reminded Charlie of trying to chat with someone who wasn't really interested in the conversation—someone who responded with monosyllabic answers, making you wonder if they were even paying attention. But with Fana, it was different. Despite her quiet demeanor, she was clearly listening, and there was a sense that she genuinely cared about what was being said. She just didn't seem inclined to share much of herself.

"So, do you live alone now? What do your parents do?" Megan asked, steering the conversation toward more personal topics.

Fana had been answering the previous questions quickly and simply, but this time, she paused. There was a brief silence as she seemed to gather her thoughts.

"Dad…" she began, her voice trailing off as she stared blankly out the restaurant window. After a moment, she shook her head slowly. "No."

Megan quickly realized she might have touched on a sensitive subject. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to…"

"I live with Mom," Fana said, her voice steady as she recovered from her brief hesitation. "I'm not alone."

Megan was momentarily taken aback but quickly smiled warmly. "Really? She must be a wonderful mom."

"Mm," Fana nodded, and for the first time, there was a faint gleam in her eyes, a small spark of emotion that softened her otherwise stoic expression.

"Very… remarkable."

Charlie, too, was surprised. It seemed like Fana was saying that she lived with her mother, not alone. But something about the way she said it didn't quite add up.

It sounded like she was from a single

-parent family. But then, another thought crossed Charlie's mind.

Yesterday, when he had been accessing the Service Division database as Batman, he had looked up Fana's information out of curiosity. He had only found basic file information, nothing particularly detailed. The mental evaluation section had mentioned that she was "currently stable but needs further observation," but nothing else had stood out.

But Charlie distinctly remembered one crucial detail.

The file had clearly stated that Fana's father had abandoned her before she was old enough to remember, and her mother had passed away when she was six years old.

Fana was an orphan.

[TL Note - I think she is like Gaara from Naruto, calling her phantom "Mother" lol]

Chapter Text

This strange encounter left Charlie feeling unsettled, but he decided it was best not to ask any questions. There was something about the entire situation with Fana that felt off, and pressing the issue might only make things more uncomfortable.

They left the resturant after their meal, but before they parted ways, Megan offered a polite and motherly suggestion. "You and Charlie live close to each other, and since you're colleagues, it might be nice to spend more time together. You could help each other out with work and maybe hang out on weekends, too."

These were just ordinary words of courtesy, something a parent might say when meeting their child's friend. However, Fana's reaction was anything but ordinary. Her face grew serious, her expression intense as she listened to Megan's suggestion, almost as if she were taking the words as a directive rather than a casual remark.

As they said their goodbyes and began to walk away, Charlie couldn't shake the feeling that Fana was still standing at the fork in the road, watching them. Even after they had merged into the crowd, turned a corner, and were well out of sight, Charlie couldn't help but feel that her gaze lingered, following him long after she was gone.

"She's a pretty girl, isn't she?" Megan said with a warm smile as they walked, her tone light as if trying to start a casual conversation.

"Umm, sure, I guess?" Charlie replied, his voice laced with a hint of skepticism.

He couldn't deny that Fana was strikingly beautiful. Her features were delicate, almost otherworldly, and she had an ethereal quality that made her stand out. But there was something else about her that was hard to pin down, something that made Charlie uneasy. Her temperament was odd, and she was so sparing with her words that it almost felt unnatural. Throughout their entire meal, she had spoken in clipped phrases and short sentences, barely stringing together a complete thought.

Megan, however, didn't seem to see anything wrong with Fana's behavior. She seemed to view Fana's quiet demeanor as a sign of being well-mannered and reserved, a mark of a well-behaved young woman. To her, Fana's lack of chatter was a positive trait, an indication of a thoughtful and considerate personality. But to Charlie, it felt different. He couldn't help but wonder if there was more to Fana's story, perhaps something darker lurking beneath the surface.

He mulled over the strange moment when Fana had mentioned living with her mother. Was it possible that she had lied? Maybe she was living alone, the only name on her household records, and had said otherwise to avoid pity or judgment. But then, there had been that sudden spark in her eyes when she talked about her mother. It didn't seem like the reaction of someone fabricating a story. If she was telling the truth, then the situation was even more troubling.

There were unsettling possibilities that crossed Charlie's mind. What if she wasn't living with her mother in the conventional sense? Perhaps it was something supernatural—was Fana living with the spirit of her deceased mother, communicating with a presence that only she could see? Or was it something psychological, where Fana's mother existed only in her mind, a figment of her imagination that she believed was real? Either scenario felt dangerous.

Despite these unsettling thoughts, Charlie knew he had to trust the system in place, at least for now. Fana had passed the psychological evaluations at the Service Division, not to mention that Miyazaki had seemingly vouched for her stability. Charlie could only hope that they knew what they were doing. For now, though, he decided it was wiser to keep his distance from Fana, to avoid entangling himself with someone who might be dealing with deep-seated issues.

To take his mind off the day's strange events, Charlie decided to spend the rest of the afternoon taking his mother on a leisurely walk through the shopping district. They wandered from store to store, enjoying the simple pleasure of browsing through various shops. As a small gesture, Charlie bought some new clothes for Megan. Despite the chaos and unpredictability of his job, one of the perks of working at the Secret Service was the decent salary. Even for someone like Charlie, who often found himself in the background, the pay was nothing to complain about.

It wasn't enough to buy a house or a luxury car, but it was more than enough to treat his mother to a nice meal and buy her some new outfits. Megan didn't say much, but her smile was radiant, and Charlie could see the joy in her eyes. There was a certain pride and happiness in receiving a gift from one's child, and Megan's expression said it all.

Afterward, they headed toward a dessert shop that Charlie had read about online. The place was reputed to have some of the best treats in the city. But when they arrived, they found a long queue stretching out the door. Disappointed, Charlie and Megan decided to skip it. The wait was just too long, and after a full day of shopping and walking, they didn't have the patience for another long line.

It seemed that everywhere they went, there were queues. Whether it was for food, drinks, or even something as simple as buying dessert, the lines were reminiscent of the ones you'd find outside the women's restroom at a busy tourist spot—waiting an hour or more was the norm.

By the time they had finished their day out, Charlie felt that his energy levels were back up to full. After returning to his apartment, he settled in front of his computer and logged back into his work system.

When he logged back in, he found that the DNA comparison results from the Ferb couple's home the previous night had finally come through. As he had suspected, there was a match.

It turned out to be a child.

The DNA matched that of Raya Hatta, a twelve-year-old girl. She had a record of burglary, which meant her DNA was already in the FBI's system.

Raya had no parents and no immediate family members, according to the records. She was listed as an orphan living in an orphanage on the south side of the city.

The file detailed her discovery in a field in the countryside, found by a couple who were driving by late at night. The couple had heard her crying, and despite the darkness and eeriness of the situation, they had bravely ventured out of their car with a flashlight and followed the sound until they found her.

Her life, however, had not been an easy one. The burglary record from a year ago was just one of several offenses. Raya had been a problematic child from a young age, frequently getting into trouble with the law for theft, fighting, and even fraud.

Despite her troubled past, Raya was adopted from the orphanage about a year ago. Her adoptive parents, Jordan and his wife, weren't particularly wealthy, but they were comfortable enough by the city's standards. While they might not have treated Raya as if she were their own biological child, they certainly didn't treat her poorly.

But her time with her adoptive parents was cut short.

Not too long ago, Jordan and his wife mysteriously disappeared on the same night.

The FBI was quick to respond, arriving at the scene to investigate, but they found no clues. All the doors and windows of the house were locked from the inside, and there were no signs of forced entry. It was as if the couple had simply vanished into thin air. Their whereabouts remain unknown to this day.

With no relatives willing to take her in, Raya was returned to the orphanage where she had grown up.

Then, about a month ago, Raya herself disappeared.

The investigation records detailed her disappearance, noting that it was just as strange as that of her adoptive parents. The agent in charge of the case was baffled, unable to explain what had happened.

Like the previous case, Raya's disappearance occurred overnight in a large dormitory where she slept with seven other children.

The seven other children in the dormitory claimed they hadn't noticed anything unusual during the night. It wasn't until morning that they realized one of them was missing.

The night guard insisted that no one had entered or left the building throughout the night, and the agent doubted that anyone could have taken a twelve-year-old girl out of the room without waking the others. The children also confirmed that the door was still locked when they awoke.

The investigation had stalled, and Raya remained missing. But now, Charlie had found her DNA in the Ferb couple's house, indicating that she had been there at some point.

After considering his options, Charlie decided that his next step would be to visit the orphanage.

The orphanage was located in a relatively remote area compared to the urban center. Charlie had never been to such a place in real life, and his impressions of orphanages were shaped by movies, books, and other works of fiction.

This time, though, even though Batman was still being remotely operated from his computer, what he saw on the screen left a lasting impression.

The orphanage was nothing like what he had imagined. As a place meant to house and care for children, it was devoid of warmth. The first impression it gave was more akin to… Arkham Asylum.

That's right—the moment Batman arrived outside the building and surveyed the scene on the screen, that was the first thought that came to mind.

The iron gate at the entrance was secured with a heavy padlock, and thick, rusted chains were wrapped around it like a serpent coiled tightly around its prey. The yard beyond the gate was deserted, not a soul in sight. The cold wind rustled the bare branches of the trees, creating a ghostly whispering sound that sent shivers down Charlie's spine.

The lighting in the courtyard was poor, casting long, eerie shadows that seemed to stretch and twist like dark tendrils

. The place had the look of a horror movie set, where the sun rarely shone, and even during the day, the building seemed shrouded in perpetual gloom.

It was literally a place where the sun didn't shine.

Getting into the building was easier than Charlie had expected. The guard in the security booth next to the gate was lazily reading a newspaper, his legs propped up on the desk, while another guard at the entrance of the building was engrossed in watching short videos on his phone.

The yard and the building itself were utterly lifeless, devoid of any signs of activity or inhabitants.

Batman moved silently down the corridor, his footsteps soundless against the cold, hard floor. As usual, Charlie relied on detective mode's x-ray vision to avoid detection, but he couldn't help but think that it might not have been necessary. Even with the full-range view of detective mode activated, the corridors ahead, behind, to the left, and to the right were all empty.

As Batman passed by a classroom, Charlie noticed some children inside.

But it wasn't like any school or kindergarten classroom he had ever seen. There was no noise, no chatter, no laughter. The room, despite being filled with over twenty children, was eerily silent.

One child sat in a corner, his eyes rolling back in his head, drool slipping from the corner of his mouth. Another child stared blankly at the blackboard, his body occasionally twitching as if in response to some unseen stimulus, letting out a strange, hollow laugh that echoed in the empty room.

The few children who appeared to be "normal" were anything but. They were silent, their faces devoid of expression, their eyes dull and lifeless. They were children, but they looked more like ghosts, shadows of what children should be.

Sanity, it seemed, was a curse in this place. To be sane here meant to be fully aware of the bleak, oppressive reality that they faced every day.

Batman finally reached the dormitory where Raya had slept. Her bed was still vacant, untouched since her disappearance. Other children were living in the dormitory now, but with the passage of time, most of the clues or traces that might have been left behind had long since vanished.

Charlie was about to initiate a scan when he noticed movement outside the room through detective mode.

Someone was approaching.

"The FBI department is still investigating… but they're saying the chances of finding anything new are slim," said a man's voice.

"If you want to see for yourself, her bed is right over here. But the FBI has been here several times, and it's been a while since she disappeared. I don't think there's much left to find…"

Before they could enter the room, Batman slipped out of the window and perched on a narrow ledge outside the building, sticking close to the wall, hidden in the shadows.

Charlie observed the scene through Batman's perspective, and facial recognition in detective mode quickly identified the newcomers.

The man speaking was Deacon, the director of the orphanage.

And walking beside him was… Fana?

Chapter Text

The person who walked into the dimly lit dormitory was indeed Fana, the enigmatic girl from the Ninth Special Service Division who had dined with Charlie earlier that day. The transformation in her appearance was stark. During lunch, she had worn a pristine white dress, its delicate fabric making her look like an angel—pure, almost ethereal. But now, she had changed into a black dress with a distinct gothic style. The dress was adorned with intricate white lace, a romantic yet eerie contrast that added an unsettling edge to her appearance. It was as if the darkness of the evening had seeped into her attire, blending innocence with an ominous aura.

As Fana stepped into the small dormitory, she moved silently, her presence almost ghostly in the cramped space. The room was tiny, with eight beds crammed together, leaving little room for personal belongings. The limited space was a stark reminder of the orphanage's bleak conditions, where each child had to make do with the bare minimum.

Fana's eyes, sharp and focused, scanned the room before settling on Raya's bed. She approached it with deliberate slowness, her movements almost ritualistic, as if she were paying her respects to something sacred. Without a word, she began to sift through the few items left behind by the missing girl. The simplicity of the possessions—a few worn-out clothes, a stuffed animal with its fur matted from age, and a small, battered suitcase—spoke volumes about the life Raya had led here.

As Fana rummaged through the sparse belongings, her fingers brushed against the cover of a thick book tucked away on a narrow shelf. The title, "A Guide to Seedling Maintenance," was embossed in faded gold lettering. It was a manual, something that might have seemed out of place in the hands of a twelve-year-old girl. Yet, as Fana held the book, her expression softened, and she gently caressed the cover as if it were a treasured keepsake. She carefully opened the book, flipping through its pages with a delicate touch, each movement filled with an almost reverent tenderness.

Director Deacon, who had been watching her from the doorway, cleared his throat awkwardly before speaking. "We're in the process of applying to build a library," he began, his voice tinged with a mix of pride and frustration. "Of course, it's not an easy task. The bureaucracy is a nightmare, and finding the necessary funds is even harder. But we believe it's crucial for the children. Books are their lifeline to the outside world, a way to enrich their minds and spirits…"

Fana, seemingly lost in her thoughts, interrupted softly, her voice barely above a whisper, "This book… I gave it to her."

Deacon blinked in surprise, taken aback by the revelation. "Oh, I didn't know that," he said, his tone filled with regret. "I had no idea you and Raya were… friends."

"The only friend," Fana replied, her voice carrying a weight that made the words hang in the air. She stared blankly at the book in her hands for a moment longer before adding in an almost detached manner, "She used to be."

Deacon, trying to navigate the delicate situation, nodded sympathetically. "I wish I had known. If I'd realized that Raya was your friend, I would have contacted you immediately when she went missing."

Fana gently closed the book and placed it back on the shelf with care, as if she were handling something fragile and precious. "We were friends a long time ago," she murmured, her voice tinged with a melancholy that was almost palpable. "But we hadn't been in touch for years."

The director shifted uncomfortably, sensing the depth of Fana's emotions. "The FBI is still investigating," he offered, attempting to provide some comfort. "If there's any progress, I'll make sure you're the first to know."

"Thank you," Fana replied simply.

As they turned to leave, Deacon, trying to lighten the mood, gave Fana a gentle pat on the shoulder. "No need to be so formal with us," he said, smiling in an attempt to convey warmth. "Even though you're not living here anymore, you know this place will always be home. You're welcome back anytime. We're like your family…"

His words trailed off as they walked down the dimly lit corridor, their footsteps echoing in the silence. Fana remained quiet, her expression unreadable, while Batman, under Charlie's control, followed them stealthily from the shadows, his presence undetected.

A distant bell rang out across the orphanage, its chime eerie and out of place in the desolate surroundings. It signaled the start of dinner, a monotonous routine in a place where time seemed to stand still. A group of women, their faces weary and expressionless, carried large metal buckets from the cafeteria to the classrooms. The buckets were filled with a thick, whitish porridge, its consistency more akin to paste than food, with a few wilted vegetable leaves floating on top. It was a meager meal, one that seemed more suitable for livestock than children.

Charlie, watching through Batman's eyes, felt a pang of discomfort. He couldn't imagine how anyone could survive in such a place. The orphanage, with its cold, sterile atmosphere, felt more like a prison than a refuge for children. Even through the screen, Charlie could sense the lifelessness that permeated every corner of the building.

But this sense of despair wasn't caused by some supernatural force or infectious disease.

As much as Charlie wished he could blame the cold, oppressive atmosphere on an external source—some malevolent entity or a spreading infection—the truth was far more mundane and, in some ways, even more horrifying. The orphanage had been this way for years, long before any talk of infection or strange occurrences. It was just one of many forgotten corners of the world, neglected and left to decay by those who should have cared.

Seeing Fana here, Charlie remembered something from her file. The previous night, he had glanced over her background and noted that she had once lived in an orphanage before being recruited by the Service Division. However, the file didn't specify which orphanage it was.

Now, as he watched Fana in this place, he accessed the Secret Service system to confirm his suspicions. Sure enough, this was the orphanage where Fana had grown up. She hadn't left until she was discovered to have the unique traits of a "Phantom" wielder, leading to her recruitment by Secret Service Nine.

Fana had known Raya, the missing girl.

Outside the orphanage, Charlie noticed a sleek black car parked discreetly by the entrance. It was clearly a government-issued vehicle, likely assigned to Fana as part of her duties with Secret Service Nine. It provided both transportation and a means of keeping tabs on her movements.

After finishing her conversation with the director, Fana exited the building, and the heavy iron gate clanged shut behind her, the sound echoing through the empty yard. The gate, with its thick chains and rusted metal, seemed to symbolize the isolation of this place—a barrier that kept the outside world at bay, sealing off this forgotten corner from everything else.

Fana paused for a moment in front of the gate, her gaze lingering on the yard behind her as if she were trying to imprint the scene in her memory. Then, without a word, she turned and walked toward the waiting car.

The driver, who had been patiently waiting, started the engine as he saw her approach. But instead of getting into the car, Fana walked over to the driver's side window and leaned in to speak. Her voice was soft, almost inaudible, and whatever she said caused the driver to furrow his brow in confusion. After a moment, he nodded, turned off the engine, and remained in the car, clearly under orders to wait.

Fana, now alone, began walking along the outer wall of the orphanage, her steps purposeful and deliberate.

Charlie, still observing through Batman, found this behavior odd. The direction she was heading seemed to lead to the back of the orphanage, toward an area that was little more than an overgrown wasteland. The land there was undeveloped, with wild plants and weeds reclaiming the space that had long been abandoned by humans.

But Fana moved as if she knew exactly where she was going, her path unwavering. After a moment's hesitation, Charlie decided to follow her, guiding Batman silently along the same route.

The girl pushed her way through tall weeds and thick underbrush, her black dress brushing against the foliage. Despite the rough terrain, she moved with confidence, as though she had walked this path many times before. The overgrown plants seemed to part before her, as if they recognized her presence and allowed her passage.

After what felt like an eternity of walking through the dense wilderness, Charlie, through Batman's sensors, finally saw where she was heading—a natural cave hidden among the thick vegetation.

Fana approached the cave entrance cautiously. The entrance was narrow, barely wide enough for a single person to squeeze through. It was dark, the kind of darkness that seemed to swallow all light, but Fana didn't hesitate. She slipped inside, her form disappearing into the inky blackness.

For Batman, the darkness provided perfect cover. Charlie guided him to follow at a safe distance, ensuring that he remained hidden within the shadows. The narrow passage was tight, forcing Batman to move slowly and carefully, but Charlie's meticulous control ensured that he made no sound.

The cave's interior was a surprise. The narrow entrance gave way to a much larger chamber, its walls lined with jagged rocks and uneven surfaces. The air inside was cool and damp, with a faint earthy smell that hinted at the depth of the cave. Blue vines crept up the walls, their luminous glow providing just enough light to see by.

As Fana descended deeper into the cave, the narrow passage suddenly opened up into a vast chamber. The walls of the chamber were covered in intricate carvings and glowing blue vines, which cast eerie, flickering shadows across the space. Torches were bound to the stone walls by these same vines, their flames providing a warm yet ominous light that illuminated the chamber in a ghostly glow.

As Fana reached the bottom, she found herself standing on uneven ground. The orange firelight from the torches bathed the entire area in an otherworldly glow, making the shadows dance on the walls as if they were alive.

A figure emerged from the shadows at the far end of the cave.

"You're finally back," said a voice, soft and chilling.

The girl who stepped out from the shadows was pale, her skin ghostly under the torchlight. Her lifeless appearance, contrasted with the flickering flames, made her look even more eerie in the dim light.

It was Raya Hatta, the missing girl from the orphanage.

She stared at Fana, a strange smile spreading across her face, a smile that seemed entirely out of place for someone her age.

"I guess it wasn't easy to leave such a pretty place and come back to this dingy corner," Raya said, her tone dripping with an unsettling blend of sarcasm and bitterness.

Chapter Text

Years ago, Behind the Holy Cross Orphanage, Deep in a Cave...

Fana carefully parted the thick branches and tangled weeds that had been strategically placed to obscure the entrance to the cave. With practiced movements, she slipped into the hidden entrance, leaving the chaotic world of the orphanage behind and entering a place of deep, unsettling stillness. The darkness enveloped her immediately, a cold, silent void that seemed to swallow all light and sound.

Clutched in her hand was a small flashlight. She flicked it on, and the narrow beam of light pierced through the suffocating darkness like a sword, but the deeper she ventured, the more the light seemed to fade, as if the shadows were devouring it.

As the light swept across the cave's rough, uneven floor, it finally settled on a small figure huddled in a corner; her body curled up with her head buried in her knees. It was Raya Hatta, her slight frame almost lost in the vast emptiness of the cave.

Raya slowly lifted her head, her movements sluggish and weary. She winced as the beam of the flashlight hit her eyes, raising a hand to shield herself from the harsh glare.

"Eat," Fana's voice cut through the silence, soft but commanding.

Raya remained motionless, her eyes downcast as she shook her head stubbornly. Her lips were pressed into a thin line, a silent refusal to comply.

Seeing her friend's defiance, Fana turned off the flashlight, plunging the cave back into complete darkness. The abrupt loss of light made the space feel even more oppressive, the air thick with an unspoken tension. Fana moved closer and sat down beside Raya, the cold, damp ground chilling her through her clothes.

For a long time, the two girls sat side by side in the darkness, saying nothing. The silence between them was heavy, almost tangible, as if the weight of their unspoken thoughts was too much to bear.

Finally, Raya broke the silence, her voice low and filled with a mix of anger and despair.

"I don't want to go back," she whispered, her words barely audible. "I hate that place. I hate everyone there."

Fana didn't respond. Instead, she reached out and gently placed a hand on Raya's head, her fingers threading through her friend's tangled hair in a comforting gesture. The touch was soft, almost sisterly, and it seemed to ease some of the tension in Raya's body.

"I like it here," Raya continued after a moment, her voice softening. "It's quiet. There aren't any people here to bother us. It's just… peaceful."

This cave was their sanctuary, a secret refuge from the harsh realities of the orphanage. It was a place only they knew, a hidden world far removed from the prying eyes and cruel words of others. They had discovered it together, and they had gone to great lengths to keep it hidden, camouflaging the entrance with twigs, leaves, and debris so that no one else could find it.

But even without the camouflage, the chances of anyone discovering the cave were slim. The orphanage was filled with children, but most of them were too physically or mentally impaired to explore the grounds, and those who could were rarely inclined to venture far from the safety of the buildings. In truth, Fana and Raya were among the few who ever dared to leave the confines of the orphanage.

In the darkness, Raya turned her head slightly to look at Fana, though she could barely make out her friend's features.

"We'll always be friends, right?" Raya asked, her voice laced with a vulnerability that she rarely showed.

Fana hesitated for a brief moment before replying, her voice gentle and reassuring.

"Yes," she said, her words carrying a quiet certainty. "Always."

Fana's hand continued to stroke Raya's hair, the gesture calming and protective, as if she were cradling something fragile and precious.

Present moment...

"I thought you'd forgotten about this place long ago," Raya's voice echoed through the cave, cold and distant. "I guess that accident at the coffee shop brought back memories, didn't it? When I realized you were there, I knew you'd come looking for me eventually. But how did you connect me to the Ferbs?"

"Neighbor," Fana replied softly, her tone measured. "Someone saw you."

"A neighbor?" Raya scoffed, her lips curling into a bitter smile. "It must have been Linda, that nosy old hag. I was only at the Ferbs' for a few days, and I tried my best to stay out of sight. But I guess even that wasn't enough…"

Earlier that day, investigators from the Central Intelligence Agency had been canvassing the area near the Ferbs' home, questioning neighbors and gathering information. One of the neighbors, a talkative older woman named Linda, mentioned seeing a little girl entering and leaving the house just days before the couple disappeared. The woman knew the Ferbs well enough to be certain they didn't have any children.

Fana had been briefed on the investigation and, upon hearing the description of the child, immediately thought of Raya. The connection was undeniable, and it led her back to this place, the cave where she and Raya had shared so many secrets.

"Look at you now," Raya said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Pretty face, fancy clothes… You're practically a princess now, aren't you? I bet it wasn't easy for you to come back to a dump like this just to visit a rat like me."

"That's not—" Fana began, but Raya cut her off with a sharp, bitter laugh.

"And that old man Deacon—he must treat you like royalty now, right?" Raya's voice was laced with venom. "I bet he'd get down on his knees and kiss your shoes if you asked him to."

Raya wasn't interested in hearing Fana's response. She continued her tirade, her words fueled by years of pent-up anger and resentment.

"Because now you look like a human being, like a proper white swan. Of course, you can't be seen with us ugly ducklings anymore. Do you know what I saw? I saw you out there, in the city."

Raya's tone darkened, her voice filled with bitterness.

"You live in a fancy apartment, wear beautiful clothes, and have a driver to take you wherever you want to go. The same old man who used to look at us like we were nothing but dirt under his shoes now worships the ground you walk on. I bet you feel pretty good about yourself now, don't you?"

Fana remained silent, her expression unreadable.

"Ha! If you're going to tell me you've been donating money to make yourself feel better, don't bother. I've heard it all before," Raya sneered. "Deacon might promise a bright future for this place, but we both know it's all just a facade."

Raya's gaze locked onto Fana's, cold and unyielding.

"I know it, and deep down, you know it too. We're rejects, right from the moment we're born."

Her words cut through the air like a knife, sharp and unforgiving.

"Our lives are just a straight line, with no detours or happy endings. Even if we meet someone along the way, they'll just abandon us again. It's who we are—cursed, destined to be incomplete."

Fana, who had been listening in silence, suddenly spoke up.

"You were adopted," she said softly. "Why…"

"Oh, so you want to talk about that?" Raya's smile was cold, her tone mocking. "Yeah, I was adopted. For a while, I actually believed things might get better, that the emptiness inside could be filled. But I was wrong."

Raya's voice took on a darker, more cynical tone as she continued.

"They thought I owed them something for adopting me, and no matter what I did, I could never live up to their expectations. They probably adopted me on a whim and lost interest soon after. I overheard them talking about sending me back here, to this miserable place. That's when I realized that no matter how much we wish otherwise, some things are just a part of us, like a curse. We can't escape them, no matter how hard we try."

Raya paused, her expression shifting from bitterness to something more sinister.

"But that's when I learned something even more important," she continued, her smile growing twisted. "God might take things away from us when we're born, but that just means we have to learn to take them back ourselves."

Fana noticed movement in the shadows cast by the flickering flames.

Two figures slowly emerged from the darkness, their bodies twisted and bloated, with bones protruding unnaturally and bloodshot eyes bulging from their sockets.

"Meet my parents, the Jordans," Raya said with a bright, unsettling smile. "Look at them now—they love me with all their hearts."

Fana's gaze shifted to the grotesque figures.

"What have you done?" she asked quietly.

Raya didn't answer directly.

"Do you remember how I used to ask you why there was so much love in the world, why everyone else seemed to have it, but not us?"

Fana remained silent, watching Raya intently.

"But that doesn't matter anymore," Raya said, her voice taking on an eerie, almost joyful tone.

The smile on her face widened, becoming more twisted and unsettling in the dim light.

Fana then noticed more pairs of eyes lighting up in the shadows, glowing faintly in the darkness.

Men and women with similarly distorted bodies began to emerge from the darkness, some walking, others crawling. They moved slowly into the circle of firelight, their grotesque forms casting long, nightmarish shadows on the cave walls. The flickering flames created a network of dark shadows, weaving a sinister net around Raya, protecting her at the center.

"Look at them," Raya said, her smile bright and terrifying. "Those that love me...

...are countless."

Chapter Text

When Fana was engaged in her tense reunion with an old friend, Charlie had already made the decision to have Batman retreat strategically. This wasn't a case of running away or an impulsive decision driven by an old habit of skipping plot dialogue to jump straight into action. Charlie had, in fact, considered bypassing the classic villain monologue and engaging directly in combat. But as he concealed himself in the darkness, continuing to scan the environment in detective mode, he made several significant discoveries that required a different approach.

From the moment he entered the cave, Charlie had noticed something unsettling—a group of infected individuals lurking in the shadows, their twisted forms barely visible but clearly dangerous. Through the detective mode, he could discern that these infected were similar to the Ferb couple he had encountered earlier. They all shared a disturbing commonality: a fierce protective instinct toward Raya Hatta, whom they perceived as their own child. This instinct drove them to violently repel and attack anyone they believed might threaten to take her away.

At first glance, it seemed logical to assume that Raya might be the source of the infection in this incident. However, Charlie quickly realized there was more to the situation. The infection spreading through these individuals wasn't just a random occurrence; it was linked to something deeper, something more sinister.

Earlier investigations had revealed that this infection seems to spread through ingestion—affected individuals needed to consume specific items to be infected. Although Charlie had taken a somewhat laid-back approach to his job since joining the madhouse, he had nonetheless absorbed a wealth of knowledge from reading literature and research materials, deepening his understanding of the various threats he might face.

This knowledge led him to a crucial conclusion: this incident likely involved a vector-type infection source. It was similar to the cursed statue he had destroyed during Batman's first mission in the Crane Building. A vector-type infection source wasn't just a passive threat; it actively manipulated its environment, spreading its influence like a web, entangling anyone who came into contact with it.

What confirmed Charlie's suspicions further was what he saw in detective mode.

He observed root systems creeping along the cave walls, their tendrils spreading out like malignant veins. These roots were not ordinary—they emitted a strange, pulsating energy that registered on Batman's sensors as an infection source. It was similar to what Charlie had detected at the drain in the Ferb couple's pool, but this time, the scale was much larger, and the infection was more intense.

The vines and root systems in the cave weren't just growing randomly; they were all converging, twisting, and sinking deeper into the earth, pointing toward something hidden further away, something beyond the cave itself. It was as if the very landscape was being consumed and transformed by the infection, drawn toward a malevolent source.

Charlie quickly realized that the true threat wasn't inside the cave—it was lurking in the depths of the jungle, outside the cave. Whatever was behind this infection, whatever was driving these people to madness and mutation, was still out there, hidden in the wilderness.

Charlie wasn't about to let this threat go unchecked. He had always been the hunter, the one who set traps for others, not the prey. There was no way he was going to let something or someone out there get the drop on him. With this in mind, he decided to track down the true source of the infection and eliminate it before it could cause any more harm.

Silently, Charlie manipulated Batman to exit the cave and follow the underground root system marked by the detective mode, venturing deeper into the dense, foreboding jungle.

It didn't take long before he found what he was looking for—the source of the infection: a massive, ancient tree.

This was no ordinary tree. Standing amidst a barren jungle where other trees barely clung to life, this one stood tall and ominous, its size dwarfing everything around it. If the malnourished trees nearby resembled thin, brittle sticks, this tree was a towering giant, its thick trunk and sprawling branches radiating power and malice.

Charlie knew better than to approach the tree carelessly. Instead, he had Batman use detective mode to scan the area, gathering as much information as possible before making a move. What he found only confirmed his suspicions—this tree was no ordinary plant. It was something far more dangerous.

The first thing he noticed was the tree's size. It wasn't just big—it was colossal, its trunk thick and gnarled, its roots burrowing deep into the earth like a network of serpents. If the surrounding trees looked like toothpicks, this one was a monolithic structure, a fortress in its own right.

But it wasn't just the size that made the tree formidable. Upon closer inspection, Charlie saw that the vines spreading from the tree weren't normal vines. They were sticky, flexible, and almost alive—tentacles disguised as vines, each one wrapped in leaves as if trying to blend in with the forest around it.

These tentacles weren't just for show. They were dangerous, capable of lashing out at any intruder who dared come too close. It was clear that the tree had evolved—or been corrupted—into something far more dangerous than any ordinary plant. It had become a predator, lying in wait for its next victim.

The tree was also covered in fruit, but these were no ordinary fruits. Hanging in clusters beneath the branches, these black, misshapen orbs were coated in a sticky, dark liquid. They exuded an aura of corruption, a sense of wrongness that made the skin crawl.

At first glance, however, the fruits didn't look like this. When they first appeared on Charlie's screen, they seemed plump, ripe, and inviting. The fruits were a vibrant green, full of life and energy, practically begging to be plucked and eaten.

But this was just an illusion, a trap designed to deceive the senses. It was a temptation that few could resist, leading them to consume the fruit and become infected. This was the same tactic used in the milk tea shop—the tentacles and fluids there had all originated from this very tree.

Of course, this trick didn't work on Charlie. He was operating remotely, safe from the tree's mental influence, able to observe its effects without falling under its spell. But even from Batman's perspective, the fruits seemed enticing, as if they were designed to lure in their prey.

For Batman, however, there was an added layer of protection. Batman's willpower was legendary, but even so, he wasn't taking any chances. His suit came equipped with a special defense system known as "Firework."

The "Firework" system was a response to the numerous times Batman had faced mental attacks throughout his career—whether it was hypnosis, brainwashing, or psychic manipulation. While Batman's willpower usually allowed him to resist such attacks, there were times when even he needed extra protection.

The "Firework" system was designed to combat these threats. It worked by overwhelming the senses, rapidly switching patterns in Batman's helmet's visual sensor, using high-contrast colors and flashing fluorescent patterns. The system would zoom in and out repeatedly, bombarding Batman's brain with stimuli, helping him break free from any mental manipulation.

As the system activated, the tempting, juicy fruits on the screen began to shift, their appearance warping and distorting until they returned to their true form—dark, rotten, and dripping with foul liquid.

This confirmed what Charlie already suspected: this tree was far from normal. It was a predator, a parasite that lured its victims in with sweet promises, only to ensnare them in its web of corruption.

The tree seemed to sense that its illusion had been broken. The tentacles, once still, now writhed and twisted with agitation, sweeping toward Batman with deadly intent.

Charlie knew he had to act quickly. Batman raised his arm, taking aim with a batarang and launching it straight at the tree. The batarang embedded itself in the trunk with a satisfying "thunk," and a red indicator light began to blink. A second later, the batarang exploded with a deafening "boom," sending splinters flying in all directions.

But this was no ordinary tree. Instead of toppling over, the tree seemed to absorb the blast, the damage quickly healing as if nothing had happened. The gap left by the explosion closed up, and the tree's bark knitted itself back together, leaving only a faint scar where the Batarang had hit.

Two tentacles lashed out at Batman, but Charlie was ready. He rolled Batman to the side, dodging the attack and launching an electric shocker at the tree. The shocker hit its mark, sending a jolt of electricity through the tree, but it wasn't enough. The current crackled and sparked, scorching the bark, but the tree remained largely unharmed.

Almost immediately, one of the tentacles wrapped around Batman's ankle, yanking him off his feet and suspending him upside down. The screen flashed with a quick-time event (QTE) prompt, signaling Batman's response. Charlie, ever the seasoned gamer, hit the button without hesitation.

Batman swiftly pulled out an electrified Batarang, twisting his body and slicing through the tentacle with the charged blade. The severed tentacle dropped to the ground with a wet thud, releasing Batman from its grip.

Charlie didn't waste a moment. As soon as Batman landed, he rolled to avoid the onslaught of more tentacles, narrowly dodging their grasp.

It was becoming clear that this tree wasn't going to go down easily. Its defenses were formidable, its regenerative abilities making it nearly impossible to damage. The tentacles were relentless, and the tree had a seemingly endless supply of them, each one as deadly as the last.

And then, as if things couldn't get worse, the tree began to launch its fruits. The dark, twisted fruits detached from the branches and shot toward Batman like grenades.

, each one leaving a trail of black smoke in its wake.

Charlie's screen lit up with red parabolas, marking the predicted trajectories of the fruits. These indicators were a visual aid, helping him see where the danger was coming from and giving him a chance to react.

Charlie expertly maneuvered Batman, rolling and dodging the fruits as they exploded around him. Despite his best efforts, the explosions sent shockwaves through the air, knocking Batman off balance and blasting him across the clearing.

The suit's armor absorbed most of the impact, but the screen was now bordered with blood-red effects—a clear indication that Batman had taken damage. The more intense the effect, the more severe the injury.

More tentacles and fruits were closing in, but Charlie didn't hesitate. As soon as Batman hit the ground, he fired the grappling gun in the direction he had come from, the hook latching onto a nearby tree.

Before the next fruit could land, the grappling hook retracted, yanking Batman out of the danger zone just as the fruit exploded behind him, sending debris flying.

Charlie quickly realized that the tree was unlike anything he had faced before. Its thick bark and high defenses made it nearly impervious to conventional attacks. It had powerful regeneration abilities, quickly healing any damage inflicted. Its tentacles were fast and strong, and it had a seemingly infinite supply of them. And to top it all off, it could launch long-range attacks with its explosive fruits.

In short, it was a fortress, not just a tree.

Charlie considered calling in backup. The Moonlight Knight or Captain America could certainly deal some serious damage, but they were primarily melee fighters. In close combat, they'd have to contend with the tree's tentacles and its explosive fruits, not to mention its regeneration abilities.

While Captain America had once demonstrated the unique ability to "choke a robot's neck to suffocate it," it was unlikely that this particular tactic would work on a tree.

A new idea began to form in Charlie's mind. There was another way to handle this, a strategy that might be more effective than brute force. He just needed to think outside the box.

Chapter Text

Tactical Retreat

In the world of strategy and survival, there's an old adage: "He who fights and runs away, lives to fight another day." Charlie, embodying the essence of this wisdom, decided that the best course of action was a tactical retreat. Of course, when it comes to Batman, retreating isn't just running away—it's a carefully calculated maneuver designed to gain the upper hand.

As the tree-like monstrosity lashed out with its writhing tentacles, Charlie's mind raced through his options. This was a battle that required more than brute force. It required preparation. With a swift decision, Charlie activated Batman's recall sequence.

In the blink of an eye, the Batplane responded to its master's call, swooping down from the clouds like a predatory bird of prey. Batman, ever the epitome of precision and timing, fired his grappling gun towards the underbelly of the plane. The hook latched on securely, and in an instant, he was pulled from the battlefield, soaring through the air as the ground rapidly receded beneath him.

As the Batplane ascended into the sky, the dense foliage of the jungle below transformed into a green blur. The tentacled tree, now a distant shadow, seemed to shrink away, its monstrous form blending into the landscape as if it had never been there at all.

The Batplane climbed higher and higher, breaking through the cloud cover until it was nothing more than a dark silhouette against the bright expanse of the sky. The screen displayed a small circle with the iconic bat emblem, indicating the transition as the plane ascended into the stratosphere. Moments later, the scene shifted seamlessly to the Batcave—a fortress of solitude and strategy.

The Batcave was more than just a base of operations; it was a testament to Batman's unyielding resolve. The cavernous space was filled with state-of-the-art technology, trophies from past victories, and an arsenal that would make even the most formidable of armies envious. The Batplane glided smoothly into its designated landing bay, the hum of its engines gradually fading as it came to rest on the tarmac.

Charlie had tested this "return to the city" function several times before. Whether by land, sea, or air, Batman always found a way back to the Batcave. The Batmobile, Batboat, and even the Bat-submarine had all served as methods of transport, each providing a unique path back to the cave. But no matter the method, the destination was always the same—the heart of Batman's operations.

For Charlie, the Batcave was more than just a refuge; it was a symbol of preparedness. Every gadget, every tool, every weapon was meticulously designed and stored, ready to be deployed at a moment's notice. The Batcave was a place where strategies were formulated, and battles were won long before they were fought.

But this return to the Batcave wasn't merely about retreating to safety. It was about preparing for the next round. The encounter with the monstrous tree had reminded Charlie of something he had seen in the Batcave's extensive arsenal—a tool that could turn the tide of this battle.

Charlie quickly made his way to the arsenal, where row upon row of weapons and gadgets awaited his selection. Each piece of equipment was a testament to Batman's meticulous planning and foresight, designed to counter every conceivable threat. As Charlie scanned the shelves, his eyes settled on a particular item—a canister of "Bat-Herbicide."

The label on the canister bore the familiar bat symbol, a mark that signified it had been crafted with the same care and precision as every other tool in Batman's arsenal. This wasn't just any herbicide; it was a specialized chemical concoction, designed to neutralize even the most formidable of plant-based threats.

The creation of the Bat-Herbicide had its roots in Batman's long and storied battle with one of Gotham's most dangerous eco-terrorists, Pamela Isley—better known as Poison Ivy. Ivy was no ordinary villain; her ability to control plants and bend them to her will made her a force to be reckoned with. Over the years, Batman had developed numerous countermeasures to combat her powers, and the Bat-Herbicide was one of his most potent weapons.

Charlie remembered the first time he had stumbled upon this particular item in the Batcave. At first glance, it seemed like an over-the-top addition to Batman's arsenal—perhaps another of the Dark Knight's eccentric gadgets. But now, faced with the monstrous tree, Charlie was glad he had brought it along. With the Bat-Herbicide in hand, he felt a renewed sense of confidence.

Equipped and ready, Batman returned to the tarmac, where the Batplane awaited. The jet's engines roared to life as it prepared for takeoff. The dark, sleek craft lifted off the ground, propelled by the powerful plasma flames that glowed a fierce blue. The Batplane soared into the night sky, leaving the Batcave behind as it raced back to the battlefield.

The tentacled tree, which had been left rustling its leaves in mockery after Batman's earlier departure, was in for a surprise. Within minutes, the Dark Knight was back, descending from the heavens like an avenging shadow. Batman's cape billowed out behind him, catching the air and slowing his descent as he glided down to the forest floor.

This time, there would be no retreat.

Batman landed with a practiced roll, rising to his feet with fluid grace. He faced the monstrous tree once more, his expression hidden behind the cowl, but his determination palpable.

The tree, sensing its enemy's return, wasted no time. It lashed out with its tentacles, eager to ensnare Batman and end the fight once and for all. But Batman was ready. As the first tentacle shot toward him, he raised his right hand and activated the Bat-Herbicide.

A thick cloud of white mist sprayed from the canister, enveloping the tentacle in its icy grip. The effect was immediate and devastating. The once-powerful vine began to wither, its vibrant green turning to a sickly brown as it lost all strength. The tentacle dropped limply to the ground, devoid of the life that had coursed through it just moments before.

The tree recoiled in shock, its branches rustling in confusion. It lashed out again, sending two more tentacles toward Batman, but the result was the same. The Bat-Herbicide cut through the plant's defenses like a scythe through wheat, leaving nothing but withered vines in its wake.

The tentacled tree was in a panic now. This human had returned with a weapon it had never encountered before—one that could destroy it with frightening efficiency. For all its size and power, the tree was helpless against the relentless assault of the Bat-Herbicide.

In a desperate bid for survival, the tree did the unthinkable—it uprooted itself from the ground. With a mighty heave, the tree tore its roots free, transforming them into makeshift legs. The once-majestic tree was now a bizarre sight as it turned tail and began to flee, its branches flailing wildly as it sprinted away from Batman.

The sight was almost comical—a massive tree, running on spindly root legs, trying to escape from the very enemy it had sought to destroy.

Charlie couldn't help but let out a small laugh. "Well, that's something you don't see every day," he muttered to himself as he watched the fleeing tree disappear into the distance.

Chapter Text

Although Charlie already knew that this tree wasn't a serious threat, it was still surprising that it could even attempt to run away from him.

Despite its massive size, the tree somehow managed to pull up its roots, turning them into stubby, short legs that seemed far too inadequate to support the sheer weight of its enormous trunk. The sight of the towering tree waddling awkwardly through the dense forest was both bizarre and somewhat amusing. Its movements were sluggish, each step a heavy thud against the forest floor, and it was clear that its attempts at fleeing were more an act of desperation than a calculated escape.

Charlie couldn't help but smirk as he watched the scene unfold on his screen. There was no way he was going to let this tree get away, not when he had Batman at his disposal. With a few swift commands, he directed Batman to pursue the fleeing tree, his fingers dancing across the controls with practiced ease.

The tentacle tree, however, wasn't going to go down without a fight. Even as it clumsily attempted to escape, it launched a barrage of fruit bombs from its sprawling branches. The fruits, which were more like explosive projectiles, hurtled through the air toward Batman in a desperate bid to slow him down. But Charlie, ever the skilled gamer, could see the trajectory of the incoming bombs clearly displayed on his screen. With a combination of precise movements and quick reflexes, he expertly maneuvered Batman to dodge the explosions, avoiding the fiery blasts with ease.

As Batman flipped and rolled across the forest floor, deftly avoiding each explosion, Charlie couldn't help but think about the label of "ordinary human" that the game's editor had attached to Batman. It was almost laughable. Here was Batman, an "ordinary human," performing acrobatic feats that would put most superhumans to shame. He was leaping, dodging, and rolling with such grace and precision that it made you question the very definition of "ordinary."

The tentacles that the tree sporadically lashed out with were hardly a threat either. With the bat herbicide in hand, Batman was more than equipped to deal with this overgrown menace. The herbicide sprayed out in a fine mist, instantly wilting any tentacles that dared to come too close. The tree's attacks were rendered useless, its once formidable arsenal of vines and fruits reduced to mere nuisances.

The whole scene had an odd, almost surreal quality to it. If this were a Japanese anime, tentacle monsters would likely conjure images of magical girl battles or bizarre fantasy creatures. But here, in this Western-style game, the tentacle monster—a massive, lumbering tree—was being pursued by a dark, brooding figure clad in a bat-themed costume. It was as if two different genres had collided in the most unexpected way, creating a scenario that was both comical and oddly intense.

Batman, as a character, had seen his fair share of strange encounters, especially when it came to tentacle monsters. Over the years, he had become something of an expert in dealing with such bizarre threats, his skill points in dodging and escaping from tentacles maxed out from countless battles. And so, as the massive tree flailed its tentacles wildly and continued to lob fruit bombs behind it, Batman closed in, relentless in his pursuit.

Tentacle Tree: 'Don't come any closer!'

The tree's panicked thoughts seemed almost palpable as it realized that it couldn't outrun its pursuer. Despite being animated, its short legs were simply not built for speed. The massive trunk it carried slowed it down to a near crawl, and every step was a struggle. It knew, deep down, that there was no escape. So, in a last-ditch effort to defend itself, the tree suddenly halted, its roots digging back into the ground as it braced itself for the impending battle.

'Are you really scared of this bat lunatic?' the tree might have thought if it could, as it prepared to stand its ground.

Batman, however, was not fazed. He moved with the precision of a seasoned warrior, his every action calculated and efficient. With a swift motion, he raised his hand and unleashed another cloud of herbicide, the fine mist settling over a large area of tentacles, causing them to wither almost instantly. Rolling to the side, he dodged two more fruit bombs, the explosions lighting up the dark forest as he closed the distance between himself and the tree trunk.

In one fluid motion, Batman reached into his utility belt and pulled out an oval metal object. With a flick of his wrist, he hurled it at the base of the tree. The metal object hit the trunk with a solid thud, and for a moment, everything seemed to freeze. Then, with a sudden burst, the object exploded from the inside out, releasing an invisible wave of microwave energy that pulsed through the air.

The effect was immediate and devastating. The branches of the tree began to wither, their once vibrant leaves turning brown and brittle before falling to the ground. The fruits that had been its ammunition dropped lifelessly from the branches, rolling away like discarded debris. The trunk itself began to dry up, the bark cracking and peeling as the moisture was sucked out of it at an alarming rate.

Tentacle Tree: 'What is this?!!'

The tree's panicked thoughts, if they could be heard, would have been filled with terror. The weapon Batman had used was one of the special gadgets Charlie had discovered in the Batcave—the dehydration bomb. Its function was similar to the microwave weapon developed by Wayne Enterprises for large-scale water evaporation, as seen in the movie "Batman Begins," but this version was more refined, designed specifically to target plant life.

The bomb's effect was both simple and brutal: it rapidly dehydrated the target plants, leaving them withered and lifeless. While it was primarily designed to combat plant-based threats, it could also be used on living organisms, albeit with a slightly reduced effect. In a pinch, it could even serve as a deadly weapon against aquatic creatures.

For the tree, dehydration was a nightmare. Even though it was large and strong enough to withstand some damage, the bomb's effect was terrifying. The once-mighty tree, with its sprawling branches and explosive fruits, was now reduced to a withering husk.

In that moment, the tree might have felt like it was experiencing the worst day of its life. It was as if it had somehow crossed paths with the most feared enemy of the tree world—a relentless bat-themed maniac who seemed to have every tool imaginable to bring it down.

'Forget it, I'm done.'

The tree, which had just moments ago taken root in a futile attempt to fight, now yanked its roots out of the ground again. The courage it had mustered for a final stand vanished in the face of the overwhelming power of the dehydration bomb. Its roots once again transformed into short legs, and it began to flee, dragging its enormous trunk behind it.

But no matter how hard it tried, those stubby legs simply couldn't carry it fast enough. Running or fighting, the outcome was inevitable. Its fate had been sealed the moment it encountered Batman.

After another short and futile attempt to escape, the tree finally split open, its trunk cracking under the strain, the once-mighty tentacle tree reduced to nothing more than a broken, withered relic.

---

Meanwhile, in the cave behind the orphanage...

The infected crawled out from the shadows, emerging from every dark corner of the cave. The dim light from the torches flickered against the rough stone walls, casting eerie shadows that made the scene all the more unsettling.

Fana stood in the center of the dim orange light, her black dress flowing around her like a shroud. Her face was pale, her expression cold and distant. Beside her, the woman in red stood silently, her hair disheveled and wild. The shadows on the walls seemed to dance with the flickering firelight, rising and falling like restless spirits.

Raya stood on the other side of the infected, watching in shock as the scene unfolded. Her eyes were fixed on the red figure beside Fana, disbelief etched across her face.

"What... are you?" she murmured, her voice barely audible.

In that brief moment, Raya had witnessed something that defied explanation. The movements of the woman in red were unlike anything she had ever seen. It was as if she were watching a deadly dance, the woman's movements as graceful as a ballet, yet as lethal as a blade.

The woman moved with an otherworldly grace, her steps light and precise, as if her body were weightless. She seemed to glide across the ground, her movements almost dreamlike, as if she were performing in a world where the laws of physics didn't apply. And yet, with each step, she brought death to the infected, cutting them down with ease, as if they were nothing more than paper targets.

In a matter of seconds, the infected were reduced to lifeless heaps on the ground, their bodies crumpling under the woman's deadly blows. Raya could only stand there, stunned, as the last of the infected fell. For a brief moment, she was alone again, the silence in the cave almost deafening.

But her surprise was short-lived. Raya quickly regained her composure, a knowing smile spreading across her face.

"I didn't expect that. Now I understand why you were able to escape from here," she said, her voice calm and measured. "You are special, I can see that."

"It's over," Fana declared, her voice carrying a note of finality. She stood behind the woman in red, her posture regal, like a queen overseeing her domain.

"The end? Hahaha, you're mistaken," Raya replied with a chuckle. "You may have defeated them, but it doesn't matter. As I said, I don't need them anymore. There

are always substitutes.

That man brought me the seed, and I planted it here. I watched it take root, and it gave me everything I needed.

Although this wasn't part of the plan, I'll let you see it, Fana. The true form of my patron tree. I call it the Sacred Sky Tree!"

Her voice rose in pitch, her excitement building as she spoke. It was as if she expected the ground to tremble and the cave walls to crack open, revealing a towering, ancient tree with grotesque limbs and countless tentacles, rising from the depths of the earth...

But nothing happened.

Raya froze, her smile faltering.

Then, realizing that something was wrong, she took a deep breath, straightened her posture, and snapped her fingers. "Appear, my patron tree, Sacred Sky Tree!"

Still, nothing happened.

A gust of wind blew in from the entrance of the cave, causing the flames of the torches to flicker. The atmosphere in the cave grew tense, the silence heavy and oppressive.

"Impossible!" Raya exclaimed, her voice filled with disbelief.

She closed her eyes, reaching out with her mind to the subtle connection she had with the tree. What she sensed made her blood run cold. Her face paled, shock and horror overtaking her features.

This shock was far greater than when she had witnessed the woman in red earlier. It was the kind of shock that made her question everything she knew, the kind that shook her to her core.

Through the faint connection she still had with the Sacred Sky Tree, she could sense what had happened on the other side.

The tree—her patron tree, her sacred guardian—had lost. And not just to anyone, but to a bat-themed lunatic.

Why does this feel like a bad dream?

Chapter Text

Raya stood in stunned silence, her mind struggling to comprehend the gravity of what had just transpired.

Where is my Holy Tree? What happened to the patron saint tree?

Just moments ago, she had been arrogantly flaunting her newfound power to her friends, proudly showing off her "mother"—the invincible tree she had nurtured and revered. But now, the smugness that had filled her heart evaporated as quickly as it had come. She was frozen in shock, her skin turning pale as she tried to process the reality before her. The person who had stood confidently in the front row, basking in the glory of her achievements, was now utterly devastated. How could this happen? Her mother, the tree she had cherished and relied upon, had been stolen right out from under her by a madman dressed like a bat.

A careless loss of her mother, indeed.

For Raya, the patron saint tree had always been the epitome of invincibility. In her mind, it was a force of nature, a symbol of absolute power. She had believed with all her heart that before this mighty tree, all other beings were nothing more than ants, insignificant and powerless. She had even crafted elaborate fantasies where her tree mother would lead her on a conquest—punching through Nursing Homes and kicking down the walls of the all-to-cruel Kindergarten. This grand plan, one that she had been so eager to put into action, had been obliterated before it even began. Her mother, the tree, was gone.

"Impossible... this is absolutely impossible..."

Raya's thoughts were still tangled in the disbelief and horror of her shattered world when she noticed a figure approaching her. The air grew colder, and she could feel a sinister presence closing in.

From the shadows emerged a phantom clad in red, its form barely discernible beneath the flickering firelight. A pale, bloodless hand extended from under the crimson robes, and Raya's heart skipped a beat. The hand was as cold as steel, yet strong and unyielding, like a vice. It latched onto her throat with terrifying precision and lifted her off the ground with ease. Raya's legs dangled helplessly in the air as she struggled to breathe, the pressure on her windpipe growing unbearable. The phantom's fingers dug into her flesh, distorting her neck and cutting off her airway.

Gasping for breath, Raya's vision began to blur. Through the dim haze, she saw Fana—her once closest friend—standing before her, those light blue eyes now devoid of warmth, filled only with an eerie emptiness that sent chills down Raya's spine.

It was in this moment, as the last remnants of oxygen slipped away from her, that Raya realized something that made her blood run cold.

The girl who had once been her best friend, the one who had shared her dreams and fears, now truly intended to kill her.

"Fana...you want to give me..."

The words caught in Raya's throat, the sentence left unfinished as her body convulsed in a desperate attempt to draw in air. Her face twisted in agony, her lips turning blue from the lack of oxygen.

Fana's gaze remained fixed on Raya, the girl suspended in mid-air by her phantom's merciless grip.

Fana, the friend she had once cherished above all others.

Contrary to what many might think, Fana hadn't forgotten the events that transpired after leaving the orphanage. She remembered everything in vivid detail, especially every moment shared with Raya, her only true friend.

She recalled their clandestine adventures, sneaking out of the orphanage compound to explore the world beyond. Together, they had discovered the hidden cave, their secret sanctuary. Fana remembered the books they shared, the stories they whispered in the dead of night, the comfort they provided each other during those dark days of despair. They had been each other's lifeline, a source of hope in an otherwise hopeless existence.

She remembered it all.

But none of that changed anything now.

The phantom's grip tightened, its fingers sinking deeper into Raya's flesh, cutting off her air supply entirely. Raya's consciousness began to fade, her body going limp as darkness encroached on her vision.

"You broke the law," Fana's voice was cold, almost mechanical, as she spoke. "The infected... are eliminated."

Despite her words, Fana didn't deliver the final blow. Instead, she reached into her coat and retrieved a small, handheld device. It was a portable scanning unit, designed by Professor Miyazaki specifically for field agents like her. The device was meant to quickly assess the level of infection in potential threats, determining whether they posed enough danger to warrant immediate elimination.

Standard protocol dictated that agents could engage in combat with infected individuals only in self-defense. However, once the threat was neutralized, agents were required to scan the individual before executing them, ensuring that the infection level exceeded 40%. Only then was execution permitted.

Fana was nothing if not a stickler for the rules.

She had assumed that Raya, who had manipulated and controlled so many others, was a high-risk infected individual. Fana had been prepared to end her life on the spot. But as she scanned Raya with the handheld device, the readings that appeared on the display were completely unexpected.

The infection level was...zero.

Fana tilted her head slightly, her expression one of mild surprise as she studied the unconscious girl suspended in mid-air.

Raya was not infected.

The phantom in red released its grip, and Raya fell to the ground with a thud. She crumpled into a heap, gasping for breath, coughing violently as she greedily inhaled the stale, lifeless air that filled the cave.

"You are not," Fana repeated, looking down at the coughing girl, "infected."

In other words, every action Raya had taken, every decision she had made, was of her own free will. Nothing had compelled her—no external force, no infection. Everything she had done was what she truly desired.

Raya continued to cough, her lungs burning as she struggled to recover. Eventually, she managed to catch her breath.

"I just wanted what everyone else has," she rasped, her face still contorted in a grimace, making her appear even more twisted and grotesque. "Is that so wrong?"

"No."

Fana's voice was calm as she stepped forward, the phantom lifting Raya once more, but this time by her wrist.

With practiced precision, Fana pulled out a pair of black handcuffs and snapped them around Raya's wrists.

"But you broke the law," she stated with unwavering conviction.

Raya's eyes widened in shock and fear. She could feel her body trembling uncontrollably.

She had thought that by changing, by becoming stronger and more powerful, she could finally take what she wanted. She believed that she had become someone new, someone who could pursue her deepest desires without hesitation. But now, as she stood on the brink of losing everything, she realized that she had changed nothing. She was still the same helpless child, crying alone in the corner, desperate for someone—anyone—to hear her voice.

But the one who had truly changed was Fana.

At that moment, Raya felt an overwhelming sense of unfamiliarity and dread. The Fana who stood before her was not the friend she had known, but a stranger—a cold, detached enforcer of the law.

…

It wasn't long before the Special Service Division arrived at the scene. The area around the orphanage was quickly cordoned off with a thick line of tape.

Marcus, an agent from the Riverton Branch of the Ninth Secret Service, surveyed the scene, his sharp eyes taking in every detail. After receiving a briefing on what had transpired, he found himself casting admiring glances at Fana, who stood quietly to the side, her expression unreadable.

She had located the culprit on her own, single-handedly subdued multiple infected individuals, and captured the enemy.

No wonder Professor Miyazaki spoke so highly of her.

As the team continued their investigation, they discovered the true source of infection deeper within the jungle—a massive, grotesque tentacle tree that had clearly met its end.

When the agents found the tree, it was a pitiful sight. Its trunk was riddled with holes, and the once vibrant wood was now dry and lifeless. Broken branches and severed vines lay scattered around the base of the tree, evidence of a fierce battle.

Upon seeing the destroyed tree, Raya's emotions overcame her, and she rushed forward, tears streaming down her face as she cried out, "Mother, you died so miserably!" Her outburst left the agents momentarily stunned, unsure of how to react to the bizarre display.

In the hours that followed, the pieces of the puzzle began to come together. The analysts pieced together the events, unraveling the mystery of the infection.

"Based on the evidence and the corpses we've found, it appears that this is a plant-type infection source with relatively weak infectious capabilities," one of the analysts explained. "The infection process requires the target to ingest the tree's fruit or other body parts through the digestive system.

However, despite its weak infectious ability, the tree itself is a formidable entity. Its exterior is incredibly tough, and standard ammunition has little effect on it. High-explosive grenades or individual rocket launchers can penetrate the outer shell, but the tree seems to possess a self-healing ability similar to that of infected organisms. It can repair itself quickly, even after sustaining significant damage.

In addition to its durability, the tree uses vine-like tentacles to capture its prey, and its fruit appears to be a form of explosive. The tree can hurl these explosive fruits at targets, detonating them with considerable force. While we still need to conduct further tests to determine the exact blast radius and power, preliminary estimates suggest that it's quite potent."

As the analyst continued to speak, Marcus's expression grew more serious. He turned to Fana, who stood silently beside him, her gaze distant.

"You handled this on your own?" Marcus asked, incredulity creeping into his voice.

The description of the tree made it sound like a fortress—a target well beyond the capabilities of a single agent. Such a creature would typically require a full special operations team armed with heavy weapons to take down. The idea that one person, even an agent as skilled as Fana, could handle it alone seemed almost impossible.

But Fana shook her head lightly, indicating that she hadn't done it alone.

An investigator approached them, adding, "No, it wasn't her. It appears that Batman was the one who took down this tree-like source of infection."

"Batman?"

Marcus blinked, his previous disbelief vanishing in an instant, replaced by an expression of resigned acceptance.

At this point, the bizarre had become almost routine for the agents. The idea of one person taking down such a monstrous tree was ludicrous—unless that person was Batman. Suddenly, everything made sense.

"So, the source of infection is this tree," Marcus said, turning his attention to Raya, who sat in handcuffs, her eyes vacant. "And that girl—the one responsible for spreading the infection—is she just an ordinary person?"

"Yes," the investigator confirmed. "But regarding the source of infection...she said someone gave it to her."

"Someone gave it to her?"

"Yes. She claims that a man gave her the seeds of the tree and instructed her to plant them. The tree grew rapidly, and she was then told to use it to infect others, while she herself remained uninfected."

Marcus narrowed his eyes, his mind racing as he considered the implications.

This problem could be far more dangerous than the infection itself.

He approached Raya, crouching down to meet her gaze.

"Who gave you the seed?" he asked, his tone firm.

Raya lifted her eyelids, her eyes dull and lifeless as she glanced at him.

"A man," she replied coldly. "I didn't see his face. I was adopted by the Jordans at the time, and he came to the house looking for me. He showed his ID to the Jordans, said he was an official. They should have seen his face."

But the Jordans were now dead, lying among the fallen infected in the cave.

"But," Raya paused, a faint smile playing on her lips as she glanced at Marcus.

"He was wearing exactly the same clothes as you."

Chapter Text

In fact, Batman didn't leave immediately after crushing the strange tentacle tree. When the agents of The Ninth Special Service Division arrived at the scene, he was crouching in a nearby bush, silently eavesdropping on a conversation through his communicator.

Charlie had instructed Batman to stay hidden and listen in on the ongoing conversation while he took the opportunity to catch his breath. Charlie himself leaned back in his gaming chair, the adrenaline from the battle still pumping through his veins. He got up, headed to the refrigerator, and pulled out a bottle of soda. The cool liquid felt refreshing as he downed half the bottle in one go, the familiar fizz providing a brief respite.

One of the things Charlie enjoyed about this game was the physical engagement it demanded. The rapid movements, intense focus, and high stakes made it feel like a full-body workout. The energy burned quickly, and Charlie relished the excuse to indulge in his favorite soda without worrying about the extra calories. After a few sessions, he even thought the fat around his waist might have decreased—though he wasn't entirely sure if it was real or just wishful thinking.

He sat back down, positioned himself comfortably in front of the screen, and slipped his headphones back on. As Batman continued to crouch in the background of the in-game screen, listening intently, Charlie took the opportunity to send a quick message to his friend, Walter.

"Hey, can you sign in for me tomorrow?" the message read.

Tomorrow was Monday, and Charlie had a class scheduled in the morning. However, Megan had booked a train ticket for the same time, and Charlie had promised to take her to the station. Skipping class was the only option, and he trusted Walter to cover for him by signing in on his behalf.

Charlie waited for a reply, but none came immediately. He figured Walter was probably engrossed in a first-person shooter game, possibly one of the more intense battle royales that demanded his full attention. Whether Walter was playing while standing, sitting, or even lying down, Charlie knew he'd eventually get back to him.

Suddenly, Raya's voice came through his headphones, pulling Charlie back into the game.

"He's wearing exactly the same clothes as you," she said, her tone laced with a knowing smile.

The words sent a ripple of tension through the group of agents present at the scene. Even Charlie, sitting miles away, felt a twinge of surprise. On the surface, it seemed to imply that the person who had provided the documents to Raya and helped spread the infection was someone within The Ninth Special Service Division—someone who was supposed to be on their side.

Of course, such an implication couldn't be taken at face value. The possibility that Raya was lying to manipulate the situation couldn't be ruled out. Even if she was telling the truth, it didn't directly prove anything.

The uniforms of The Ninth Special Service Division were highly secured and not something easily replicated. However, if someone was determined enough, it wasn't impossible to create a convincing copy. And no one had actually seen the documents Raya was referring to, leaving the possibility of forgery open.

But if her claim was genuine, it led to a classic scenario—

—There's a mole within the organization.

Strangely, Charlie wasn't shocked by the revelation. Instead of thinking, "Wow, there's a mole," his reaction was more along the lines of "Wow, the mole didn't show up sooner."

This almost nonchalant attitude was largely influenced by his exposure to the S.H.I.E.L.D. universe, where the presence of infiltrators like Hydra was almost expected. An organization riddled with spies from its inception, S.H.I.E.L.D. had always operated under the shadow of potential betrayal.

However, this wasn't to suggest that S.H.I.E.L.D.'s director was incompetent. On the contrary, the fact that a straightforward agent could ascend to the position of leader in an organization teeming with spies—and manage to navigate the treacherous waters to achieve an eventual victory—was a testament to his skill. Charlie respected the director's ability to turn what could have been a complete disaster into a series of strategic moves that ultimately led to Hydra's downfall.

In Fact, Charlie mused, the one who probably caused the most damage to Hydra over the years wasn't Captain America or the Avengers, but the S.H.I.E.L.D. director himself. His strategic embezzlement of public funds and consistent outmaneuvering of Hydra agents likely left the organization in shambles.

But if The Ninth Special Service Division had a mole, even one of Hydra's caliber, it wasn't the end of the world. It would be more of an inconvenience than a crisis, and the organization had likely faced worse in the past. After all, it was a miracle that Hydra's infiltration hadn't led to the complete collapse of S.H.I.E.L.D. sooner. If push came to shove, a simple test—like whispering "Hail Hydra" in the ear of every agent and seeing who responded—could flush out the traitor and stabilize the situation.

Coincidentally, just as Raya finished speaking and the agents began questioning her, everyone's phones buzzed with an incoming notification.

Charlie's phone lit up as well, displaying an alert from the Ninth Special Service Division's app.

It was a red raid alert, a notification that was reserved for only the most critical situations.

The aircraft carrier of The Ninth Special Service Division had been breached.

---

A few minutes earlier, aboard the Ninth Special Service Division's aircraft carrier…

Professor Miyazaki's fingers danced rapidly over the floating keyboard, making the final adjustments to the device in front of him.

The device was a head-mounted apparatus surrounded by an intricate network of cables, each one connected to a series of monitors that displayed a constant stream of data. The screens were filled with readings, graphs, and data curves, all essential to the successful operation of the machine.

Since the unexpected attack by the mysterious infected person who had the ability to manipulate dreams, the headquarters of The Ninth Special Service Division had been working tirelessly to develop countermeasures. As the leading expert on infected cases, Professor Miyazaki had been appointed to spearhead the project, a task he accepted with both pride and determination.

The device in front of him—the helmet—was the result of their efforts. Though Professor Miyazaki wasn't the sole creator, it was his research on similar psychic abilities that laid the foundation for the design. The equipment department had collaborated closely with him to bring the concept to life.

Fortunately, Professor Miyazaki had previously conducted extensive research on dream-related spiritual abilities, which had allowed him to propose the prototype's design early on. However, the lack of concrete data had stalled its completion—until now. The recent encounter between the Ninth Special Service Division agents and the dream-wielding enemy had provided the necessary data, enabling Professor Miyazaki to complete the previously unfinished project.

The result was a prototype device designed to shield the wearer's brain from external psychic influences, particularly those that manipulated dreams. In theory, it could prevent outside forces from altering the wearer's perception while in a dream state.

As it stood, the prototype was functional but still unstable. There were concerns about potential side effects on the wearer's brain, which required ongoing adjustments to ensure safety.

At that moment, Melanie stepped into the laboratory, her presence barely acknowledged by the professor, who was deeply engrossed in his work.

"Is it done, professor?" she inquired, her voice cutting through the low hum of machinery.

"Almost," Professor Miyazaki replied without looking up. His focus remained on the task at hand, his mind wholly occupied with the final stages of debugging.

"The dream-shielding function should be operational," he continued, his tone matter-of-fact. "The next step is to minimize the impact of side effects. However, I believe it's ready for field deployment. Although there may be some risks, a special person should be able to handle them."

This was one of the advantages of being a special person. These individuals were not only physically superior to ordinary humans but also possessed extraordinary self-healing abilities. The side effects that might pose a threat to a regular person were unlikely to be an issue for them.

Professor Miyazaki had advocated for this approach early on, suggesting that the unique qualities of special agents—such as their enhanced self-healing factors—should be factored into the design and testing of new equipment. Unfortunately, his proposal had been met with resistance and ultimately rejected.

"That would be ideal," Melanie said, moving closer to the workstation. "I fell into a dream once. Whoever that person was, their dream manipulation was nearly perfect.

The environment felt completely real—the touch, the smells, even the pain. Everything was so convincing that it was as if your own brain was working against you, making you believe the dream was reality."

She paused, rubbing her temples as if the memory itself was enough to cause a headache.

"You know, after experiencing something like that, you're left with this overwhelming sense of helplessness. It's as if the entire world is beyond your control, like you're trapped in the center of an endless vortex, constantly being pulled down…"

"I'm sure that must have been quite uncomfortable," Professor Miyazaki replied absentmindedly, his attention still fixed on the equipment.

"But don't worry," he added, his tone almost reassuring. "The data we collected from your last encounter was invaluable. Once I finish the final adjustments, the helmet will be ready for mass production. We won't have to worry about being caught off guard again…"

"Is that so?" Melanie murmured, her voice laced with a hint of something unspoken.

Professor Miyazaki finally glanced up, noticing the subtle shift in her tone. He saw her reflection in the glass of one of the monitors, her expression slightly off, her smile faint but unsettling.

"Then tell me, professor," Melanie said softly, her voice carrying an almost eerie calmness. "How do you know that the work you're doing right now, what you're experiencing, and even this equipment you're about to complete… how do you know it's not all just a dream?"

The question hung in the air, its implications sending a chill down Professor Miyazaki's spine. For a moment, he froze, the gears in his mind turning as he processed her words.

He turned around slowly, his eyes narrowing as he faced her directly.

"What exactly are you trying to say, Melanie?" he asked, his voice tense with suspicion.

"Nothing," she replied, her smile widening just a fraction.

Before Professor Miyazaki could react, Melanie reached into her coat and drew out a sleek, silver-white pistol. The gun's streamlined design gleamed under the harsh fluorescent lights, its metal casing reflecting a cold, unyielding brilliance. The black muzzle, pointed directly at the professor, seemed to stare into the depths of his soul.

"Good night, Professor," Melanie whispered.

She pulled the trigger.

The gunshot echoed through the lab, a sharp, deafening crack that shattered the stillness of the room.

In the brief flash of the muzzle flare, Professor Miyazaki's world went dark. The pain was sharp but fleeting, a searing agony that disappeared as quickly as it came. The light in the room dimmed, the colors fading until there was nothing left but a deep, impenetrable black.

He felt himself falling, his body collapsing to the floor with a dull thud. But it was as if he had lost all sense of weight, his consciousness drifting away into the void. The world around him vanished, consumed by the darkness that swallowed everything in its path.

And in the final moments, as the last remnants of awareness slipped away, two words echoed in the silence, lingering in the shadows like a haunting refrain.

"Good night."

Chapter Text

Boom!

A completely unexpected explosion tore through the air, the sound like that of a colossal popcorn machine on overdrive. The shockwave rippled through the aircraft carrier, sending vibrations through its massive frame as though a giant had dropped an iron ball onto the deck. The very steel beneath their feet seemed to tremble as if in fear.

Within seconds, the sharp blare of a siren cut through the chaos, its shrill wail piercing every corner of the mothership, a sound designed to drill into the minds of everyone aboard. It was a sound meant to signal the unthinkable—an attack, an intrusion in what was supposed to be the safest place in the world.

The command room was a flurry of movement, the sudden explosion snapping everyone into action. Alarms blared, screens flashed with urgent warnings, and orders were shouted amidst the confusion. A holographic image of Commander Ross flickered to life on the central screen, his face a mask of controlled intensity. His voice, cold and unwavering, sliced through the noise.

"What's the situation?" he demanded.

"We're under attack," a voice responded from the command pit, the tension palpable. "There's an aircraft on the left wing of the ship— we're under attack!"

The words hung in the air like a bombshell. Even though many aboard had already guessed the truth, hearing it confirmed left a chill in their veins. They were in the most secure location known, with an impenetrable security system— or so they had been led to believe. The idea that someone could breach this fortress was unthinkable. The early warning systems should have detected any threat long before it came close. Yet here they were, caught off guard, the radar silent as if it had simply given up.

Commander Ross's mind raced. How could this have happened? His thoughts briefly drifted to the security chief, the man who had assured him of the mothership's safety. Perhaps he should have that man reassigned to a less critical post— perhaps growing potatoes in some distant frontier. But this was no time for such thoughts. The reality was far more dire: their alarm system had failed, possibly sabotaged.

"The third engine room is on fire!" someone shouted, their voice strained with urgency. "The fire is spreading— the engine might overheat…"

Commander Ross's eyes narrowed into slits of determination. He quickly began issuing orders, his mind focused on the immediate task at hand. Containing the fire and protecting the engine was paramount. If the engine was lost, the consequences would be catastrophic. This was no mere vessel; it was a flying fortress, and a fall from this height would be nothing short of a disaster. The thought of the mothership crashing, its monumental structure plummeting to the ground, was enough to tighten his resolve.

But before he could finish giving orders, another shockwave rocked the ship.

A second explosion reverberated through the hull, the source unclear but the impact undeniable. The entire ship shuddered violently, and the lights flickered ominously before the main screen in the command room went black with a resounding 'pop.'

The holographic image of Commander Ross vanished from the screen, leaving behind a massive, pitch-black monitor that now reflected the frantic scene in the command room like a distorted, chaotic mirror. It was as if the ship itself was mocking them, a silent witness to their desperation.

Then, without warning, the door to the command room exploded inward with a deafening crash. The metal door was blown off its hinges by a force so strong that it sent the twisted panel flying across the room. It smashed into an unfortunate agent, lifting him off his feet and sending him crashing into a console, where he lay motionless.

In the aftermath of the blast, a figure darted into the room. It moved with unnatural speed, landing on all fours in the center of the room. Its limbs twisted at grotesque angles, joints bending in ways that defied human anatomy. The creature, whatever it was, crawled across the floor like a reptile, its movements fluid and unnerving.

An infected.

The realization hit the agents like a bucket of cold water. They had seen the infected before, knew what they were capable of. Without hesitation, one of the agents drew his sidearm and opened fire. The crack of the gunshot echoed in the enclosed space, but the infected was already moving, its body contorting as it dodged the bullet with inhuman reflexes. The shot went wide, sparking against the metal walls of the command room.

More agents responded, drawing their weapons and firing at the intruder. The command room was filled with the sound of gunfire, the flashes of muzzle flare casting eerie shadows on the walls. But the infected was fast—too fast. It weaved between the bullets, evading them with a preternatural grace.

But the agents were not ordinary soldiers. Many of them had undergone enhancements—procedures that had heightened their physical abilities to superhuman levels. With a burst of speed, several agents charged forward, blocking the infected's path and engaging it in hand-to-hand combat. A flurry of punches and kicks followed, the agents' movements a blur as they struck at the creature.

Yet, for every infected they subdued, more poured into the command room through the blasted entrance. The room descended into chaos as agents and infected clashed, the air thick with the sounds of battle.

"Infected have boarded the mothership! Repeat, infected have boarded the mothership…"

The correspondent's voice was frantic as he issued the alarm through the ship's communication system. But his words were met with silence. No response came from the agents scattered throughout the ship. The only thing that answered was a chilling whisper on the communication channel, a sound that sent a shiver down the spine of anyone who heard it. It was like the rustling of leaves in a haunted forest or the murmur of ghosts in the dark— an eerie, otherworldly sound that made the hair on the back of the neck stand on end.

At the same time, agents across the mothership were desperately trying to contact the command post. They too were met with the same unnerving whisper, the sound filling their headsets with an unnatural quiet that seemed to seep into their very souls.

Agent Felix, who had just completed a routine report, was making his way down one of the long corridors of the mothership, heading to catch a flight back to the surface.

The second explosion struck just as he was nearing the end of the corridor, the impact nearly knocking him off his feet. He stumbled, grabbing onto the wall for support, as the lights overhead flickered and then went out, plunging the corridor into darkness.

Gunfire and the sounds of combat echoed from around the corner ahead, the sudden outbreak of violence a clear sign that something had gone terribly wrong.

A sense of dread settled over Felix as he tried to peer through the darkness, his eyes slowly adjusting to the lack of light. The corridor's outline became faintly visible, but what lay ahead was still shrouded in shadow. He reached up, tapping the communication device in his ear, trying to raise the command room.

All he heard was that same, unsettling whisper.

The sounds of battle abruptly ceased, leaving an oppressive silence in their wake. Felix swallowed hard, trying to calm the growing unease that gnawed at him. He drew his pistol, the weight of the weapon offering little comfort as he flicked off the safety. With cautious steps, he began to move forward, his senses on high alert.

A cold draft seemed to brush the back of his neck, sending a shiver down his spine. The air felt wrong—too cold, too still.

Felix froze, instinctively turning his head to look behind him. What he saw made his blood run cold.

A woman was hanging upside down from the ceiling of the corridor, her long, black hair hanging like a curtain that almost touched the floor. Her eyes were wide, unblinking, and empty, as if life had long since fled from them. From her mouth, a serpentine tongue slithered out, flicking in the air like a snake's. She stared at him with a look that made his heart clench with fear, her presence more ghostly than human.

…

"Over there!"

A team of agents raced through the narrow hallways, their footsteps echoing off the metal walls as they rushed toward the site of the first explosion.

The blast had torn a gaping hole in the side of the mothership, and through that breach, an unidentified aircraft had approached, depositing its deadly cargo— infected beings, twisted and deformed, who were now running rampant through the ship.

The breach was dangerously close to the power room, where the fire from the explosion was already threatening one of the mothership's massive engines. The engine was still operational for now, but if the fire wasn't contained soon, the consequences could be catastrophic. The agents knew they were racing against time, and every second counted.

As they ran, the agents were on high alert, their senses tuned to detect any threat. They knew the infected had boarded the ship, which meant they were likely to encounter a horde of them before reaching the power room. They steeled themselves for the inevitable battle.

But as the agents approached the breach, what they found was not at all what they had expected.

Instead of a horde of grotesque, distorted infected, there was only one figure standing at the far end of the passage. The figure was shockingly normal in appearance, even elegant.

He was dressed in an immaculate tuxedo, the kind one might wear to a high-society event rather than an invasion. In his hand, he held a polished cane, and a mask painted with a hypnotic spiral covered his face, giving him an air of eerie sophistication.

He moved slowly, unhurriedly, as if he had all the time in the world. The agents, though momentarily taken aback, didn't hesitate. The moment they laid eyes on him, they raised their weapons and opened fire.

The confined space of the corridor amplified the sound of the gunfire, the noise deafening as it reverberated off the walls. The agents were well-armed, with not just pistols, but also high-powered rifles and shotguns, weapons designed to unleash devastating force in close quarters.

But their bullets did nothing.

As they watched in disbelief, the bullets slowed as they approached the masked man, their trajectories bending as if they were being redirected by some unseen force. The projectiles curved away from the man's body, veering off to the sides and embedding themselves harmlessly into the walls. It was as if the bullets were afraid to touch him, as if they knew better than to strike this enigmatic figure.

The masked man paused, seemingly amused by their futile efforts. He twirled his cane with a flick of his wrist, then brought it down sharply against the floor.

In that instant, a powerful shockwave erupted from the point of impact. It was invisible, yet its effects were immediate and devastating. The agents felt the ground beneath them give way as gravity itself seemed to vanish. Their bodies were lifted off the floor, suspended in mid-air as the very fabric of the ship began to tear apart.

The walls and floors around them disintegrated, metal plates peeling away like paper as the corridor collapsed into a chaotic swirl of debris. It was as if the entire section of the mothership was being dismantled by some unseen, omnipotent force, each part reduced to fragments that spun wildly in the air.

The agents could do nothing as they were caught in the vortex, their bodies dragged along with the disintegrating passage. They plummeted toward the earth below, falling through the air alongside the disintegrated remains of the ship, the descent endless and terrifying, like the fall of Lucifer from the heavens.

The masked man, untouched by the destruction he had wrought, continued his unhurried pace, walking through the crumbling passage as if it were a garden path. To him, the mothership was no more than a playground, and he was merely taking a leisurely stroll.

Not long after he left the scene of destruction, Melanie appeared before him, her face set with determination.

"Did you retrieve the item?" the masked man asked, his tone casual, almost bored.

"On the way," Melanie replied, producing a small card from her pocket—Professor Miyazaki's ID card. She waved it in front of him with a satisfied smirk. "It'll take a bit more time to complete the extraction. You should keep them occupied in the meantime."

"Of course," the masked man replied with a light twirl of his cane. "It's no trouble at all."

Chapter Text

The masked man walked with deliberate slowness through the metal corridor, his steps echoing off the cold, hard surfaces. He moved from one room to another with an air of calm confidence, as though the vast, labyrinthine ship was an extension of his own mind, a place where he belonged. It was as if the ship were deserted, and he alone inhabited its metallic halls.

As he walked, he absentmindedly reflected on the nature of dreams, which he found to be one of the most fascinating aspects of existence. Dreams were truly magical, a concept beyond the grasp of reality.

They were unseen, untouchable, and yet they were real. They existed in the space between thoughts and consciousness, weaving fragments from the recesses of memory, distilling the essence of those fragments, and crafting vivid scenes that could feel as authentic as anything encountered in the waking world.

Dreams were slippery. They eluded capture, slipping through your fingers like a stream of water. You could try to focus on them, to stare directly at their core, but just when you thought you had caught a glimpse of their true nature, they would shift, transform, becoming something else entirely.

It was this elusive quality that made dreams invincible.

The masked man eventually reached the door of the command room. He paused just outside, his gloved hand resting lightly on the metal frame. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he leaned in and softly whispered, "Open Sesame."

The words hung in the air for a moment, as if they carried a weight of their own. Then, as though the very syllables had woven themselves into the fabric of the ship's electronic systems, the door responded. The metal panels slid open with a crisp, mechanical clatter, revealing the interior of the command room. The man twirled his cane with a flick of his wrist, the motion graceful and fluid, before striding confidently into the room.

Because in a dream, anything is possible.

He was not merely a visitor in this dream; he was its master, a dream walker, and within this realm, the world itself would bend to his will.

As he entered, the scene before him was one of controlled chaos. The infected who had breached the command room were nearly all neutralized. The agents stationed there were no ordinary operatives; each possessed unique skills, some with abilities that set them apart from the norm. They were seasoned professionals, capable of holding their ground even in the face of overwhelming odds.

The last of the infected had just fallen, a bullet piercing through his skull, sending him tumbling down the metal passageway. His body lay still on the cold floor, lifeless. The agents, having secured the room, quickly returned to their stations. Their focus now was on restoring communication and coordination, critical to regaining control of the ship.

But their most urgent task was to reestablish contact with the chairman.

The screen in the command room had gone dark moments earlier, the image of Commander Ross flickering and then disappearing. The invasion of the infected had followed immediately after, plunging the room into disarray. No one knew where the chairman was; he could be in any part of the ship, perhaps even under siege at that very moment.

An alert flashed on one of the screens, catching the attention of the agents.

"The third entrance to the command room has been opened!"

This was an anomaly. The command room had been sealed off the moment the intrusion was detected; all entrances were supposed to be locked down. The agents turned, almost in unison, towards the third entrance, where they saw the Dreamwalker.

"Intruder!" one of the agents shouted.

Instinctively, one agent fired a shot at him, but the bullet did something impossible. It halted mid-air, spinning as if caught in an invisible force. Then, with a sudden twist, it reversed direction, striking another agent who crumpled to the floor.

The other agents hesitated, their fingers poised on triggers but unwilling to fire.

An agent, bold and quick, leaped from the bridge, aiming to tackle the intruder. But as he soared through the air, the metal railing behind him twisted and coiled like a living serpent, wrapping around his body with the unyielding strength of steel. No matter how he thrashed, the makeshift bonds held him fast.

Another agent, attempting a similar maneuver, found his feet suddenly ensnared by wires that shot down from the ceiling like vipers. The colorful cables, humming with electrical energy, tightened around his ankles and hoisted him into the air, leaving him dangling upside down, helpless.

As one agent closed the distance, determined to apprehend the masked man, he suddenly realized the man had vanished. Panic set in as he looked around frantically, only to see that every agent on the bridge had turned into the masked man, identical copies surrounding him. In a synchronized motion, they all snapped their fingers, and the floor beneath the agent gave way. With a scream, he plummeted into the void below.

"Everyone, calm down!" another agent shouted, his voice trembling with a mixture of fear and desperation. "The intel shows that the enemy's ability is to create dreams. It's all just illusions—"

Before he could finish, the windshield behind him exploded outward, as if an unseen force had ripped it apart. The agent and those standing nearby were yanked out of the cabin, their bodies hurled into the open sky, falling from the great height of the mothership.

"Maybe," the Dreamwalker mused, a chuckle escaping his lips, "but who can say where the boundary between dreams and reality lies?"

In terms of physical laws, it might indeed be a dream, an illusion constructed in the mind. But the sensory experience was so vivid, so tactile, that it blurred the lines. Those ensnared within it were lost in a vortex of fabricated "reality," unable to discern the shore from the depths.

He tapped his cane against the ground, his gaze sweeping the room. He was searching, but the one he sought was absent. A pang of disappointment washed over him as he sighed, "The chairman isn't here? What a pity. I had hoped for a conversation. Unfortunately..."

The sound of shattering glass interrupted his thoughts. A piece of the windshield broke apart, and through the opening, a white figure descended from the sky. The figure's cloak billowed like the crescent moon, and with both feet aimed squarely at the Dreamwalker, the figure kicked with the force of a falling meteor.

Dreamwalker's pupils contracted as he processed the scene.

Unlike the previous illusions, he knew with absolute certainty that this moment was real.

Someone had actually shattered the mothership's reinforced windshield, descending from thousands of meters in the air to deliver a powerful kick.

His first thought, almost ironic, was how unscientific the whole situation was.

Instinctively, Dreamwalker swung his cane, holding it horizontally in front of him. The white combat boots struck the cane with a force that nearly shattered the bones in his arms. The impact reverberated through his body, causing his very bones to hum with the force of it.

The force sent him flying backward, crashing into a screen mounted on the wall. The monitor shattered, sending a cascade of glass shards and exposed wires into the air. The broken glass sliced into his skin, drawing blood, and the metal edges of the screen cut deep.

Moon Knight landed in the center of the room, rising from a half-crouch with deliberate slowness, his movements measured and controlled. He exuded an aura of judgment, like a knight of legend come to life. All eyes turned to him, the agents frozen in place, their minds struggling to comprehend what they had just witnessed.

The agents of the Ninth Special Service Division were no strangers to bizarre occurrences. They knew they were trapped in some kind of dream illusion, a reality manipulated by the masked man standing before them. By all logic, everything they had seen should be nothing more than hallucinations, conjured by his mind.

But that logic faltered when confronted with the sight before them. If this was all his dream, why would he create a scene where he was beaten?

And if this wasn't an illusion, if this was real, then the reality they faced was even more unsettling. Could someone really have kicked through the windshield of a mothership at an altitude of thousands of meters, entering the ship in such a dramatic fashion?

The agents stood, stunned, unable to determine where the line between dream and reality was drawn.

Moon Knight did possess the ability to fly, a gift granted by the Moon God's protection. But this ability wasn't standard; it wasn't part of his regular powers. So, Charlie, who had drawn Moon Knight from the C-level pool, naturally couldn't fly several kilometers into the sky and land in this graveyard.

Tracking the nine motherships had been Batman's job. Batman had flown up in the Batfighter, switched roles mid-air to become Moon Knight, and made a spectacular entrance. Now, Moon Knight stood before them, ready for battle.

And so, the scene from the previous night replayed itself.

Dreamwalker, seemingly undeterred by his previous failure, decided to try his dream ability against Moon Knight once more.

The agents in the command room, still reeling from the confusion of dream and reality, found themselves witnessing a cinematic-level battle unfold before their eyes.

Dreamwalker raised his cane, and the floor of the command room began to ripple, rolling back like waves. Countless screens, suspended from the ceiling, rotated around Moon Knight, forming a dizzying kaleidoscope. Cables, crackling with electric sparks, shot out like venomous snakes, aiming to ensnare him.

But Moon Knight was unfazed.

Ignoring the swirling special effects, he delivered a simple, unembellished left uppercut. The punch connected with devastating force, sending Dreamwalker reeling. The sheer impact of the blow left him staggering, his mind momentarily dazed. He nearly lost his footing as the room spun around him, but he managed to remain upright, albeit barely.

Even as he was pummeled, Dreamwalker continued to speak, though his words were now slurred and muddled. Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth, but the defiance in his eyes remained.

"You... You must think... that you've cracked the secret of dreams... that you've seen the essence of them..." His voice was strained, each word a struggle to get out.

Before he could continue, Moon Knight delivered a swift knee to his midsection, the blow landing with brutal precision. The force of the strike drove all the air from Dreamwalker's lungs, and he felt as though his internal organs were being crushed. He doubled over, gasping for breath, as a wave of pain coursed through his body.

The impact sent Dreamwalker crashing into the metal wall behind him. His back slammed against the unforgiving surface, and he slid down to the floor, crumpled in a heap. Despite the pain, a smile crept across his face, twisted and mocking.

"You underestimate dreams," Dreamwalker whispered, his voice carrying an eerie calmness despite his battered state. "What you're fighting now is merely a nightmare of my own creation. But tell me, what will you do when you face your own nightmare?"

Chapter Text

Even among the "dead," few truly understand the full extent of the Dreamwalker's abilities.

TL Note - To those that are confused, refer to the chapter titled "He's Batman"]

His primary power, as seen earlier, is the creation of a dream realm entirely under his control. Within this realm, he is invincible, able to rewrite the laws of reality at will, twisting the very fabric of the world around him. Anyone ensnared in his dream can do nothing but submit to his manipulation.

However, this realm is a construct of Dreamwalker's own mind. It's as though he built a virtual room within his consciousness, then forcibly drags all nearby participants into his self-created domain. Within this space, he is the absolute master, the creator, and others cannot resist or escape—they are at his mercy.

But this trick proved ineffective against Moon Knight, so Dreamwalker resorted to a different approach.

As the saying goes, if the mountain won't come to you, then you must go to the mountain. Since he couldn't drag this white-cloaked warrior into his own dream realm, Dreamwalker decided to invade Moon Knight's mind instead.

Everyone harbors a nightmare within them, a manifestation of their deepest fears, an illusion born from the darkest recesses of their psyche. These nightmares are powerful enough to drown a person in terror, rendering them helpless.

Dreamwalkers excel at finding these hidden fears. He can locate the nightmare buried in the deepest, most protected corner of someone's mind, and force them to relive it endlessly until they break.

And Dreamwalker delights in this process.

The moment he entered the mind of Moon Knight, he was immediately struck by a scent that was both intoxicating and familiar.

Dreamwalkers, who have explored countless nightmares, recognized this scent instantly. It emanated from the depths of Moon Knight's heart—a fear far stronger than what he had encountered in most others. This was an ultimate nightmare, one so extreme that ordinary people couldn't even begin to fathom it.

Moon Knight, known to the world as Marc Spector, had lived almost his entire life trapped in a waking nightmare. His childhood was marred by a tragedy when, in a moment of negligence, his younger brother drowned. Wracked with guilt, Marc received no comfort from his family. Instead, his mother turned her grief and anger on him, blaming him for the death, and subjecting him to years of abuse.

As an adult, Marc joined the military and later became a mercenary. He endured countless physical and psychological traumas, his hands stained with the blood of both enemies and innocents. Even in death, Marc found no peace; he was resurrected by the moon god Khonshu to serve as his agent, the curse of his violent life continuing beyond the grave.

Dreamwalker was captivated by the scent of this nightmare. It was the ultimate form of suffering, the likes of which he had rarely encountered. The sheer intensity of Marc's torment was almost unfathomable. Any ordinary person would have long since succumbed to madness under such relentless agony.

But just as Dreamwalker was about to trigger this nightmare, everything changed in an instant.

The overwhelming pain and horror vanished, as if the dark clouds that had loomed over Marc's mind were suddenly torn apart. All the torment, the blood-soaked memories, the curse of eternal servitude—they all disappeared without a trace.

In their place, the terrifying nightmare transformed into a series of mundane, almost comical fears—forgetting to bring homework to class, being punished by the teacher, getting pranked by a classmate, struggling to find a job, and working endless overtime once employed.

Dreamwalker was utterly bewildered.

Where had the extreme nightmare gone? Where was the immense terror he had just sensed?

Then, out of nowhere, Dreamwalker felt a light tap on his shoulder.

"What the...uh!"

As he turned around, he was greeted by the sight of a man in a white suit with a hood standing behind him. Before he could react, the man swung a staff at his face, striking him with a force that made his head spin.

The impact left Dreamwalker's mind reeling, momentarily stunned.

Wait a minute, am I not in control of this dream?

Throughout his countless invasions into the dreams of others, Dreamwalker had always been the absolute master. This was the first time someone had turned the tables on him within the dream realm.

"Hasn't anyone ever told you that it's rude to spy on someone else's dreams?" the man in the white suit sneered.

This was Steven, the second personality of Moon Knight, known for being the most talkative of the three personalities.

Charlie had just pressed the "personality switch" button.

Immediately afterward, before Dreamwalker could regain his bearings, another hand grabbed him from behind, yanking him close, only to deliver a powerful punch to his face, sending him sprawling once more.

This time, it was Marc, the main personality of Moon Knight.

Charlie was equally surprised to discover that he could control two personalities simultaneously. Or more accurately, he could use the personality switch button to alternate control between the two at will. While one personality was under his direct control, the other seemed to operate automatically, even coordinating with him for a seamless combo attack.

This unique capability was likely possible only because they were in Moon Knight's dream—within his own spiritual domain.

Dreamwalker had made a grave error by attempting to invade the mind of someone as mentally complex and fractured as Marc Spector. The spiritual realm is Moon Knight's domain, and even without the added strength of spiritual attributes, it's a dangerous proposition to invade the mind of someone with severe dissociative identity disorder.

So, with both personalities working in tandem, Moon Knight launched a relentless assault. Dreamwalker found himself pummeled through a series of bizarre and rapidly changing scenes. One moment he was in a bustling city, the next he was in a scorching desert, then a schoolyard, followed by a war-torn battlefield—each transition as disorienting as the last.

Dreamwalker was utterly confounded.

First, he couldn't understand how his opponent could fight back so fiercely in the dream realm. Normally, those trapped within a dream had no power to resist his control.

Second, another question gnawed at his mind.

Why was this person still functioning as two separate entities within the dream?

In all the dreams he had invaded, everyone had only one self within their mental world. There had never been an exception.

So, if the man in the white suit is Marc's "ego," then who is the man with the hood?

And if the man in the hood is the true self, what's the deal with the white-suited figure?

Dreamwalker's mind was spinning out of control. The rapid shifts between scenes made his head throb, as if his soul was being torn in two. He couldn't comprehend how this bizarre individual could endure such a chaotic nightmare on a daily basis.

But the worst was yet to come.

Marc's personality kicked Dreamwalker squarely in the chest, sending him tumbling backward across the landscape. When he finally regained his footing, he was horrified to find himself standing amidst a sea of skeletons.

The battlefield was a desolate wasteland, with piles of bones and skulls stretching as far as the eye could see. Hollow black eye sockets stared at him from every direction, as if yearning to devour him whole.

An unprecedented fear gripped Dreamwalker's heart. He desperately tried to flee, but a pale hand shot out from the pile of skeletons, grabbing his ankle. From the mass of corpses, a figure emerged—wrapped in tattered white cloth like a mummy. Its face, hidden beneath a hood, was pitch black, as if staring into the void itself...

"Ah!"

The world spun again, the scene shifted, and they were back in the command room of the mothership.

The agents in the command room had witnessed only a brief standoff between Dreamwalker and Moon Knight. But then, suddenly, Dreamwalker let out a strangled cry, staggering backward as if he had seen a ghost. The agents couldn't fathom what had caused him such terror.

"Impossible, this can't be... What's going on with your dream!?"

Even though he had retreated just in time, Dreamwalker's head throbbed with pain, his mind reeling from the experience. He began to wonder if invading this freak's mind had been the worst decision of his life. If he had stayed in that dream a moment longer, he couldn't even begin to imagine what would have happened to him...

And then, he froze.

As if struck by lightning, Dreamwalker's eyes widened in absolute horror. Reflected in his gaze was a scene more terrifying than anything he had ever conjured in his own nightmares.

A giant figure rose from the ground, its head towering above the sky. The colossal body was draped in a shroud-like robe, its neck absent, leaving only a vulture-like head suspended above where the neck should have been.

The sky darkened, turning to night, with countless stars dotting the heavens. A crescent moon hung in the sky, its silver light casting an eerie glow. Moon Knight stood on the bridge, his body bathed in the moonlight, his cape billowing as if moved by an unseen wind. Behind him loomed the giant bird-like figure, a nightmarish sentinel.

Dreamwalker was paralyzed with shock.

He quickly realized from the awed and terrified expressions of the agents in the command room that they, too, could see the enormous shadow looming behind Moon Knight.

"No...impossible!"

Chapter Text

Meters in the air, the figure soared into the clouds, his clothes fluttered like bandages.

Kongsu, the moon god.

Everyone present in the command room saw that figure—a huge and stalwart body, with black eye sockets that seemed to hide the abyss of death, and the sharp crescent blade that resembled the scythe of death.

No one could understand what was going on.

They all knew now that everything they had seen, experienced, and felt so far didn't make sense. It was all just a dream—a false reality created by the Dreamwalker. This meant that everything should have been a dream beneficial to the Dreamwalker.

But this giant with a bird's head and a human body seemed to be on the side of the white knight, following the masked man against him.

So, unless this masked lunatic had a strange habit of getting his ass beaten, then this giant was probably not his doing.

But if it's not a dream...could it be real?

The thought was even more frightening, especially with the oppressive force brought by the giant with the bird's head and human body. The whole ship seemed to sink with each footstep, making every cell in those looking directly at him scream that he was real—that he was some kind of god.

The agents could no longer believe their eyes.

What is real? What is a dream?

Not even the Dreamwalker could understand. He now stared at the huge figure with wide eyes beneath his mask, doubting everything and muttering, "Impossible."

This was the dream he fabricated, the space he dominated. Everything should have been under his control, easily transformed according to his will.

How could this happen?

Could it be that the dream he created was invaded by the white knight's dream? Did he fail to invade the opponent's Nightmare?

Dreamwalker's face twisted under the mask. Dreams were his domain, his most trusted ally. Having his dream invaded felt worse to him than his wife being taken.

Charlie was quite pleased.

Kongsu signed in himself, and Charlie could now hang back and watch.

Although it seemed a bit overkill to fight the young ones and the old ones, it didn't matter. The funniest part was that this most powerful god-level daddy was not summoned by Charlie himself but by the enemy.

It is well known that Kongsu, the moon god, cannot affect reality, and he basically operates only in the spiritual world of Moon Knight. But Dreamwalker invaded the spirit of Moon Knight, opened the gate of the Nightmare, and released Kongsu, who lived in the Moon Knight's spiritual world, into the nightmare realm he created.

There is a saying that it is easier to invite gods than to send them away. Kongsu was released unintentionally, and it may not be so easy to put him back into Moon Knight's mind.

Charlie thought Kongsu might be happy now. In the past, he had to fool his hard-working soldier, Moon Knight, through threats and temptations to get him to do anything for him. The results were often disappointing.

But this time, things were different—the enemy released the old man himself. Kongsu would be delighted. He had been punishing evil for so many years, and it might be the first time he saw someone so eager to face death. He must have enjoyed it.

"No, no, no...you can't," Dreamwalker yelled hysterically, raising his cane violently.

At that moment, everyone felt that the entire mothership was being gripped by an invisible force. The windshield of the command room began to crack, and the surrounding metal walls deformed under the terrifying pressure. Broken pipes and cables exploded, sending sparks everywhere.

The cabin shattered, and the airflow engulfed the sky full of glass and metal fragments, sweeping toward Kongsu like a violent storm.

But Kongsu only raised a hand, unhurriedly.

In an instant, all the debris in the sky froze. The glass was ground into powder, and all the metal parts were crushed by dozens of times the gravity, compressed into a point, and disappeared without a trace.

If this scene was already suffocating, what happened next was almost cardiac arrest.

Kongsu raised the scepter in his hand, the sharp crescent moon pointing directly at the dark and boundless night sky.

He is the god of the moon and night.

The starry sky is his domain.

Dreamwalker's eyes widened, and his mouth under the mask opened involuntarily, as if his soul trembled at the sight.

He saw the stars... falling.

Yes, that's exactly what it looked like. The twinkling stars in the sky began to move, growing larger in his field of vision. They swooped down at the speed of light, and the dazzling brilliance they trailed seemed to draw a star road, rushing straight toward him.

Everyone saw the shocking scene they could not comprehend. All the stars in the night seemed to respond to the call of the moon god, following the direction in which the scepter swung down, and swooped toward the ship.

Dreamwalker tried to remain calm.

It's just a dream, just a dream, not real. He tried to tell himself.

These tricks were all invented by him, his best work. This was his domain, the Nightmare he created. At worst, he just needed to release his ability and wake up immediately...

But no.

He tried his best to activate his ability and roared hysterically, but when he opened his eyes again, the death-like giant shadow still stood there. The stars in the sky were still locked onto his position and falling.

It was a scene beyond even the most extreme movie special effects. Countless stars exploded in the dreamscape, bursting like clusters of extremely gorgeous fireworks.

Each agent saw the night sky shatter into countless fragments, with colorful starlight filling the entire space. The mothership crumbled beneath them, but they didn't fall. The brilliant light effects and the impact of annihilation swept past their eyes and bodies without harming them at all, as if the very laws of this space had been rewritten.

They were all stunned by the impactful panoramic picture, feeling as if they were witnessing a war at the edge of the universe...

But Dreamwalker wasn't so lucky.

He felt as if the entire starry sky had been thrown at him, as if all the stars in the universe had turned into suicide bombs. Every explosion made him feel like his body was being smashed to pieces, as if his entire being was being annihilated from flesh to bone to the molecular level, over and over again.

He had always played the role of hunter in his dreams, but today, he became the prey for the first time.

This is just a dream, Dreamwalker kept telling himself, just like countless people who had been trapped in his nightmares before.

It was just a dream, a long and real nightmare, the kind of thing he excelled at. He told himself not to be afraid, to face it, to unmask it as a mere ghostly illusion. It had no power to hurt him.

Nothing to be afraid of...

"...Don't come here!"

His soul seemed to be shattered into countless pieces, his reason pushed to the brink of collapse. It was an experience a hundred times more terrifying than pain or death. Under the endless cycle of torture, even death became a luxury.

The space shattered like a mirror, and among the falling stars, a snow-white cloak flew by as Moon Knight rushed toward him.

Dreamwalker was lifted up. He now felt that his body was like a patchwork of broken parts, barely obeying his commands.

"I'm not afraid of nightmares," Moon Knight said in a deep voice under the mask, the character's automatic response.

"Because I live in them."

The execution prompt appeared on the screen, and Charlie pressed it without hesitation.

Moon Knight dragged the opponent close, holding the crescent dart in his hand like a dagger. Dreamwalker's eyes widened, and his entire head, along with the mask, flew from his neck and rolled across the ground, trailing blood and bone.

Wake up.

The scene of the galaxy breaking and everything collapsing gradually faded, the fragments of space returning to their original positions as if rewound, and the stars returning to their rightful places.

The mothership that had been blown to pieces was also restored, with countless metal fragments automatically reassembling into parts, all returning to their places.

Everyone returned to the bridge. Although the command room was a bit messy, it was still intact. Their mothership had not been dismantled into pieces but was still floating in the sky... well, at least it was still in the sky.

Kongsu was the last to disappear.

Charlie had the sense that the old bird was a bit dissatisfied when he disappeared. Perhaps he had enjoyed the rare opportunity to take action without having to trick Moon Knight, but the fight had ended before he could fully savor it. It was a bit unsatisfactory...

But in the end, his body gradually disintegrated, blowing away like a gray dust curtain.

When they came back to their senses, the agents found that their clothes were soaked with sweat. Few had the strength to stand. It felt like drifting in an endless river for days and nights before finally being fished ashore.

The strong heartache gradually faded, replaced by overwhelming exhaustion.

They looked around the command room and found the headless corpse not too far away; his masked head rolled to a distant corner.

But the white knight who turned the tide had disappeared.

Many people were confused.

They couldn't tell which of the scenes they had just witnessed were real and which were dreams.

There was a deafening roar from the command room's engine.

When everyone turned their heads, they saw that the jet fighter, which looked like a bat, was slowly rising from in front of their portholes, with transparent tail flames blowing out from the bottom.

It turned its direction, as if locking onto the horizon, and the propeller roared to life, spewing out a transparent tail flame. The jet quickly disappeared into the clouds, vanishing from everyone's sight.

Chapter Text

Opening his eyes.

It took a few disorienting moments for Felix to realize he was lying on the cold, metallic floor of the mothership. For a fleeting instant, his mind struggled to piece together why he was there, like an old computer trying to reboot after a system crash. His vision blurred, and his head pounded as he tried to push himself up. The second he lifted his face from the ground, a wave of dizziness hit him, threatening to drag him back down.

His thoughts were scattered, sluggish, as though his brain had been forced to process far more than it could handle. He patted his forehead, trying to clear the fog in his mind, and then the memories began to surface, fragment by fragment.

Today was the day of the routine report. Felix had come to the mothership to deliver a mission briefing to his superiors. Everything had been normal, routine even—until it wasn't.

He was on his way to the hangar when he encountered them.

The infected.

It was like stepping into a horror film, the kind you couldn't escape from. Without warning, a group of infected had surged into the corridor, their eyes wild, faces twisted into grotesque masks of rage and hunger. Felix had fought back with everything he had, but he was quickly overwhelmed. He remembered the feeling of hands clawing at him, the suffocating pressure as they pinned him down. The last thing he saw before everything went black was a face—contorted, monstrous—mere inches from his own, eyes filled with madness.

The shock of the memory jolted him awake. He gasped, the scene flashing vividly in his mind. Instinctively, he turned his head, and that's when he saw it.

A woman's face.

Her hair was tangled and matted, partially obscuring her features, but what was visible was worse than any corpse. Her eyes were wide open, vacant, yet filled with a frozen terror. Her mouth was agape, teeth bared as if she had died mid-snarl, trying to devour him.

A scream bubbled up from his throat, raw and panicked. Felix scrambled backward, reaching for his gun, only to find the holster empty.

But then, as his heart pounded in his chest, he noticed something—she wasn't moving.

The woman was dead.

One of the metal walls had cracked open, and jagged steel bars had burst forth, impaling her through the chest. Her body was contorted in an unnatural, horrific pose, limbs twisted, fingers splayed as if she were frozen mid-lunge. She looked more like a grotesque sculpture than a human being.

Felix's breath came in ragged gasps as he took in the scene around him. The hallway was a slaughterhouse. Corpses of the infected lay scattered, some dismembered, others decapitated. Blood soaked the floor, pooling in rivers that crisscrossed the corridor.

His pistol, the one that should have been in his holster, was lodged in a crack in the wall, its clip spent and empty.

Slowly, he lowered his gaze to his hands. They were drenched in blood.

His mind raced, trying to piece together what had happened. What had he done? What had been done to him?

---

The mothership docked at the base without further incident, but the tension among the crew was palpable.

In the conference room, high-ranking officials gathered, their expressions grim. The atmosphere was thick with unease. When the door opened, and Professor Miyazaki entered, his head wrapped in a mummy-like bandage, a ripple of surprise spread through the room.

"Professor Miyazaki?" Dr. Hines began, his voice tinged with disbelief. "I heard you were…"

"Shot in the head? Don't worry, I'm fine. Just a scratch, really," Miyazaki replied with a nonchalant smile, easing himself into a chair as though discussing nothing more than a minor inconvenience. "If the bullet had missed by another two centimeters, even a special person like me might not have been so lucky."

The room was silent, the tension thickening as his words sank in. Many of the officials exchanged skeptical glances. It was hard to fathom how a headshot could result in just a scratch, but no one dared to question him further.

Professor Miyazaki wasn't just any researcher—he was the leading authority on infection events, and his eccentricity was well-known. The Specters, a unique group with physical abilities far beyond those of ordinary humans, possessed extraordinary healing powers. If anyone could survive a headshot with just a scratch, it was Miyazaki.

They quickly moved on to the matter at hand, reviewing the chaotic events that had unfolded.

It was as though the gates of a lunatic asylum had been thrown open, and madness had poured in. A group of infected had infiltrated the mothership, wreaking havoc. But just as the situation seemed dire, a mysterious figure, referred to as "Moon Knight," had appeared on the scene. He had dispatched the infected with brutal efficiency.

In the aftermath, even the most seasoned agents were left in disbelief. The mothership, which had always been considered impenetrable, felt more like a private playground for this enigmatic intruder. He had not only neutralized the threat but also extinguished a fire near the power cabin—an act that had almost gone unnoticed in the chaos.

Yet, despite their unexpected rescue, there was an unsettling sense that something was deeply wrong. The mothership, a symbol of strength and security, now felt vulnerable, as if it had been exposed to forces beyond their control.

The ability to create dreams, coupled with the appearance of the white knight, had left witnesses shaken.

Professor Miyazaki offered an explanation, suggesting that the white knight might possess a form of dream-manipulation, but some agents believed there was more to it.

"You didn't see it directly," one agent later remarked during questioning, his voice tinged with both awe and dread.

"That thing… I've never encountered anything like it. It's as if your soul is being gripped, your very breath controlled, like your body no longer belongs to you…"

Several agents shared similar experiences, and despite reassurances that it was all just an illusion, their testimonies only deepened the mystery surrounding the Moon Knight.

While the dream system's abilities and the white knight's unearthly presence were concerning, they weren't the most pressing issues.

The core problem was far more insidious—a traitor within their ranks.

"Melanie Chase," Professor Miyazaki stated, his tone leaving no room for doubt.

The room fell into a heavy silence.

Melanie wasn't just any agent; she held a significant rank within the Ninth Special Service Division. If she had indeed turned traitor, the implications were dire.

Yet, even with her rank, disabling the mothership's alarm system should have been impossible without the highest clearance.

"That's a serious accusation," Minister Hercules said, his voice cautious. "Are you certain?"

"Absolutely," Miyazaki replied, crossing his legs as he gestured to the bandage on his head.

"She shot me in the forehead."

The room erupted in a low murmur, the gravity of the situation sinking in.

"Melanie is missing. Does anyone know where she is?"

"She's no longer on the mothership. The invasion was likely a diversion, and the dream maker's abilities only added to the chaos. I suspect she left before the dream maker reached the command room."

Miyazaki's voice was calm, almost detached, as he continued.

"I've sent teams to search for her at the ground base and her known residences. But I wouldn't hold out much hope."

The mood in the room grew even darker.

"A senior agent from the Division in league with an infected criminal group," Hercules muttered. "Well, at least the news can't get any worse."

"In fact, it might," Miyazaki said, almost casually.

"What do you mean?" Hercules asked, his brow furrowing.

Miyazaki leaned forward, a hint of secrecy in his expression.

"I've examined the corpses. Most of the invaders were indeed infected, but the masked man who manipulated the dream… he wasn't infected."

The room was filled with confused murmurs.

"Then what was he?" someone asked.

"I believe he was a phantom," Miyazaki replied, his voice firm.

A stunned silence fell over the room.

"A phantom? You mean…"

"Yes," Miyazaki confirmed, his voice deadly serious. "Something similar to our agent Fana and the one separated from Ivan before. The enemy we're dealing with, the organization known as 'the Dead,' may have a considerable number of phantoms among them."

The news hit the room like a bombshell.

Phantoms were far more terrifying than ordinary infected people. Ivan's experience had proven that. While infected individuals were still constrained by human frailty, phantoms were not. They were new entities, separated from the spirit, and the limits of their power were unknown.

And if phantoms possessed abilities as devastating as the dream manipulation witnessed today, the threat was even greater.

"We have bad news as well," Minister Richard interjected, his tone grim. "We checked the items in the warehouse and discovered that one piece of evidence is missing."

"What evidence? Is it important?" Hercules asked.

"No, it's a D-level exhibit, numbered a086," Richard explained. "But if they went to all this trouble, that item might have been their target from the start… it must be significant.

One more thing about this evidence—it may be a coincidence, but a086 was brought back by our

former operations captain, Link, just before he… defected."

The mention of Link's name sent a ripple of tension through the room.

"Link, the one at the top of our wanted list?" someone asked.

"Of course," Richard replied. "Do you know of any other defected agents named Link?"

Hercules rubbed his temples, feeling the weight of the situation pressing down on him. "And what's the purpose of this evidence?"

"That's the problem," Richard said, his voice tinged with frustration. "We don't know."

Chapter Text

The alarm blared through the room, piercing the silence with an urgency that was hard to ignore. After what felt like a Herculean effort in his sleep, battling through levels and vanquishing six formidable foes in the blockade of his dream, Charlie finally stirred. He sat up slowly, the weight of exhaustion pulling at his limbs, and let out a deep, lazy yawn, stretching as if to shake off the remnants of the night's turmoil.

The previous night had been an arduous ordeal. Initially, Charlie had planned to finish his mission quickly—his objective was to eradicate a particularly stubborn tree-shaped infection source. Once that was done, he intended to log off early. After all, he needed to wake up at the crack of dawn; his mother had booked a morning train, and it was his responsibility to see her off at the station.

But as fate would have it, things spiraled out of control.

The late-night gaming session had taken a toll. The relentless battle had pushed well past midnight, and by the time Charlie finally logged off, exhaustion had settled into his bones. This morning, even with the strongest cup of coffee he could brew, he felt like a zombie, dragging himself out of bed. As he passed by the mirror on his way out, he caught a glimpse of his reflection—dark circles under his eyes, a testament to the sleepless night. His mother had given him a concerned look earlier, and now he understood why.

---

As he descended the stairs, still trying to shake off the last remnants of sleep, Charlie was met with an unexpected sight. Fana, a colleague who he had met just the day before, was standing across the street. She clutched a small bag in her hands, her eyes scanning the area as if she were searching for someone.

The moment she spotted Charlie and Megan making their way down, her face lit up with a bright smile. Without hesitation, she crossed the street and approached them, extending the small bag toward Charlie.

Charlie blinked in surprise, caught off guard by her sudden appearance. "For us?" he asked, his voice tinged with curiosity.

Fana nodded slightly, her smile never wavering.

Megan took the bag, her curiosity piqued. She opened it to reveal an assortment of desserts and snacks—precisely the treats they had passed by the day before at a popular bakery, only to find them sold out.

Charlie's memory flashed back to the day before. That particular bakery was notorious for its long lines, with customers queuing up in the early hours of the morning just to get their hands on the coveted sweets. Among the items in the bag was the bakery's famous silt cake, a delicacy that sold out almost as soon as the shop opened its doors.

He couldn't help but raise an eyebrow in astonishment. For Fana to have secured these treats meant she must have woken up at an ungodly hour—perhaps even before dawn—to stand in line. And then, she had waited here, patiently, all morning just to deliver this small bag of desserts to them.

Charlie's thoughts raced. At dinner last night, Megan had mentioned that she had a morning train to catch. Fana must have remembered that detail and gone out of her way to do something kind. But still...

"Why?" Charlie asked, his voice filled with genuine confusion. They were colleagues, sure, but they had only shared a meal together once. They weren't particularly close, certainly not enough to warrant such an early morning effort.

Fana's smile widened slightly, her eyes softening as she spoke a single word. "Friend."

Megan accepted the gift with heartfelt gratitude, her smile matching Fana's warmth. She suggested that Fana should visit them the next time Charlie returned to his hometown, extending an open invitation. Just then, the car Charlie had hailed on his phone arrived, and they exchanged quick goodbyes.

As the car pulled away from the curb, Charlie's thoughts drifted back to the night before. He remembered the children he had seen when he had taken Batman to the orphanage, their innocent faces lighting up with curiosity and hope. And then, his mind wandered to Fana's past, the struggles she must have faced, the loneliness she had likely endured.

A thought began to take shape in his mind—a thought that made him pause. To him, their meeting had been a brief, casual encounter. They had shared a meal, nothing more. But for Fana, perhaps it was something much more significant. Perhaps it was the first time someone had shared a meal with her not as a colleague, but as a friend.

As the car navigated through the busy streets, Charlie couldn't resist the urge to look back. Fana was still standing at the intersection, her white dress catching the morning light, making her look like a delicate carnation growing by the roadside. She stood there, steadfast, watching them depart with a quiet, almost melancholic gaze.

And then, for a brief moment, Charlie thought he saw something else—something that sent a chill down his spine. Standing behind Fana, almost obscured by the shadows, was a woman in red. Her long black hair covered most of her face, leaving only a glimpse of her pale skin visible. There was something unsettling about her presence, something that made the hairs on the back of Charlie's neck stand on end.

But what truly unnerved him was the fact that the woman in red seemed to be waving in their direction, her movements slow and deliberate.

A memory stirred within Charlie, a fragment of a conversation from the previous night's dinner. Fana had mentioned her family, specifically her mother. "Not alone," she had said, "with Mom."

Could it be that the mother she spoke of was...

Charlie's heart skipped a beat, and he quickly turned to look again, but the car had already driven too far. The intersection was now just a blur of colors in the distance, and Fana's figure had vanished into the crowd, swallowed by the bustling city.

...

After seeing his mother off at the station, Charlie decided to skip school. There was no point in dragging himself through the motions when he could barely keep his eyes open. He trusted his friend to cover for him during roll call and sign-in, so he headed back to his room, eager to dive back into his virtual world.

As he sat down at his desk and powered up his computer, the familiar hum of the machine brought a sense of comfort. After the intensity of the previous night, it was time to check his rewards and see what progress he had made. The game's main interface loaded, and almost immediately, a reward notification from last night's mission popped up on the screen.

The first thing that caught his eye was a logo with vibrant, flashing lightning effects—an unmistakable sign that his account had been upgraded.

Excitement coursed through Charlie. Account upgrades were always a cause for celebration. They often unlocked new features, additional modules, and marked yet another step forward on his path to mastering the game.

This particular upgrage did not disappoint. The first pop-up notification informed him that his three-person team had now been upgraded to a four-person squad. This meant he could now have four characters ready for deployment in battles, a significant boost to his strategic options.

But that wasn't all. The upgrade also unlocked a feature Charlie had been eagerly anticipating: the team function.

Previously, the team function had been limited and somewhat rudimentary. One character would fight while the others remained idle, waiting in the wings. But now, with this new upgrade, Charlie could engage in true team battles. He could send two heroes into combat at the same time, creating a more dynamic and engaging experience.

Charlie had suspected that this feature was on the horizon, especially after a dream the previous night where he had played a mixed doubles match with Moon Knight's two personalities. The game's mechanics had hinted at the possibility of team-based combat, and now that possibility had become a reality.

Wasting no time, Charlie immediately dove into the tutorial levels to test out the new feature. The game's tutorial levels were saved, allowing players to revisit them at any time to practice, experiment with new heroes, or test newly unlocked gameplay mechanics.

After a few rounds, Charlie began to grasp the nuances of the new team function. The gameplay was reminiscent of the doubles mode in the Arkham series. Players could freely switch between two characters during combat, with one character being controlled by the player while the other was managed by the AI. The cooldown time for switching control was a mere second—so brief that it barely interrupted the flow of battle.

For a skilled player like Charlie, this feature opened up a world of possibilities. With precise timing and strategic thinking, he could seamlessly switch between characters, effectively doubling his combat prowess. The fluidity of the gameplay, combined with the strategic depth, made the battles more intense and satisfying.

However, the success of this feature hinged on the AI's intelligence. As the saying goes, you're not afraid of god-like opponents, but of pig-like teammates. A poorly controlled AI teammate could easily ruin even the most well-executed plan. Charlie was relieved to discover that the AI-controlled teammate performed admirably during his simulations. The AI wasn't perfect, but it was competent enough to assist without making reckless or foolish decisions.

The new mode also introduced a feature that excited Charlie even more: combo skills. When certain characters were paired together, their synergy could unlock powerful combination attacks, significantly boosting combat efficiency. Iconic duos like Batman and Superman, Iron Man and Captain America, or Green Lantern and The Flash had special cooperative abilities recognized and certified by the system. These combinations not only unlocked unique skills but also provided slight enhancements to the heroes' abilities and attributes.

This didn't mean Charlie had to memorize every character relationship from various comics to find the best pairings. Thankfully, the system handled that for him. When Charlie selected two compatible heroes, a "Best Match" prompt would appear on the screen, indicating that he had chosen an optimal pairing. This feature made the process of forming teams intuitive and rewarding.

As Charlie continued to explore the new possibilities, he couldn't shake the feeling that something unexpected had been mixed into the game.

Chapter Text

In addition to unlocking the function of character teaming and two-line combat, the recent upgrade naturally required the development of new personal abilities for players.

As Charlie browsed through the hero roster teeming with newcomers, he felt the weight of the decision pressing down on him. The roster was vast, filled with heroes, each with their own unique set of skills and abilities. After much deliberation, he decided to focus on the team's newest C-level player, Moon Knight.

From the moment he saw Moon Knight in the lineup, Charlie knew that this character was special. Moon Knight, with his enigmatic presence and complex abilities, was more than just another hero; he was a game-changer. The skill set available in Moon Knight's arsenal was nothing short of impressive. Not only did he possess basic physical enhancements—strength, agility, endurance—but he also had access to more mysterious powers that intrigued Charlie.

One of the standout abilities was Moon Knight's capacity to see and interact with spirit bodies. This skill alone set him apart from most other heroes in the roster. The power to touch and even sanction ghosts and spirits was a rare and potentially invaluable ability. However, there was a catch. In the world Charlie was currently navigating, most of the "infected" beings were more amusing than threatening, and it remained uncertain whether actual ghosts or spirits existed in this realm. This uncertainty made it difficult to determine just how useful Moon Knight's spectral abilities would be.

But Charlie knew that if there were indeed spirits lurking in the shadows of this world, then Moon Knight's abilities could become crucial. The landscape of American comics was dominated by heroes who relied on mutations or advanced technology. Few delved into the mystical or metaphysical realms. Even the most powerful heroes lacked defenses against supernatural threats, making Moon Knight's specialized skills all the more valuable.

As Charlie considered the various options within Moon Knight's skill set, he found himself drawn to the character's potential. There were so many enviable skills to choose from—abilities that could tip the balance in any battle. Yet, there was one lingering concern that gnawed at him. The game's description of "hero skills" was often vague, sometimes maddeningly so. There was a nagging fear that Moon Knight's schizophrenia might be classified as a "skill." The thought of drawing such an ability was troubling. It wasn't the kind of power-up he was looking for.

Unfortunately, as if the universe were playing a cruel joke, Charlie's previous two skill draws had been a mixed bag. One had given him combat skills from Captain America—solid, reliable, but not particularly exciting. The other had resulted in basic super strength, a generic power-up that, while useful, lacked the flair and uniqueness he craved. This time, Charlie had hoped for something more. But fate, it seemed, had other plans.

With a deep breath, Charlie made his choice and initiated the draw. The result? "Gun specialization."

Moon Knight, also known as Marc Spector, had been a formidable mercenary before donning the mantle of Moon Knight. He was well-versed in the use of various weapons, so it made sense that this skill would be in his pool. However, despite its practicality, it wasn't exactly the game-changer Charlie had hoped for.

"Gun specialization" wasn't a useless skill, but it wasn't the most thrilling option either. The problem was that this ability wasn't easily tested in the current game environment. After all, Charlie wasn't surrounded by an arsenal of firearms, and the opportunity to make use of this skill was limited. While it was true that most men didn't have such skills inherently, this one wasn't something that would see frequent use in his current situation. Reluctantly, Charlie set the skill aside, mentally noting to revisit it when the opportunity arose.

Next came the most anticipated part of the upgrade process—the card pool drawing. This was where Charlie hoped to turn the tide in his favor.

As the card drawing interface loaded, Charlie's heart skipped a beat. Previously, the only option had been the "C-level teleportation array," which offered a chance to summon heroes and equipment, albeit with limited power and potential. But now, a new slot had appeared beside it, marked with the tantalizing words "B-level teleportation array."

"B-level teleportation array: Hero points can be consumed to activate the teleportation array, which can summon more powerful superheroes or hero equipment. Each activation of the teleportation array requires 50 hero points."

Charlie's eyes widened in excitement.

Finally, the higher-level teleportation array had arrived. He had anticipated this moment for so long. In the back of his mind, he had prepared himself for the possibility that the higher-level teleportation array would come with a hefty price tag—perhaps even requiring five hundred hero points per activation. But to his surprise, the system had been unexpectedly generous. The upgrade to the card pool didn't come with a price increase, a rare moment of relief in the often unforgiving world of gaming.

The C-level teleportation array was a mixed bag. Most of the heroes it summoned were ordinary, lacking the peak strength that could turn the tide of battle. Even when it did produce superheroes, they were often past their prime, their abilities capped by the limitations of the pool.

But the B-level teleportation array—this was a game-changer. Charlie could imagine that 80% of the heroes in this pool would be true powerhouses, superheroes who could make a difference. Even if the occasional oddball character appeared, they would still likely outclass those from the C-level pool.

With no hesitation, Charlie decided to take the plunge and initiate the first draw from the B-level pool.

As the screen flashed and the first round began, Charlie's excitement grew. The special effects that accompanied the draw were a promising sign—lightning, swirling colors, and a sense of anticipation filled the screen. This could be it. This could be the moment when his luck finally turned around, and he would pull something extraordinary.

But then, as the swirling colors settled, Charlie's heart sank a little.

The item revealed was… a razor?

Charlie blinked, his excitement giving way to confusion.

He opened the item's description, hoping for some hidden significance, and found that it was indeed a razor. But not just any razor—it was the razor used by Wolverine. Still, this revelation did little to alleviate Charlie's disappointment.

"Seriously?" Charlie thought, a mixture of disbelief and exasperation filling his mind. "Now they're giving star effects to razors?"

It reminded him of the live promotions he had seen before—those awkward moments when products were pushed with flashy effects to make them seem more appealing. And now, it seemed even the superhero game card pool was jumping on the bandwagon of odd product placements.

"Alright, stay calm," Charlie told himself, trying to rein in his frustration.

He hoped this was just a one-off fluke, but as the drawing continued, it became clear that this was only the beginning. One by one, he pulled out several other items of questionable value—things he had never heard of, items that seemed to have no practical use in the game. Only one item stood out among the oddities: "Hulk's Legendary Pants."

As Charlie held the item in his virtual hands, he couldn't help but feel a twinge of disappointment. Even after examining the pants closely, he couldn't discern anything particularly special about them. In fact, they seemed like ordinary underpants, albeit with a storied history.

In his mind, Hulk's underpants should be on par with the indestructible armor worn by the most iconic heroes. After all, these pants had to withstand the sheer force of Hulk's transformation, growing with him to a size that would make even Thor shudder. They had accompanied Hulk through countless battles, enduring unimaginable stress and strain. They had to be more than just ordinary fabric, right?

"Imagine," Charlie thought to himself, "throwing a massive city-destroying attack at Hulk, only for him to emerge unscathed, his pants still intact. The enemy would retreat, bewildered, reporting back, 'Sir, we failed to penetrate the enemy's pants…'"

But as Charlie continued to examine the pants, his initial excitement faded. The durability of the underpants, it seemed, was more a product of narrative necessity—thanks to the ratings board ensuring the film remained family-friendly—than any actual in-game advantage. Without this "mysterious power," the underpants were just that—ordinary underpants, with nothing particularly special about them.

"Seriously? This is what I get?" Charlie thought, a mix of frustration and resignation setting in. "If you're going to give me Hulk's pants, at least give me something cool like Scarlet Witch or Supergirl…"

Charlie's initial enthusiasm for the B-level pool, which had not raised its price despite the upgrade, quickly began to wane. It dawned on him that perhaps the reason the points hadn't increased was because the developers had turned the pool into a dumping ground for random, meaningless items.

But thankfully, despite the initial frustration, the B-level pool still had some redeeming qualities. Even though the odds seemed stacked against him, there was still a chance—a glimmer of hope that something good might come out of this.

After three rounds and ten consecutive draws, Charlie's patience was finally rewarded. Just as his hero points were about to run out, a golden light appeared on the screen—the kind of light that promised something truly special.

Charlie's breath caught in his throat as he drew out the first superhero he had pulled from the B-level pool.

As the dazzling golden light faded, a figure emerged—a silhouette of red and blue, slender yet undeniably powerful. The figure was clad in a tight-fitting uniform, the

elastic fabric giving off a sleek, spandex-like sheen. The red parts of the suit were interwoven with black lines, forming a vast, intricate web that covered the figure's torso.

It was none other than Marvel's beloved superhero, the one who had made Marvel and Sony's executives negotiate endlessly, a member of the Avengers, and the friendly neighborhood hero adored by all—

—The Amazing Spider-Man.

Charlie's eyes widened as he realized the significance of what he had just pulled. This wasn't just another hero—this was one of the most iconic characters in the entire Marvel universe. Spider-Man, with his agility, strength, and web-slinging abilities, was a force to be reckoned with. He was the kind of hero who could change the course of a battle, the kind of hero who could make a real difference.

For a moment, all the frustrations and disappointments of the previous draws melted away. Charlie had done it. He had pulled Spider-Man from the B-level pool, and the possibilities that lay ahead filled him with excitement.

As he sat back, a grin spreading across his face, Charlie couldn't help but feel a sense of triumph. This was what gaming was all about—the highs, the lows, and the thrill of the unexpected. And now, with Spider-Man on his team, Charlie knew that things were about to get a lot more interesting.

Chapter Text

Spider-Man is not just a popular superhero; he's an icon, a character so deeply ingrained in popular culture that his name transcends the confines of the comic book world. Even people who have never picked up a comic book in their lives know who Spider-Man is. He's a character that appeals to the masses, a household name recognized by almost everyone, from avid fans to casual passersby.

Charlie Cooper's earliest memory of Spider-Man dates back to his elementary school days. He remembered vividly how he had recently become enthralled with Batman, largely thanks to his neighbor's enthusiastic endorsement. Batman had seemed like the coolest hero to him, with his dark persona, sophisticated gadgets, and unmatched detective skills. Charlie couldn't wait to share his newfound obsession with another friend who lived nearby.

However, the reception wasn't what he had expected. Instead of sharing in his excitement, the other kid had turned up his nose at the mention of Batman. "Oh, Batman? Yeah, I know him," the kid had said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "He got superpowers after being bitten by a bat, right? Total rip-off of Spider-Man! My favorite hero is Spider-Man, and Batman is just a lame copycat!"

[TL Note - I'm swinging, I'm Swinging, Im gonna fcking put a bullet in that kid's head]

That was all it took for the situation to escalate. What began as a simple conversation quickly degenerated into a heated argument. Before long, they were hurling insults at each other, passionately defending their heroes. The dispute soon evolved into a wrestling match on the elementary school playground, with neither willing to back down. While this might have been an isolated incident, it was a clear testament to the widespread recognition of Spider-Man's origin story.

The story of Spider-Man is a tale as old as time in the world of superheroes. Peter Parker, a bright and somewhat introverted young man, was bitten by a radioactive spider, and as a result, he gained extraordinary abilities. It's a narrative so ingrained in the collective consciousness that it's hard to find someone who doesn't know it.

In the superhero community, there's a saying: "The power of parental sacrifice is boundless." This idea is illustrated perfectly in the story arcs of many superheroes. If you look at the original Avengers lineup, you'll notice that the absence of parental figures is almost a prerequisite for greatness. In fact, if you gathered all the original Avengers, you could almost piece together a complete set of parents—though, admittedly, Thor's family history contributed more than its fair share of tragedy. By the time the story progressed, even the few remaining parental figures had disappeared, leaving the heroes to forge their paths alone.

Peter Parker, as a Marvel orphan, starts his journey with a significant emotional burden. The loss of his parents at a young age set the stage for a life filled with challenges. But it was the death of his Uncle Ben—a figure who was more than just a surrogate parent—that truly defined him. Uncle Ben's final words, "With great power comes great responsibility," became Peter's guiding principle, a mantra that shaped his entire existence. These words were both a source of strength and a burden, compelling Peter to engage in battles far beyond his capacity, often at great personal cost, yet saving countless lives in the process.

Carrying the weight of Uncle Ben's death and the overwhelming responsibility of his newfound powers, Peter Parker, as Spider-Man, embarked on a life that was a delicate balancing act. He had to navigate the complexities of high school, the perils of being a superhero, and the mundane realities of holding down a job—all while dealing with the usual struggles of adolescence and the complications of his love life.

When Spider-Man joined Charlie's roster of heroes, it was more than just an addition; it was a significant upgrade that elevated the overall strength of his team. Charlie could feel the excitement building within him. With Spider-Man on board, the potential of his superhero squad expanded dramatically. The future seemed brighter, the challenges more surmountable. Spider-Man's arrival marked a turning point, one that brought Charlie closer to realizing his dream of assembling an unstoppable team of heroes.

The concept of starting with Batman and eventually unlocking the full roster of the Justice League and Avengers was the stuff of dreams. Charlie could barely contain his excitement as he imagined the possibilities. Commanding a team that included the world's greatest heroes filled him with a sense of anticipation and pride.

His excitement was also deeply personal. The first time Charlie saw Tobey Maguire's portrayal of Spider-Man on the big screen, he was just a kid, watching the movie at his neighbor's house. The moment Spider-Man swung across the skyscrapers of New York City, Charlie was hooked. Spider-Man wasn't just another superhero to him; he was a symbol of hope, resilience, and the power of doing good, no matter the odds. Now, having access to Spider-Man's abilities in the game felt like a childhood dream coming true. It was as if he had unlocked a treasure that he had long sought.

Spider-Man's abilities were legendary, each one more impressive than the last:

Superhuman reflexes. Are you worried about dodging enemy gunfire? Troubled by overwhelming firepower? With Spider-Man's reflexes, you can forget about the fear of bullets forever. Unlike martial arts heroes who rely on sheer speed to dodge bullets, Spider-Man's reflexes are practically supernatural. He can effortlessly weave through a hail of bullets, moving with such grace and precision that it seems almost impossible. Gatling guns, snipers, rocket launchers—none of these pose a threat when Spider-Man is on the scene. His reflexes allow him to evade even the most intense and coordinated attacks, making him nearly untouchable in combat.

Super strength. Under normal conditions, Spider-Man can lift objects weighing between 15 and 25 tons with his bare hands. But when pushed to his limits, he has been known to lift hundreds of tons. This kind of strength is rare, even among superheroes. Although Spider-Man is primarily known for his agility, his raw power rivals that of the Hulk. With this level of strength, he can perform feats that would be impossible for most others—stopping a speeding train, holding up a collapsing building, or taking on foes far larger than himself. With Spider-Man on his team, Charlie's worries about overpowering enemies were all but erased.

Spider-Sense. This unique ability allows Spider-Man to perceive the world in a way that is almost otherworldly. He envisions himself as a spider at the center of a massive web, with the air around him forming an intricate network of threads. Every vibration in this web alerts him to potential danger, no matter how subtle. From an opponent's perspective, Spider-Man is like an AI that can anticipate their every move. He can sense threats before they materialize, allowing him to react with lightning speed. This ability makes it nearly impossible to catch Spider-Man off guard. Whether it's a sneak attack from behind or a sniper aiming from a distant rooftop, Spider-Man's Spider-Sense gives him the edge in any situation.

While it's impossible to list all of Spider-Man's abilities in a single breath, it's important to note that in the chaotic world of comic books, power levels can fluctuate wildly. Spider-Man's Spider-Sense, for example, sometimes falters or "glitches" depending on the needs of the plot. His strength, too, can vary—sometimes he struggles with tasks that should be easy, and other times he performs feats that seem impossible. Yet, despite these inconsistencies, Spider-Man's abilities are generally reliable and formidable.

With his new SSR (Super Super Rare) hero in hand, Charlie was eager to take Spider-Man out for a test run, quickly logging in. The thrill of controlling such a legendary character was palpable, and he couldn't wait to see what Spider-Man was capable of in the game.

Spider-Man games have always been a staple in the comic book adaptation genre. Despite missing the initial wave of comic book reunions, Spider-Man benefited from Sony's careful stewardship, resulting in a series of excellent games that captured the essence of the character.

From the early days of the Spider-Man 1 movie game, with its rudimentary graphics and basic mechanics, to the more recent Marvel's Spider-Man, Charlie had played many Spider-Man games over the years. He was intimately familiar with various combat systems, traversal mechanics, and gameplay modes. This familiarity made it easy for him to get into the groove of controlling Spider-Man in this new game.

The experience of operating Spider-Man in the game was nothing short of exhilarating. The sheer joy of swinging and diving between the towering skyscrapers of a concrete jungle, combined with the hyper-realistic graphics that blurred the line between game and reality, provided an unmatched sense of immersion. It was as if Charlie had been transported into Spider-Man's world, where he could feel the rush of wind against his face as he soared through the city.

The game's control scheme for Spider-Man had been honed over years of development, and by now, it was as polished as it was intuitive. There were two primary modes of movement: swinging and web sprinting.

First, there was the classic swinging between buildings, just like in the movies. This was the fastest way to navigate the streets of New York, especially those lined with tall structures. The sense of speed and fluidity as Spider-Man swung from one building to the next was exhilarating. It was a seamless, almost poetic movement that captured the essence of Spider-Man's character.

Then there was the web sprint, where Spider-Man launched his web to latch onto a specific point—whether it was the side of a building, a streetlight, or even a helicopter flying overhead—and used his superhuman strength to propel himself forward. With over 20 tons of force behind him and the incredible elasticity of his webbing, Spider-Man could tear through the air with the power and precision of a rocket. This mode was reminiscent of Batman's grapple gun, perfect for quickly scaling walls, crossing wide gaps, or reaching rooftops in the blink of an eye.

Charlie was completely immersed in the experience. After just a few minutes of swinging through the city, he felt as if the entire metropolis had become his playground—a vast steel jungle where he could test the limits of Spider-Man's abilities. Every swing, every flip, every dash filled him with a sense of freedom and exhilaration.

As he continued to explore the city, a familiar symbol suddenly appeared over Spider-Man's head—a lightning bolt, representing his Spider-Sense. An exclamation point popped up on the mini-map not far away, indicating a nearby event or threat.

Charlie's excitement surged.

This was his first real challenge with Spider-Man, and he was ready to face it head-on.

He quickly redirected Spider-Man toward the source of the exclamation mark, shooting web lines in rapid succession. As Spider-Man reached the highest point of his swing, Charlie executed a series of acrobatic flips, sending Spider-Man spinning through the air before launching another web line to the top of a nearby water tank. With a powerful pull, Spider-Man performed a stylish flip and sprinted across the rooftops, landing gracefully on the building next to the exclamation mark.

Charlie was ready to showcase his skills. But as he looked closer, he realized that the source of the exclamation mark was… a white cat. The cat was stranded at the top of a tree, meowing helplessly, too frightened to climb down.

Charlie couldn't help but laugh.

"Well, of course. It's classic 'Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man'—rescuing a cat stuck in a tree," he thought, amused by the situation.

It was quintessentially Spider-Man, a hero known not just for saving the world but also for looking out for the little guy—or in this case, the little cat.

…

Meanwhile, two days ago, somewhere underground in Riverton City...

Beneath the city's bustling streets, hidden away from the prying eyes of the public, lay a room that few knew existed. The room was stark, its walls lined with cold, industrial metal that seemed to suck the warmth out of the air. In the center of the room stood a long wooden dining table, its surface polished to a glossy sheen. The table was laden with an assortment of cold cuts, including rich, marbled salami and smoked ham, a golden-brown roasted suckling pig, a plump turkey with crispy skin, and colorful platters of exotic fruits.

The lighting in the room was harsh and uninviting. Fluorescent tubes cast a cold, white glow over everything, making the vibrant colors of the food seem almost garish. The atmosphere was sterile, uncomfortable, as if the room had been designed to strip away any sense of comfort or ease.

Gathered around the table stood several figures, each dressed in a black suit, their attire formal and austere. Some wore silver and gold chains that glinted under the harsh lights, adding a touch of ostentation to their otherwise somber appearances. These were the subordinates—loyal enforcers and bodyguards—standing stiffly behind the table, their postures rigid, their faces expressionless. They resembled a row of robotic sentinels, unmoving and impassive, as if they were mere extensions of the room's cold, mechanical nature, waiting for orders from the true power in the room.

Seated at each side of the table were four individuals—each one representing one of the most powerful underground factions in Riverton City. These were the uncrowned kings of the city's underworld, the puppeteers who pulled the strings behind the scenes. They controlled vast networks of resources, wielding influence over every corner of the city, from its darkest alleys to its most glittering high-rises. Together, they held Riverton City in the palm of their hands, their power rivaling that of the city's legitimate authorities.

In the past, it could be said that if these four were to put aside their differences and unite, there would be little they couldn't achieve within the city. They were the shadow rulers, the ones who could make or break fortunes with a single word.

But times had changed. The world was no longer as it once was, and today, they faced an unprecedented challenge—one that threatened their very existence.

"Alright, everyone's here. I think we all know why we've gathered, so let's skip the formalities and get straight to business," one of them said, breaking the tense silence that had settled over the room like a shroud.

The man who spoke was seated at the head of the table, his presence commanding and intimidating. A deep scar ran down the side of his face, a stark reminder of the life he had led—a life filled with violence, betrayal, and hard-won victories. His voice was strong and gravelly, carrying the weight of authority and experience. It was the kind of voice that could silence a room with a single word, the voice of a man who was used to being obeyed.

"What we're here to discuss today is a matter of vital importance," he continued, his gaze sweeping over the others, his eyes cold. "It concerns not just our futures, but the futures of our children and grandchildren as well."

He paused, letting the gravity of his words sink in. The room remained deathly quiet, the tension palpable. Each of the four individuals seated at the table understood the significance of this meeting. They were not here to discuss trivial matters—this was about survival.

The scarred man leaned forward slightly, his expression hardening as he prepared to deliver the crux of the discussion. His eyes narrowed, and his voice dropped to a low, menacing tone.

"We've gathered here for one reason, and one reason only," he said, each word dripping with determination and malice.

He paused for a moment, letting the anticipation build before he delivered the final words, each one like a dagger thrust into the heart of the matter.

"To take back our city."

Chapter Text

The reason for this clandestine meeting was straightforward yet significant. It was triggered by a series of unsettling events in Riverton City that had recently sent shockwaves through the city's deeply entrenched underground world.

It all began with the sudden and inexplicable influx of costumed vigilantes patrolling the city's streets. What started as a seemingly isolated incident, with one bat-themed maniac prowling the rooftops, quickly snowballed into a full-blown epidemic. Suddenly, the city was teeming with all manner of bizarre figures—red-clad vigilantes, self-styled Robin Hoods, knights wrapped in mummy-like bandages, and others even stranger. These new arrivals signaled the beginning of a perilous time for the city's underground figures, who had long ruled with unchecked authority.

Initially, these costumed vigilantes contented themselves with nighttime patrols, targeting the occasional thug or street-level criminal. The city's underworld figures—long used to operating with impunity—thought they could avoid trouble by keeping a low profile. They assumed that by steering clear of nighttime activities and laying low, they could continue their operations without interference. But this assumption proved disastrously wrong. The vigilantes were not content with merely catching criminals in the act; they soon escalated their activities, launching coordinated raids on hideouts, safe houses, and underground clubs.

It was said that several clubs in a district controlled by the Hatchet Gang were attacked for multiple consecutive nights by these relentless costumed figures. The attacks were devastating, leaving everyone, from the top bosses to the lowest street thugs, in a state of constant fear and frustration. The situation grew so dire that one of the gang leaders, unable to endure the relentless pressure and humiliation any longer, chose to turn himself into the authorities, bringing along incriminating evidence of his own crimes. He preferred the relative safety of a prison cell over the unyielding torment of these vigilantes.

The criminal underworld was thrown into chaos. This incident sent ripples through the entire criminal network of Riverton City. The power dynamics that had been carefully maintained for years were now on the brink of collapse.

To the eyes of these criminals, Batman—who had started it all—was no longer just a hidden boss who might randomly appear during a mission. He had transformed into an unavoidable force of nature, a disaster waiting to happen. A new saying spread among the underworld: "Life is unpredictable; sometimes you might just get hit by Batman." The criminals understood that they couldn't continue like this. Riverton was their city; it had always been their stronghold. No one had ever dared to challenge them so openly on their own turf.

Thus, today's meeting was called.

The room where the meeting took place was dimly lit, the walls lined with aged wood paneling that had seen better days. A heavy atmosphere hung in the air, thick with tension and the scent of smoke from the cigars that smoldered in ashtrays around the table. The table itself, long and solid, was the focal point of the room, where the most feared and powerful figures in Riverton's underworld now sat.

The individuals seated around this table were known as the Four Kings of Riverton, each a leader of one of the city's most powerful gangs. They hadn't climbed to these positions through luck or mercy; they had earned their power through blood, ruthlessness, and unyielding will. They were hardened criminals, leaders who had clawed their way to the top of the city's criminal hierarchy, leaving a trail of bodies in their wake.

They had gathered to discuss how to reverse the current situation and restore their dominance over the city.

"This used to be our city," said the man with the scarred face, his voice low and gravelly, resonating with the authority of someone who had seen and done it all.

No one knew his real name, but everyone called him Hades. He was the undisputed leader of one of the four major gangs, the Underworld Gang. The stories surrounding Hades were legendary, whispered in the darkest corners of Riverton's underworld. It was said that in his youth, Hades had single-handedly taken down more than a dozen heavily armed men with just a knife. This brutal feat had solidified his position as the gang's leader, and his reputation for ruthlessness was well-deserved.

Of course, everyone in the underworld knew that such rumors were often exaggerated, their edges sharpened over time. Other stories, such as Hades taking down ten men with his bare hands in 0.2 seconds, were likely as embellished as they were widespread. But even if the truth was less dramatic, no one could entirely dismiss them. Hades's ruthlessness was well known, and no one doubted that he was capable of extraordinary violence.

"We once enjoyed everything this city had to offer," Hades continued, his gaze sweeping across the room, taking in the other leaders. "The highest power, the greatest glory. Even the mayor wouldn't dare to cross us. But look at us now! A bunch of lunatics dressed like wild animals are running rampant in our city, and we—the kings who are supposed to be feared by everyone—can't do anything about it? I'm telling you, this can't go on."

The remaining three leaders exchanged glances. The tension in the room was palpable, each of them weighing the severity of their situation. After a moment of silence, a short, thin man with sharp features and a sly expression finally spoke up.

"Hades, we agree with what you're saying," the man said, his voice smooth but carrying a hint of suspicion.

This man was known as David, the leader of the River Bank Alliance, another of the four major gangs. David was known for his cunning and ability to navigate the treacherous waters of Riverton's criminal world. His slight build and unassuming appearance belied a mind that was always plotting, always scheming.

"But here's the thing—they've made us helpless. Batman, and all the others who've followed in his footsteps, they're all elusive. They operate solo but can take down entire teams of our best men. There's nothing we can do…" David's voice trailed off, his frustration evident.

"So what?" Hades interrupted, his tone cold and dismissive. "Does that make them invincible? Do I need to remind you that all of us sitting here today climbed to the top by stepping over countless bodies?

We've faced worse situations, and no matter how dire the circumstances, we've never given up. I've seen hell with my own eyes, fields littered with corpses. Hell, I fought my way out of that nightmare, and it was that purgatory that made me who I am today.

I'm sure the same can be said for the three of you. Otherwise, we wouldn't be sitting here at the top, commanding the respect and fear of everyone in this city.

But what's happening now? A bunch of costumed freaks are scaring the fight out of you? One guy puts on a mask that looks like a bat, dresses like Dracula, and suddenly you're all too scared to do anything?"

The other three leaders remained silent for a moment, feeling somewhat chastised by his words. They knew Hades was right; they had risen to their positions through ruthlessness and determination, not by cowering in fear.

Ian, the head of Green City Gate, cleared his throat and spoke up.

"You're right," Ian said, his voice measured but carrying the weight of experience. "But the problem is that we've never faced opponents like this before. In all our past battles, whether it was against the police or rival gangs, we've never encountered anything like these costumed vigilantes. We weren't prepared to deal with…"

"Ha, that's just the illusion they've created," Hades cut in, his tone dripping with disdain. "Invulnerability, super strength, the ability to fly—trust me, I know how this game works. I've seen these tricks played out before, just in different ways.

People love to believe in rumors. A few words are all it takes to turn something ordinary into a myth. It's not that different from what we used to do back in the day.

To me, these vigilantes are nothing special. They're just a new group trying to carve out a piece of Riverton, where the power dynamics have already been established. They're using tactics we haven't seen before to draw attention, pretending to be invincible, hoping to create fear and chaos.

Sure, they might have a few tough guys among them, but at the end of the day, they're just cowards hiding behind masks. They're another group of greedy bastards who want our territory. But like all the others before them, they'll end up defeated by us."

Hades paused, his gaze piercing as he looked at each of the other leaders, one by one.

"I believe that anyone who survived the blood-soaked era we did, who earned the right to sit at this table as equals, isn't lacking in guts, right?"

His words hit home. Hades was right—continuing like this was not an option. Those flashy vigilantes could kick down their doors at any moment. No one knew which would come first: a natural disaster or a visit from Batman.

After weighing the situation, they realized that Hade's assessment was correct. If things continued on this path, they'd either end up in a hospital bed, hooked up to oxygen tanks, or find themselves behind bars like that little coward who had fled for safety.

And the best-case scenario? All four of them might end up as cellmates, playing poker to pass the time for the rest of their lives.

That was, of course, unacceptable.

As Hades had said, this was their city, and no one was going to take it from them.

"You're right," agreed the fourth leader, Matthews, head of the House of Matthew. Matthews was a heavyset man with a gruff voice, his presence imposing. He was not one for long speeches, but when he spoke, people listened.

"So now that you've brought this up, I assume you have a plan in mind, Hades?"

"Hmph, the reason we've been unable to fight back so far is because we've been too passive," Hades said, his voice cold. "But I've been studying their methods.

These vigilantes like to hide in the shadows, launching surprise attacks and targeting individuals. Our people are always caught off guard, and by the time they realize what's happening, they're already playing into the vigilantes' hands."

Hades was a seasoned veteran, someone who had seen it all. While he'd never faced opponents quite like these before, he was the type of leader who learned quickly and adapted to new challenges.

"So this time, we're going to take the initiative," he continued, a sly grin forming on his face. "We'll lure them into a trap. Once we get them into a situation we've prepared for, it'll only take one bullet to shatter the myth they've built around themselves.

Mark my words, I'll prove that even Batman can be brought down with a single shot."

The other three leaders, their minds now buzzing with ideas, quickly grasped what Hades was proposing.

Ian was the first to praise the plan, calling it a brilliant strategy.

He then suggested that the River Bank Alliance, led by David, should be the ones to set up the traps, designing a scenario that would lure Batman or any other costumed lunatic into their clutches.

Ian went on to propose that David's gang could pretend to be overwhelmed, drawing the enemy in deeper, setting them up for an ambush...

David wasn't having any of it. Before Ian could finish, David slammed his hand on the table, his face twisted with anger. "Hell no! Pretend to be overwhelmed? What if we actually get overwhelmed?"

David wasn't about to risk being the bait. The last thing he wanted was to walk into a trap, get beaten up by Batman, and then watch as the others retreated, leaving him to be the fall guy.

Of course, Ian didn't really expect the River Bank Alliance to volunteer as bait. Even though they all called each other "Fellow leaders," their relationships were as flimsy as an off-brand condom from the gas station.

"Enough," Hades interrupted, his voice brokering no argument. "I know it's hard for any of us to trust each other, but we've reached a critical moment—a moment of survival.

This time, we have to set aside our old grudges and rivalries. Our opponents require us to work together. We all need to stand united.

Either we fight side by side, or we die together. Understand?"

No one spoke, but the silence in the room was a sign of agreement. The leaders of Riverton's underworld understood that the time for petty squabbles was over. They needed to present a united front, or they would all fall, one by one.

"Very good," Hades said in a deep voice, his tone indicating that the matter was settled. "Now, let's discuss the specifics of our operational deployment."

Chapter Text

Ganking Batman was a monumental undertaking. Although Hades put on a brave face, dismissing the flashy masked vigilantes as nothing more than gaudy nuisances, the reality was far more complex. Deep down, he knew that this wasn't just another turf war. These vigilantes, especially Batman, represented an unpredictable threat that had the potential to unravel everything the gangs had built in Riverton City.

The urgency behind Hades' plan was spurred by a recent and humiliating event where a section of territory under his gang's control was attacked in broad daylight. The audacity of the attack had left him fuming, and the need for retaliation burned within him. This wasn't just about striking back; it was about sending a message to the vigilantes and to the other gangs—nobody challenges Hades and walks away unscathed. Even if the retaliation didn't completely neutralize the threat, it was essential to resist, to show that they weren't cowards who would allow their enemies to strike without consequence. After all, even a cornered toad will jump if poked hard enough.

But in the back of his mind, Hades knew that the ultimate victory would be to kill or, even better, capture one of these vigilantes alive. Such a victory would be invaluable, allowing them to unmask the enemy and potentially uncover the shadowy organization backing them. By following the trail back to its source, they might learn the true nature of the threat they were facing.

There's a saying in the underworld: "The unknown is what truly terrifies people." This was the crux of the problem—the criminals of Riverton City had no idea who or what they were up against. These vigilantes appeared from nowhere, disrupting their operations with surgical precision, and then vanished just as quickly. They were like phantoms, impossible to predict or counter. But if Hades and his allies could unmask these so-called heroes and strip away their mystique, they could drag them into a battle on the criminals' terms—a battle they were confident they could win.

However, it wasn't as if they could simply ring up Batman and invite him over for a showdown. These vigilantes were elusive, operating like ghosts in the night. Tracking them down was next to impossible. Yet, one thing was clear from observing their patterns: they had a knack for appearing at crime scenes just in time to thwart illegal activities. This gave Hades and his associates an idea—why not stage a crime and draw them out?

So, Hades summoned his most trusted lieutenant, Fern Smith, a hulking brute known for his loyalty and toughness. Fern was a man who had survived countless battles and had the scars to prove it.

"Fern, I have an important task for you," Hades said, his voice carrying a weight that made it clear this was no ordinary mission.

Fern thumped his chest with a meaty fist and declared, "Whatever you need, boss. I'm your man."

Hades nodded, satisfied with Fern's eagerness. "Good. I need you to take a beating."

Fern froze for a moment, his mind struggling to process what he'd just heard. "Uh, sorry, boss? Did you just say you need me to get beaten up?"

Hades sighed, as if he were explaining something to a child. "Yes, Fern. We're going to set up a trap, and to make it convincing, someone has to play the bait. That someone is you."

Fern's face fell as he realized what was being asked of him. "But boss, what if I get beaten to death?"

Hades waved his hand dismissively, a wry smile playing on his lips. "Don't worry, Fern. If you die, I'll take good care of your wife and kids. Your wife is quite the beauty, you know? I'll make sure she's well looked after."

Fern's expression twisted in a mix of horror and disbelief. @#%&...

Despite his misgivings, Fern had no choice but to go along with the plan. The major gangs of Riverton were nothing if not efficient when they decided to act in unison. That very night, they selected a location in one of the city's most chaotic and lawless districts—a place with a high likelihood of drawing vigilante attention.

But simply setting up a fight wasn't enough. The bosses knew that to make the ruse convincing, they needed to add a layer of authenticity. So, they decided that Fern wouldn't just be beaten; he'd be verbally assaulted as well. The thugs involved in the operation were instructed to hurl insults along with their punches, to make the whole scene as believable as possible.

"Don't just punch and kick," Hades had instructed over the phone. "You need to curse him out, make it look real."

So, as the fight began, one of the thugs, a wiry man with a nasty streak, threw a punch at Ivan and shouted, "You SOB! You still haven't paid me back the money you borrowed for hookers!"

Another thug, a burly man with a mean look, chimed in, "You SOB! I wouldn't have lent you the money if I knew you wouldn't pay it back! What, you think I can't afford to collect?"

A third thug, not wanting to be left out, added, "You SOB! Last time we went out together, you tried to steal the girl I had my eye on. Are you out of your mind?"

Meanwhile, Fern, who was on the receiving end of all this abuse, gritted his teeth and cursed internally. He knew these guys were taking advantage of the situation to settle personal grudges. They were venting their frustrations under the guise of following orders. Fern swore to himself that once this ordeal was over, he'd make sure to repay these bastards in kind.

The act continued well into the night. Fern was pummeled and kicked, his body aching from the relentless assault. But as dawn approached, there was still no sign of Batman or any other vigilante. The thugs, growing tired and frustrated, began to wonder if the plan had failed.

"Maybe Batman isn't coming tonight," one of the thugs suggested, his voice weary. "Should we call it quits?"

After some discussion with the higher-ups, they reluctantly agreed. "Alright, let's wrap it up for tonight."

Fern, who was bruised and swollen, breathed a sigh of relief when he heard this. But just as he was about to let out a groan of pain, the next sentence made him spit out another mouthful of blood.

"Let's continue tomorrow night."

Fern: @#!%

At that moment, everything became clear to him. The idiot Hades had set him up from the beginning. He hadn't cared about Batman or the plan; he was just using this as an excuse to get rid of Fern and move in on his wife!

And so, the next night, Fern endured yet another round of brutal beatings.

By this point, Fern swore that he had never in his life longed for Batman's arrival as much as he did now. The mere thought of Batman used to send chills down his spine; the caped crusader was like a ghost, always lurking in the shadows, ready to strike fear into the hearts of criminals. But after two nights of being relentlessly beaten, Fern found himself praying for Batman to show up and end his suffering. Yet, it seemed as though the Dark Knight had vanished from the face of the earth, leaving Ivan to endure another night of torture.

It was enough to drive anyone mad.

Finally, on the third night, Fern's torment was about to come to an end.

They started even earlier that day, not even waiting for nightfall. By now, Fern was a seasoned pro at playing the victim. He approached the "director" of the operation, asking where he should lie down, then stretched out his legs, closed his eyes, and mentally prepared himself for another round of beatings. He was already resigned to his fate.

But as they say, when things reach their breaking point, they often turn around. Just when Fern thought his luck had hit rock bottom, fate threw him a lifeline. He had barely taken a few punches when something unexpected happened.

One of the thugs, who had been enjoying himself, kicking Fern and hurling insults, suddenly felt a strange weight on his ankle. Before he could react, a powerful force yanked him off his feet and sent him flying across the alley, crashing into a high platform not far away.

After two days of relentless torment, the thugs, who had been on the verge of exhaustion, suddenly snapped to attention. The energy in the air shifted, and they all knew what it meant.

Finally, the bat was here!

They watched in stunned silence as a slender figure in red and blue tights performed an acrobatic flip, twisting through the air with a 720-degree spin that would have left Olympic judges speechless and had Newton rolling over in his grave. The figure landed gracefully in front of them, striking a pose that was equal parts casual and confident.

"I hope I didn't interrupt your little gathering," the newcomer quipped, his voice light but tinged with sarcasm.

Spider-Man had arrived, landing in a classic superhero pose before standing upright.

"Although I agree that combining leggings with a leather jacket is a bit of a fashion disaster," he said, glancing at Fern, who was still lying on the ground, battered and bruised. "But that's no reason to go this far, right? Really, it's not."

He looked around at the assembled thugs, a playful smirk visible through the mask. "Why don't we all just calm down and talk this out instead of resorting to violence… Hmm?"

As soon as Spider-Man landed, the thugs stopped their assault. They quickly scrambled to help Fern to his feet, though their motives were far from altruistic.

At the same time, more gang members emerged from the shadows, surrounding Spider-Man from all sides.

The sheer number of thugs was staggering, and the sight of countless guns suddenly being trained on Spider-Man's position was enough to make anyone's blood run cold. It was as if an entire army had been mobilized against him.

This was the location carefully chosen by the four major gangs. They had prepared an arsenal of high-grade weapons and manpower in advance, creating a near-perfect trap. The area was covered from every angle, leaving no escape. Even the best bulletproof gear would be useless against such a concentrated barrage of firepower.

For the four gangs, organizing such a massive operation within the city, with military-grade equipment and so many men, was a colossal feat. It had cost them a small fortune, but they knew it was a necessary investment.

But that investment also meant something else—they were determined to win, no matter the cost.

"Ahhh," Spider-Man's mask-eye lenses narrowed slightly, making it look as if he was really squinting in confusion. "It looks like I've walked right into an ambush~"

"Fire!" The order came from the front lines, Hades snarling with venomous intent, "Kill that freak."

The sound of dozens of triggers being pulled simultaneously echoed through the night, the noise like a chorus of death.

The gangsters selected for this mission were the cream of the crop, even by underworld standards. Many had real combat experience, having seen their share of bloodshed. While they couldn't be compared to professional soldiers, they were far from inexperienced.

But even for these hardened criminals, the sight of so many guns firing in unison was a shock. The continuous roar of gunfire was like rolling thunder, the sound so loud that it felt as though their eardrums might burst. The overwhelming firepower created a storm of bullets that instantly swallowed Spider-Man's slender figure.

The thugs pulled their triggers with unrelenting force, reloading as soon as their magazines were empty, and switching out overheated barrels with spares. There was no regard for cost; this operation had been well-supplied. The bullets poured down on Spider-Man's small frame as if they were endless, an unstoppable tide of metal.

"Ghost… Ghost…" Matthews, who was stationed on a high observation deck with a pair of binoculars, turned pale as he reported what he was seeing. "This is impossible…"

"What's going on? What did you see?" Ian asked urgently, his voice filled with concern.

Matthews lowered the binoculars, his expression a mix of disbelief and shock at the absurdity of what he was witnessing.

"That freak in the spandex… he's dancing in the middle of the gunfire…"

Chapter Text

Several others at the viewing point took turns observing the scene below through the binoculars, one by one, falling into a stunned silence.

These were men who prided themselves on having seen it all—or at least, that's what they claimed. They were veterans of Riverton's most violent streets, men who had witnessed countless bloody turf wars and chaotic clashes. Some had even survived encounters with the legendary "infected," those deranged lunatics whose madness had become the stuff of nightmares in the underworld.

But now, as they watched the bizarre spectacle unfolding below, their hardened minds struggled to make sense of what they were seeing.

It was as if their brains had overloaded, the images and scenes in front of them clashing violently with everything they had come to believe about the world. The logical contradictions were too much to process, causing their thoughts to short-circuit, leaving nothing but a numb, blank space in their minds.

On the ground, the minions fared no better. To them, the figure they were attacking—a skinny man in bright red and blue tights—should have been nothing. His slight frame, barely enough to throw a decent punch, and his childish costume, more suited for a pajama party than a street brawl, made him seem like an easy target. He was no Batman, cloaked in the shadows, striking fear into criminals' hearts. This guy looked like a cartoon character brought to life.

And yet, here he was, impossibly dodging every bullet they fired at him. Not just dodging, but doing so with a kind of fluidity and grace that seemed unreal.

He wasn't just dodging—he was dancing.

Actually, calling it dancing didn't do it justice. His movements were more like those of an Olympic gymnast, flipping and twisting through the air with jaw-dropping precision. Bullets whizzed past his limbs and torso, narrowly missing him by inches, as if afraid to touch him. His body seemed to glide through the torrent of gunfire, evading each bullet with a kind of effortless ease that defied explanation.

It was as if the laws of physics had been rewritten just for him.

Everyone knew what they were seeing, but their brains refused to accept it. It made no sense. It was impossible.

But there he was—dodging one bullet after another, like a man waltzing through a hailstorm and never getting wet.

And it begged the question: was this really a human being? Could any living thing possibly pull this off?

Of course, the phrase "hail of bullets" often comes with a hint of exaggeration. Sure, assault rifles fire fast, but they don't actually create a solid wall of lead. There's room to breathe, even if it doesn't seem like it.

But to the naked eye, the speed of the bullets was enough to make it seem like an impenetrable death trap. In most people's minds, once you're caught in that kind of firepower, you're done.

But Spider-Man wasn't like most people.

He could see the trajectory of every bullet, each gun line clearly visible in his heightened senses. To him, the so-called "death trap" was full of gaps, like an elaborate but flawed puzzle waiting to be solved.

On top of that, the thugs firing at him were hardly crack shots. Their marksmanship was average at best, and between the constant reloading and the overheating barrels, there were plenty of openings. Spider-Man not only dodged the bullets with ease, but he also had time to throw in some insults while he did it.

"Come on, guys, is that all you've got? Did you miss the memo? We're not shooting at the birds in the sky here."

He flipped through the air, landing briefly on one hand before springing up again. "Hey, don't get lazy now! Haven't you had your breakfast?"

Another leap, and he twisted mid-air to avoid a barrage of bullets, his voice echoing in the alley. "Haha, missed again! But I'll give you credit—those guns? Top quality. Now, if only you could aim…"

The gangsters, their ears ringing from the deafening gunfire, couldn't hear the words exactly, but they knew they were being mocked. The tone alone was enough to make their blood boil.

But none of them dared to act on their anger. How could they? They were facing something completely beyond their comprehension. The man in tights wasn't just dodging their bullets—he was practically toying with them, defying everything they understood about the world. He was faster than humanly possible, his reflexes sharper than any they'd ever seen.

Many of them were seasoned criminals, used to facing tough opponents. In situations where their enemy had a slight advantage in skill or strength, they would be frustrated, maybe even motivated to fight harder.

But this wasn't a man they were fighting. It was something else entirely—something they couldn't even begin to understand. And in the face of that, there was no room for anger or defiance. There was only fear.

For Charlie, the player controlling Spider-Man, the whole thing was almost laughably easy. A series of acrobatic, bullet-dodging moves that looked like the stuff of superhero legends were, in reality, as simple as pressing a button.

The game had been designed to show off Spider-Man's unique abilities. Unlike other characters, where timing and strategy were key to survival, Spider-Man's controls were practically foolproof. All Charlie had to do was hold down a defense button, and Spider-Man would do the rest.

In defense mode, Spider-Man's spider-sense was on full alert, automatically guiding him to dodge or deflect every attack. Whether it was a punch from an opponent or a barrage of bullets, the outcome was always the same: MISS.

By pressing a few directional buttons, Charlie could make Spider-Man flip and dodge in style, adding flair to the already impressive moves. If he threw in some web-slinging, Spider-Man could zip from one end of the battlefield to the other, never staying in one place long enough to become a target.

Spider-Man's agility was his defining trait, making him unlike any other hero. Sure, there were stronger characters in the superhero world, but finding someone who could match his evasiveness was next to impossible.

If Charlie had wanted to, he could have sent Spider-Man charging into the crowd, knocking out every gunman in the blink of an eye. But where was the fun in that? This was a rare chance to push Spider-Man to his limits, to see just how far his abilities could go.

After all, it wasn't every day that someone set up such a perfect circle of firepower just for him.

In fact, using Batman's detective mode earlier, Charlie had scanned the entire area before Spider-Man even landed. He'd seen through their traps, identified their ambush points, and grinned. This was going to be fun. The thugs had no idea they were offering themselves up as practice dummies for his newest hero.

The gunfire eventually began to die down. One by one, the gangsters' magazines emptied, and their once-deafening roar of bullets fell to silence.

In the middle of the alley, Spider-Man stood unharmed, his bright red and blue suit untouched, not even a thread out of place.

And then he moved.

In the blink of an eye, Spider-Man leaped into the crowd. He was a blur of red and blue, flipping through the air with such speed that none of the gangsters could track him. One moment, he was above them; the next, he was on the ground. Two men flew in opposite directions, slamming into the walls with bone-crushing force.

Before anyone could react, a mass of sticky white webbing shot from his wrist, binding several men together in a tangled mess of limbs. They thrashed and struggled, but it was useless. The more they fought, the tighter the webbing became.

The gangsters were in complete disarray.

"What the hell is this?" one of them screamed, his voice trembling with fear.

Another rushed forward, but before he knew it, Spider-Man was there—flashing past him in a blur. The next thing he knew, he was on his back, staring at the night sky.

Several more charged together, thinking strength in numbers would help. It didn't. One after another, they fell, as if they'd been struck down by an invisible force. Their heads hit the ground in perfect sync, like puppets whose strings had been cut.

It wasn't just the speed that terrified them—it was the constant stream of trash talk that accompanied it.

"Hey, buddy, for your own sake, have you thought about retiring? I'm just looking out for your last few strands of hair."

A voice came from behind one of the gangsters. He spun around, panic flooding his chest, only to be met with a punch to the forehead. Darkness consumed him.

Nearby, others heard the taunt and turned to face it, only to see Spider-Man somersaulting over their heads. He landed gracefully among a new group of thugs, a smirk on his face.

"Whoa, garlic breath much? You should be fined for assault with that stench."

As he spoke, more men hit the ground, webbed up or knocked out with ease.

Spider-Man was everywhere and nowhere at once. His voice seemed to come from all directions, adding to the confusion and fear. The relentless trash talk wasn't just annoying—it was psychological warfare. It made them feel like they were surrounded by one man.

The craziest part? Even if Spider-Man had outright said, "You're all surrounded," none of them would have questioned it.

Because, in that moment, that's exactly how it felt.

On the high platform, the faces of the four leaders—Hades, Ian, David, and Matthews—had turned an unsettling shade of green.

When they finally snapped out of their stupor, the remaining three turned to Hades, their gazes sharp and accusing.

He didn't need to say a word. The meaning of their looks was clear:

This is what you called an ordinary man? This is what we have nothing to fear?

Chapter Text

Faced with the sharp, accusing gazes of the other three leaders, Hades maintained a façade of calm, standing with his arms crossed, his expression as composed as ever. But beneath that stoic exterior, his mind was in turmoil, an internal storm of disbelief and confusion raging within him.

What the hell is going on?

The information they had gathered, supposedly from reliable sources, had indicated that these strange, costume-wearing individuals were just highly skilled humans. Sure, they were well-trained, perhaps former military or mercenaries, but humans nonetheless. People with great combat awareness, sharp reflexes, and advanced technology or armor—nothing more.

There had been rumors about some of them possessing supernatural abilities, like invisibility or casting spells, but those had been dismissed as exaggerated urban legends. Hades had been confident that, with the right strategy and enough firepower, these so-called heroes could be taken down just like any other well-armed opponent. Their armor might be state-of-the-art, their skills top-tier, but no one was invincible. As long as you could trap them and focus enough firepower, they'd have no choice but to fall.

But the figure in red and blue tights leaping through the air in front of them was anything but ordinary.

This can't be real… What is that thing?

Below them, the battle was still raging, though "battle" wasn't quite the right word for it anymore. It was a massacre. Hundreds of thugs from the four most powerful gangs in Riverton City had converged on this single target—a seemingly frail, pajama-wearing figure that looked more like a sleep-deprived teenager than a threat. Yet, in less than two minutes, over half of their forces were down, strewn across the asphalt in tangled webs or lying unconscious, completely incapacitated.

From the high platform where Hades, Ian, David, and Matthews stood, the scene below looked like something out of a twisted action movie—one of those far-fetched blockbusters where a lone hero decimates an army of foes. But this? This was even more absurd. Reality shouldn't work this way.

And then, they realized that their adversary wasn't just fast.

Tang, a towering behemoth from Green City Gate, stood at over two meters tall, his hulking mass of muscle and bone radiating pure physical power. Tang wasn't just big—he was strong, the kind of strong that made people hesitate before picking a fight. His reputation for brute strength was unrivaled in the city's underground circles. Even seasoned fighters avoided a direct confrontation with him, knowing that one punch from Tang could shatter bones.

So when Tang stepped forward, his massive fists swinging toward the red-and-blue-clad figure, every thug present expected Spider-Man to go down, hard.

Instead, Spider-Man didn't even turn around.

Without so much as glancing at Tang, Spider-Man raised a hand—just one hand—casually catching the incoming punch.

Katcha.

The sound was sickening, like bones being ground into dust. Tang's face contorted in agony, his roar of pain echoing across the battlefield. He stumbled backward, clutching his now-broken hand to his chest. The once-feared strongman was reduced to a grimacing, retreating figure, his immense size suddenly meaningless.

The onlookers, thugs and lieutenants alike, gaped in disbelief. Tang's strength was legendary, a force of nature that could demolish anyone in his path. And yet, this kid—this skinny, spandex-wearing freak—had stopped Tang's punch like it was nothing.

No, not just stopped it. Caught it. Without so much as blinking, without even looking.

The absurdity of the situation made it all the more terrifying. Tang, a giant among men, reduced to a whimpering wreck by a kid who couldn't weigh more than 70 kilos soaking wet. It was as if gravity had stopped working, and the laws of physics no longer applied.

"Whoa, that was a solid punch!" Spider-Man quipped, his voice light and playful, as if he hadn't just crushed a man's hand with ease. "And man, you're huge! Bet your mom always told you to eat your veggies, huh?"

Without missing a beat, Spider-Man launched into a flying kick, his foot connecting with Tang's chin in a perfect arc.

The impact was brutal. Tang's head snapped back, his eyes rolling up into his skull as consciousness fled. His massive frame, once so imposing, crumpled like a house of cards, and with a thunderous thud, he hit the ground. The sound of his body hitting the pavement reverberated across the battlefield, a dull, final note that seemed to mark the end of any resistance.

The other thugs stared, slack-jawed, their minds racing to comprehend what they had just seen.

What in the actual hell?

If the scene hadn't already felt like something from a nightmare, the sight of Tang—this massive powerhouse—being casually dismantled by a kid in tights took things to a whole new level of surreal. The stark contrast between the two figures—Tang's hulking mass and Spider-Man's lean, wiry frame—only made the reality harder to accept.

But that was just the beginning.

Okita, a feared and battle-hardened leader in the River Bank Alliance, had been watching the fight unfold with a calculating eye. He wasn't a fool. Years of street brawling had taught him when to hold his ground and when to cut his losses. But tonight, despite the chaos, Okita stayed cool. He had faced down impossible odds before and come out on top. His reputation wasn't just for show—he'd earned it.

But even he was starting to feel the pressure.

As more and more of his allies hit the ground, Okita's mind raced. The brute force approach clearly wasn't working. They needed a new tactic.

"They're doing it wrong," Okita muttered under his breath. "This isn't how you fight."

Turning to his remaining men, Okita barked out orders, his voice steady and authoritative. "Listen up! We're splitting into four groups. Each group takes a limb. You follow my lead, and we work together. That's the only way we're bringing this guy down."

His thugs nodded, their fear momentarily replaced with a glimmer of hope. Okita had always been their rock, the one who knew how to win when the odds were stacked against them. If anyone could figure out how to take this guy down, it was him.

"Alright, on my mark… three, two, one—go!"

The thugs charged, converging on Spider-Man from all sides, each group aiming for a different part of his body. It was classic street-fight tactics—overwhelm the target with sheer numbers, pin him down, and let brute strength do the rest.

But Spider-Man wasn't a normal target.

With a series of rapid movements, the thugs found themselves flying through the air, their bodies crashing to the ground in all directions. The coordinated attack had failed—utterly and completely.

From the moment they launched their assault, Spider-Man had been in motion. His acrobatic flips and lightning-fast reflexes left them grasping at air, their hands never even coming close to touching him. And before they knew it, they were sprawled out on the pavement, groaning in pain.

One of the thugs, coughing up blood, turned to where Okita had been standing, hoping for some reassurance from his leader.

But Okita was gone.

The "fearless" leader had taken off the moment the attack began. He had no intention of sticking around to face Spider-Man head-on. Okita knew when a fight was lost, and this was a fight he wasn't willing to die for.

As his men writhed on the ground, Okita sprinted toward a nearby van parked in the shadows. He dove into the driver's seat, slamming the door shut behind him. His hands trembled as he fumbled with the keys, but finally, the engine roared to life. He slammed his foot on the gas, sending the van hurtling down the alley at breakneck speed.

The thugs he left behind could only watch in disbelief as their leader—their rock—sped off into the night.

Okita's mind raced as he tore through the dark streets. Forget this. Let the others handle that thing. I'm not dying tonight.

As he sped away, a sense of relief washed over him. He had escaped. The others might hate him for it, but he didn't care. Survival was the only thing that mattered.

But then—a sudden thud from above.

The roof of the van buckled slightly under the weight of something—or someone—landing on top of it.

Okita's heart skipped a beat. His hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white.

No… no, no, no! This can't be happening!

He glanced at the rearview mirror, but there was nothing behind him. Then, from the front windshield, an upside-down face appeared, grinning beneath the mask's wide, white eyes.

"Hey there!" Spider-Man said, his voice full of playful cheer. "Mind if I catch a ride? So, where are we headed in such a hurry?"

Chapter Text

Charlie's current situation wasn't because he had so much free time that he could easily multitask—playing a game while talking trash through his headset. Far from it.

As a seasoned gamer and a self-imposed recluse, the idea that Charlie could focus on the game while bantering with other players was laughable. It was almost as impossible as the idea that Spider-Man could run out of quips.

But that didn't matter. What Charlie lacked in verbal sparring, Spider-Man more than made up for. From the moment Charlie selected Spider-Man as his in-game avatar, the character's mouth switched on like a broken faucet, spewing a never-ending stream of chatter. It was as if Spider-Man's verbal agility was as much a part of his abilities as his web-slinging.

Charlie didn't know where all those quips and remarks came from, but Spider-Man never seemed to run out of things to say. His mouth ran faster than his feet, and he had something to say at every turn. Whether he was battling villains or soaring between skyscrapers, Spider-Man kept up his relentless commentary.

If someone tried to capture all his banter in comic-style text bubbles, they'd probably overwhelm the screen with speech balloons, drowning out everything else.

And so, facing Spider-Man in the game didn't just mean dealing with his impressive powers and agility—it also meant enduring the psychological exhaustion of his endless stream of chatter. It was a mental assault on top of the physical one, a constant barrage of words that wore down even the toughest opponents. In fact, the game developers had officially acknowledged that Spider-Man's incessant talking was part of his powers. It might even have a profound effect on particularly strong enemies who found the verbal onslaught harder to handle than the punches.

There was one small problem, though: Spider-Man's mouth wasn't selective in its targets. Once he started talking, it wasn't just the enemies who had to suffer. His teammates were equally caught in the crossfire of quips, and once he opened his mouth, there was no stopping him. The endless barrage of jokes and comments mentally polluted everyone on the map, regardless of whether they were friend or foe.

Charlie spotted a target that looked like it was trying to escape—a gangster in a getaway car—and his well-honed gaming instincts kicked in. Years of experience told him that this wasn't just some low-level goon. This enemy had the air of an elite mob, the kind that offered valuable experience points. There was no way Charlie was letting it get away.

Spider-Man, under Charlie's control, leapt into the air with the kind of graceful athleticism only he could pull off. His figure arced against the skyline as he shot out a web, swinging effortlessly through the air like a trapeze artist. He soared above the rooftops, moving with such speed and precision that the gangsters below could hardly comprehend what was happening.

With a quick flick of his wrist, Spider-Man fired a second web, and within seconds, he was soaring towards the fleeing vehicle like a rocket, his body cutting through the air with perfect accuracy. In the blink of an eye, Spider-Man landed firmly on the roof of the speeding getaway car, his feet sticking to the surface like glue.

The thugs inside the vehicle were bewildered. They couldn't make sense of what Spider-Man had just done. The webs, the acrobatics, the sheer speed—it was all too much for their brains to process. As far as they were concerned, this man in tights was a supernatural force. Not only did he dodge bullets and fight like a martial arts master, but he also moved faster than any human had the right to. The thugs barely had time to react before Spider-Man was already on top of them.

"This guy's a real freak of nature!" one of the gang members exclaimed in terror.

Spider-Man's superhuman abilities shattered any hope they had of escape. From the moment he'd landed on the car, they knew they were done for. The hundreds of heavily armed men, the meticulously planned escape—it was all futile. To Spider-Man, they were already as good as dead. It was only a matter of time before he finished them off.

The thugs' confidence, which had already been teetering on the edge, collapsed completely. It was like watching their collective willpower dissolve. All the bravado they'd built up was smashed into pieces, washed away like trash in a rainstorm.

Just when they thought they'd reached their breaking point, something unexpected happened—a small, unassuming exclamation mark popped up on Charlie's screen.

"Meow!"

In the game, Spider-Man's spider-sense triggered, alerting him to danger. But the threat wasn't what Charlie or the thugs expected. A black cat had darted in front of the speeding vehicle, presumably scavenging for food from a nearby trash can.

The game prompted Charlie with a quick-time event (QTE), urging him to react fast. Unlike traditional games that handhold the player through every step, this game trusted its players. The action was up to them. Sure, the game offered subtle suggestions, like Batman's detective mode or inner monologues from the character, but it never forced players down a particular path. They were free to ignore prompts and do as they pleased.

Charlie, trusting Spider-Man's instincts, hit the QTE button as soon as it appeared.

The first prompt instructed Charlie to hit the arrow key, followed by a spacebar jump. Charlie executed the commands perfectly, and Spider-Man leapt into the air, performing a flawless backflip.

As Spider-Man flipped through the air, more prompts appeared, this time highlighting the car's wheels and the driver's seat. Charlie's reflexes took over, and he quickly clicked the mouse, firing two perfectly aimed webs at the car's wheels.

With a loud thwap, the webs hit their targets, wrapping around the speeding wheels and locking them in place. The vehicle, suddenly unable to continue forward, flipped over under the force of inertia, crashing onto its side with a violent thud.

Spider-Man landed effortlessly in front of the wild cat, and, as if it were nothing, lifted the entire overturned car above his head. The sight of it was surreal. Spider-Man stood there, holding the massive vehicle as if it weighed nothing at all.

"Hey, little guy," Spider-Man quipped, looking down at the cat, "Everything going okay?"

The black cat meowed in response, flicking its tail before darting away into the shadows.

"Wow, tough crowd," Spider-Man shrugged, still holding the car above his head as if it were a minor inconvenience. With a casual flick of his wrists, he tossed the car aside as though it were a piece of scrap metal, sending it skidding across the pavement.

Behind him, the gangsters were completely frozen. They couldn't even blink as they tried to comprehend what they had just witnessed. Spider-Man had not only flipped the car, but he had also tossed it aside with the ease of crumpling a piece of paper.

It was clear now that running was pointless. Fighting was out of the question. All of their hopes were completely obliterated.

Charlie watched as Spider-Man ripped the driver's door off the car with barely any effort. The thug inside, who hadn't been wearing a seatbelt, had been tossed around like a ragdoll during the crash. His face was bruised and swollen, and as soon as the door was ripped off, he stumbled out, shaking with fear, his hands raised in surrender. A foul smell followed him, and it was obvious—he had wet himself.

The bosses watching from their vantage point weren't faring much better. Though they weren't in immediate danger of soiling themselves, they were questioning everything they had planned. Who had been the genius that suggested they could take on this monster?

Did someone actually think this masked man was just an ordinary person? How could they even begin to fight someone who flipped cars with his bare hands?

All eyes turned to Hades, the leader of the operation, but he remained silent, glancing back at them with cold detachment. The unspoken message was clear: If we can't beat him, surrender and flee.

But before any of them could move, the shadows shifted, and a figure emerged, as silent as death itself. A dark silhouette with eyes as cold and sharp as a blade stepped into view.

It was Batman.

The bosses, already on the verge of collapse, were now completely petrified.

Chapter Text

Overnight, the entire army of the Riverton Underground 4 was obliterated in one clean sweep.

Truth be told, Charlie didn't even recognize the four of them at first. As far as he was concerned, they were just a group of men with a strange posture and an aura that screamed "small-time boss." It wasn't until he took them down and ran a quick detective mode scan that he realized who he had just cornered.

A casual scan revealed the truth, and Charlie was momentarily stunned. He hadn't known, but once the scan confirmed their identities, he was floored.

Good grief. These weren't just regular thugs. They were the Riverton Underground 4, the very same "Four Kings" who ruled the city's underworld from the shadows. Catching all four of them in one go was as big a catch as one could hope for. It was the equivalent of hooking four great white sharks at once.

There was no question that by tomorrow morning, the entire criminal world in Riverton would be in an uproar. News would travel fast, and the word on the street would be clear: The Four Kings had been brought down. The shockwave would ripple through every alley, dive bar, and safe house.

Of course, the Four Kings weren't without resources. They still had deep connections, untold wealth, and powerful allies in the city. Charlie had no doubt that they'd eventually find a way out of the clutches of the FBI. The legal system could only hold them for so long, but no matter how quickly they wriggled free, the damage to their reputation would be irreparable.

It wasn't just the leaders who would suffer, though. The real fallout would come for their men. Hundreds of their most loyal enforcers—gangsters, hitmen, and bodyguards—had been rounded up. The muscle behind the four major factions was gone, taken off the streets in one swift, unexpected strike. The underworld had lost its backbone. It was impossible to pretend that such a large number of highly trained, heavily armed criminals could be arrested without serious consequences. These weren't low-level street thugs. They were the core of Riverton's criminal machine.

And beyond the arrests, there was something else. Something far more chilling. The aftermath of the battle further solidified the underground world's growing fear of those masked vigilantes, particularly Batman, who seemed to be everywhere and nowhere at once. It wasn't just the capture of the Four Kings that would send ripples of terror through Riverton, but how it had happened.

The criminal world would soon learn that despite all the preparation—the dozens of elite enforcers armed to the teeth, the pre-planned ambush, the artillery that turned entire streets into warzones—it had been meaningless. The battle had been as fierce as any war, with gunshots echoing for blocks, explosions shaking buildings, and chaos reigning for a brief but intense period. Yet, the vigilantes, led by Batman, had cut through them like a hot knife through butter.

It wasn't a fight. It was a massacre.

The entire operation had been dismantled, almost casually, and without so much as a warning. It didn't matter how many guns the Four Kings had or how many of their best men they'd deployed. They had come prepared for war, but the war ended before it had even truly begun. To the vigilantes, this had been nothing more than routine.

And when word spread about how the Four Kings had put everything on the line—about how they had rallied their best men, prepared an ambush with military-grade weapons, and yet still lost—it would ignite a terror Riverton had never seen. What hope did the rest of them have if even the Four Kings, with all their power and resources, had fallen so easily?

Rumors would run wild. Some would say the Four Kings' men hadn't stood a chance, that Batman and his allies had cut them down like they were nothing more than paper targets. Some would say the vigilantes had supernatural powers. Others would claim that Batman had used tech far beyond anything they could comprehend, turning the battlefield into his playground.

One thing was certain: this battle had changed everything.

Even those arrested that night, including the Four Kings themselves, began to seriously consider whether staying behind bars might actually be the safest option. For the first time in their criminal careers, they had a new fear—one that couldn't be solved with money or connections. The vigilantes weren't going away, and if Batman could do this, who knew what he might do next?

It was almost laughable. Here they were, the most feared men in Riverton, and they were genuinely wondering if life behind bars would be better. Inside the prison, they were safe. They had their brothers-in-arms, and they didn't have to constantly look over their shoulders. They could rest easy. But outside? It would be like walking on thin ice. The memory of that night—the fear, the chaos, the hopelessness—would haunt them forever. Every time they closed their eyes, the nightmare would return.

The contrast between the power of Spider-Man and his unassuming appearance only deepened the gangsters' terror. His small frame and youthful energy belied his monstrous strength. Here was a hero who could scale walls, flip cars, and dodge bullets with ease. And yet, he looked so... ordinary. That was what scared them the most.

Spider-Man's powers, while perfect for climbing and sneaking around, had transformed in Charlie's hands into something far more terrifying. With his 20-ton strength and almost supernatural reflexes, Spider-Man wasn't just an agile scout. He was a weapon, a powerhouse that could smash through any defense.

If Batman was the cunning mastermind, the Slytherin of Charlie's lineup, then Spider-Man was his Gryffindor—a bold, reckless, and unstoppable force, tearing through anything that stood in his way.

But in truth, Charlie hadn't been targeting the Four Kings specifically. He wasn't on some grand mission to bring down Riverton's underworld. He was simply a gamer, testing out a new hero, and looking for something—anything—to punch. The Four Kings and their army of thugs just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

If the Four Kings did decide to stay locked up, Charlie might even feel a pang of disappointment. After all, catching the four biggest sharks in the pond all at once wasn't exactly ideal. He had wiped out the most valuable targets in one go. The criminal ecosystem in Riverton was thrown completely out of balance, and Charlie knew that finding new opponents wouldn't be as easy.

If Riverton's criminals collectively decided to clean up their acts and retire from crime, Charlie might have to get creative in finding new adversaries to take down.

After spending some time testing out Spider-Man's abilities, the night had fully descended. Charlie ordered some takeout, finished his meal, and returned to his computer. It was time to focus on the real business.

The Ninth Special Service Division's sky fortress had been breached the previous night. Charlie had always been skeptical of the security there, but even he hadn't expected it to be breached so easily. A group of psychopaths had broken in as if the place had no defenses at all.

Intrigued, Charlie had used Batman's backdoor into the system to investigate. What he found shocked him. There was a mole—a traitor within the ranks of the Division. And to Charlie's surprise, that mole was none other than Melanie Chase, someone he had encountered multiple times before.

He hadn't expected that. Melanie had been playing both sides all along, deceiving everyone.

But the biggest surprise wasn't Melanie's betrayal—it was that something had been stolen from the fortress during the breach.

The Ninth Division had immediately raised the security clearance on whatever had been taken. The level of secrecy surrounding the stolen item skyrocketed overnight. It seemed that whoever had stolen it hadn't just swiped some minor trinket. Whatever it was, it had significance far beyond what anyone initially thought.

Curious, Charlie dug deeper into the Division's records. All he could find was a single serial number: a086. What it referred to, though, was still a mystery. The database had no further information.

Charlie made a decision. If he wanted to find out what a086 was and why it was so important, he'd have to visit the Division's mothership himself. And if he was going to make the trip, he might as well make it worth his while—perhaps secure a lifetime VIP membership at the Ninth Special Service Division while he was at it.

He wasn't in a rush, though. After all, he'd spent the evening testing out new heroes, and the night was still young. It wasn't fully dark yet, and the night belonged to Batman. Sneaking around in broad daylight in a black suit just seemed disrespectful. Besides, the Ninth Division, despite its flaws, had an impressive logistics team. The sky fortress that had been downed the previous night was already back in the sky, resuming its mysterious journey.

Dr. Hines, who had been so confident in the fortress's defenses, was sweating bullets after the breach. Fortunately for him, the chairman seemed to believe the real problem had been the mole, not the security systems.

Still, Commander Ross had visited Dr. Hines, subtly pointing out that the security system needed a full overhaul. The mole may have been the root of the issue, but the fact that the alarm system had been disabled without anyone noticing? That was a flaw they couldn't ignore.

Not long after the fortress resumed flight, Dr. Hines reassured the chairperson, "Don't worry. The system has been upgraded—both hardware and software. It may look the same on the outside, but inside?

It's a completely new system."

He puffed out his chest and added with pride, "I guarantee that nothing like last time will happen again. Not even a senior detective or an insider would be able to disarm the system."

Realizing he may have said too much, Dr. Hines quickly backtracked. "I mean, it's perfectly secure. Not even a mosquito could get in."

Meanwhile, on the other side of the fortress, an electronic door slid open with a faint beep. The system had been hacked, and Batman slipped through the opening silently. His landing in the empty hallway was as quiet as a shadow, and the door closed behind him without a sound.

Batman's stealth was so understated and effective, it was almost boring in its simplicity. No one noticed. No alarms were raised.

He was already inside.

Chapter Text

Agent Ivan Petrov, after completing yet another routine inspection, walked back through the sleek, sterile corridors of the Ninth Special Service Division's mothership. The hum of the ship's engines resonated faintly beneath his feet, the cold metal walls gleaming under the artificial lights.

Since the day he had crushed the parasitic entity that had separated from his body, Ivan's life had been filled with endless tests—both physical and psychological. His body, though seemingly normal on the outside, had become a subject of great interest. Every few days, he was required to return to the mothership for routine checkups. And then there was Professor Miyazaki, the old trickster, who would call him at random times to run even more tests. Lately, Miyazaki had opened a new file specifically for Ivan, filled with data points, detailed analyses, and endless hypotheses about his condition.

Today's return to the mothership, however, wasn't for one of those ability tests that Miyazaki loved so much. No, today was even worse—it was a psychological evaluation. A series of mind-numbing questions meant to assess his mental state, which left Ivan bored out of his skull. It was the kind of test that had him wondering if falling asleep halfway through would affect his results. By the time he finished, his mind felt as heavy as a lead weight.

As soon as he stepped into his office, the first thing Ivan did was pull out a cigarette from his jacket pocket. With a flick of his lighter, the cigarette glowed, and he took a long, satisfying drag. Exhaling slowly, he sank into his recliner, crossing his legs and letting his body relax for the first time that day. The faint smell of tobacco filled the room, mixing with the cold, sterile air of the mothership.

"Smoking on an aircraft isn't the best habit," came a low, gravelly voice from behind him.

Ivan flinched, nearly jumping out of his seat. His reflexes kicked in before his mind could process what had just happened. His body tensed, his muscles coiling like springs, ready to react to any danger. But when he turned, he saw Batman standing there, shrouded in shadows, like a ghost that had materialized out of thin air. His cape billowed ever so slightly, his figure blending with the dim lighting of the room.

Despite himself, Ivan's heart skipped a beat. Even after all this time, Batman still had the ability to surprise him. The man's presence was practically otherworldly—silent, unpredictable, always watching.

"You..." Ivan began, his voice still shaky from the sudden adrenaline rush. "What are you doing here?"

Ivan knew Batman was infamous for his ability to slip in and out of places unseen, but this was different. This was the Ninth Special Service Division's mothership—one of the only five such aircraft carriers in the world, and widely regarded as the safest place on Earth. Sure, the ship had been compromised recently, but even so, the security system was online now. It should have been impenetrable. Yet here Batman stood, having entered without triggering a single alarm.

But Ivan wasn't a stranger to Batman's methods. He quickly composed himself, letting the initial shock wash away. With a smirk, he leaned back in his recliner, taking another leisurely puff from his cigarette.

"Dr. Hines said today that they've upgraded every part of the mothership's security system," Ivan said, exhaling smoke lazily. "He assured everyone that no one could get in this time. Guess I'll have to tell him he was wrong."

His smirk widened as he gestured to the room around them. "So, tell me, how did you get in here? Did we leave a vent unsealed? Or maybe you slipped in through the ductwork? You know what, don't answer that. I don't really want to know."

He waved his hand dismissively, his tone playful, though his eyes remained curious. Ivan always had a habit of teasing Batman, poking fun at the serious, brooding figure.

"I'm guessing you had everything turned off before you strolled in. Monitoring equipment, sensors—the works. But aren't you worried I'll just call security and have you arrested? After all, I'm still an agent of the Ninth, and you…" Ivan paused for effect, taking another drag before blowing out the smoke, "…are just a lunatic in a bat costume who's snuck into our headquarters."

He met Batman's intense gaze, half-expecting some sort of comeback. Instead, Batman remained stone-faced, his cold eyes never wavering. Behind the mask, Charlie Cooper suppressed a small chuckle at Ivan's banter, but Batman's stoic image remained intact.

"Something was stolen from the Ninth Division last night," Batman said, his voice deep and measured. "Evidence a086. What do you know about it?"

Ivan's playful smirk didn't fade, but there was a glint of seriousness in his eyes as he heard the mention of the stolen evidence. He took another puff from his cigarette, exhaling slowly.

"Why don't you just use your magical little bat computer and check our servers? They're one floor down. Take a left at the B3 sector, and you'll find them at the end of the corridor. Everything you need is right there," he said, half-joking. But his smile faltered as he saw the intensity in Batman's gaze. "Wait… you didn't already hack into the server, did you?"

Batman's response was as cold and direct as ever. "The server only has basic information—the location where evidence a086 was found, along with some test data. There's no information on what it's used for or why someone would want to steal it."

Ivan blinked, then looked down at his watch. When he raised his eyes back to Batman, his expression was one of disbelief. "The mothership took off half an hour ago," he said in a tone that was equal parts confusion and awe. "Are you telling me you snuck in, hacked our server, and got back up here in half an hour?"

Charlie, still in full Batman mode, remained silent, but on the inside, he found Ivan's reaction amusing. Half an hour? More like a few minutes, Charlie thought to himself. As for hacking the server, it had been child's play. The system had folded like a deck of cards, and the firewall had barely put up a fight. If Ivan thought the Ninth's security was cutting-edge, he clearly didn't understand what kind of tech Batman had access to.

"Exhibit a086," Batman repeated, his tone unchanging. "What is it for? Why would anyone want it?"

Ivan leaned back in his chair, taking a long, thoughtful drag of his cigarette. After a pause, he exhaled and said, "If you want to know about that, you're asking the wrong guy. I don't know." He paused, then added with a slight shrug, "Or maybe I should say no one knows."

His playful demeanor faded, replaced by something more serious. "The information you found on the server—that's all we have. It's just a brick. A weird-looking one, sure, but still just a brick. It wasn't even a secret. A lot of agents saw it sitting in storage."

Ivan took another puff of his cigarette, his brow furrowing slightly as he continued. "It was dug up and handed over to the Ninth Division as evidence of infection, but Miyazaki tested it and confirmed it wasn't dangerous. It's a Category III artifact."

"Category III," Batman echoed.

Ivan nodded. "Yeah. It's classified as something with characteristics similar to an infection source, but not actually dangerous. We've had plenty of items like that come through our doors. Some of them are just everyday objects that happened to be near an infection site. Most of them end up gathering dust in storage."

"But clearly, someone cares about this one," Batman said, his voice as sharp as ever.

"Yeah, but for the life of me, I can't imagine why," Ivan replied, running a hand through his hair. "To me, it's just a fancy brick. I don't see what else it could be used for."

He paused for a moment, his brow furrowing. "If there's anything special about it, it's that it was retrieved by Link during his last mission."

"Link?" Batman asked, the name clearly unfamiliar to him.

Ivan chuckled. "Ah, so there's something you don't know after all."

He flicked the ash from his cigarette into the tray beside him. "Link used to be the captain of the Security Bureau's operations team, back before the Ninth Division existed. The guy was a legend. Everyone looked up to him. He was like a living legend, the poster boy for every young agent."

Ivan's expression darkened slightly. "But then, one day, he betrayed us."

"Betrayed?" Batman's voice remained level, but the intensity in his eyes was undeniable.

"Yeah. No one knows why," Ivan said with a heavy sigh. "It happened during an excavation mission. He killed all of his colleagues on-site and then disappeared, just like that. The Security Bureau was reorganized into the Ninth Division after that, but no one's seen or heard from him since. He's still the number one name on our most-wanted list."

"And this artifact was something he recovered before his disappearance?" Batman asked.

Ivan nodded. "Yep. It's been sitting in storage ever since. No one's figured out what it's for. But now, for some reason, someone wants it."

As Ivan spoke, something else clicked in his mind. "By the way, we've identified the group behind the attack on the mothership yesterday. They call themselves the 'Dead.'"

"The Dead," Batman repeated, the words sinking in.

"Yeah, we don't have much information on them yet, but we traced the plane they used. It's a ten-year-old' Water Snake' jet, funded by a company called Sloan Technology."

"Sloan Technology," Batman repeated, mentally filing the name away for further investigation.

Ivan took another long drag from his cigarette. "We've sent agents to check the company out, but so far, we've come up empty. Still, my gut tells me there's something fishy about them."

Ivan flicked his cigarette butt into the ashtray and reached for a new one, lighting it with ease. "Look, Bat, I'm not giving you this information for free. I know you're going to dig deeper into this, and when you do, I've got one condition. You take me with you."

He took a drag, smoke curling around him, before adding, "We do this together."

But when he looked up, Batman was gone. The shadows in the room had swallowed him whole, leaving Ivan alone once more.

Ivan blinked, then let out a long, exasperated sigh. He leaned back into his chair and muttered to himself.

"Figures…"

Chapter Text

Abandoning Ivan, Batman slipped out of the room and headed toward the exit he had prepared beforehand. Every movement was precise. As he moved, the flickering lights of the corridor cast long shadows, but none of them caught his sleek silhouette.

With the combination of detective mode and his universal decryptor, Batman moved undetected through what was supposed to be the "safest place in the world." Surveillance systems, guards, sensors—none of it posed a challenge. He had neutralized it all on his way in and now had complete freedom to exit without raising a single alarm.

As Batman passed by an office, his enhanced auditory sensors picked up a conversation from within. The voice was confident, yet there was an edge of uncertainty creeping through.

"I'm telling you, there's no security breach. No way. Everything's running perfectly this time. I guarantee it! There's no chance of a mistake, or else I'll eat—well... in any case, it's impossible."

Charlie, controlling Batman, immediately recognized the voice as Dr. Hines. The scientist, it seemed, was desperately trying to reassure someone—perhaps himself—that everything was fine.

At that moment, Charlie understood why Ivan had been so eager to see Dr. Hines's face when confronted with the reality that Batman had infiltrated the mothership undetected. The temptation to kick down the door and surprise the doctor was strong. Charlie could almost picture the look of disbelief on Dr. Hines's face, his calm facade crumbling in real time.

Of course, it was just a passing thought. Charlie wasn't about to waste time indulging his sense of humor, especially not now. There would be other opportunities to mess with the doctor later. After all, this fortress, which Dr. Hines regarded as impenetrable, was rapidly becoming Batman's revolving door.

I wonder how long it'll take for him to have a complete breakdown once he realizes how easily I come and go, Charlie mused.

Finally reaching the exit he had pre-set, Batman paused. The electronic door lock was already under his control. A simple command from the mobile computer mounted on his gauntlet, and the door silently slid open.

Waiting outside, the Batfighter hovered in the night, cloaked in invisibility and silence.

Dr. Hines had boldly claimed that no aircraft could escape the radar of the Ninth Division's mothership. But that was only because he was operating within the confines of conventional technology. The Batfighter, on the other hand, was anything but conventional. Its entire body was coated with the most advanced anti-radar material known to the DC universe, designed to scatter radar waves and render it invisible to even the most advanced tracking systems.

Wayne Enterprises spared no expense in the design of the Batfighter. Charlie, as Batman, had made sure of that. Add a touch of proprietary Wayne black-tech, and even the most sophisticated military radar systems around the globe wouldn't pick up its presence.

To top it off, Batman had once borrowed an invisibility enchantment from Wonder Woman, ensuring that not even Kryptonian eyes or alien technology could spot the Batfighter when it was in stealth mode.

Masterful ninja-level stealth, paired with high-level hacking, and a plane designed to deceive even extraterrestrial forces—it was no wonder the Ninth Division's security had crumbled so easily.

Even as Charlie executed Batman's "turn back" maneuver with his usual finesse, Ivan's offer still lingered in his mind. Yet, there was no intention to form a team with him anytime soon.

What would that even look like? Batman and some guy tagging along? Not a chance.

Besides, Ivan was hardly sidekick material, not anymore. More importantly, controlling Batman remotely while coordinating with a partner on the field would only complicate matters. Heroes like Batman were meant to work solo.

The next stop was Sloan Technology.

The Batfighter cut through the night sky, its engines silent, invisible to any prying eyes below. When Batman reached his destination, he leapt from the hovering craft, spreading his cape wide to catch the wind. Gliding down silently through the darkened streets below, he used his grappling gun to latch onto a nearby skyscraper, pulling himself to its roof with ease.

From this vantage point, Batman could clearly see the building he intended to infiltrate.

Sloan Technology.

The structure was sleek and modern, its glass reflecting the city's lights. But beneath its polished exterior, Batman knew there were secrets worth uncovering.

As was his custom, Batman began by scanning the building's layout from multiple angles. Moving between shadowy ledges, he scoped out every inch of the structure. His movements were a blur of precision—silent, quick, unseen.

Through detective mode, he mapped the entire building within moments, taking note of guard positions, patrol routes, and potential entry points.

For a technology company, the security was surprisingly tight. While it wasn't quite "three steps, one post; five steps, another," it was still impressive. There were security guards stationed on every floor, and patrols roamed regularly. Each guard was alert, scanning their surroundings with hawk-like focus. They weren't the usual distracted rent-a-cops. They seemed almost paranoid, as if they expected trouble at any moment.

Batman noted the high level of professionalism, especially from the guards at the main entrance. One of them had his eyes locked on every passerby, studying their movements like they were potential threats. Inside the building, the patrolling guards never lingered too long in one place, and their routes were carefully timed. It all seemed strangely meticulous for a tech company.

Still, as impressive as the security was, it wasn't enough to deter Batman. This wasn't a military base. The sheer number of people coming and going made it impossible to maintain airtight control.

More curious were the lights on in several offices, despite the late hour. Employees were still working, even though it was well past closing time.

People working this late? It's like they never leave, Charlie thought, remembering the classic line: "Have you ever seen the city at 4 a.m.?" Except here, it wasn't just the city—it was Sloan Technology itself that never seemed to sleep. Either these people are dedicated beyond reason or something else is keeping them here.

As Batman scanned the building, detective mode highlighted a suspicious area at the top of the structure.

Charlie raised an eyebrow. At first, he couldn't see anything particularly unusual about it. But then it hit him—Batman had knowledge in fields Charlie couldn't even begin to grasp. With multiple doctorates under his belt, Bruce Wayne had studied everything from criminology to structural engineering. Charlie, on the other hand, would've been lost if someone handed him the blueprints to this building.

Batman must have noticed something unusual in the building's design—perhaps an imbalance in the structure. It wasn't obvious to the untrained eye, but for someone like Batman, it stood out like a beacon.

Despite the security, Batman infiltrated the building with relative ease. His movements were fluid, every step calculated and silent. The guards were none the wiser.

The company had installed advanced sensors, rarer than most found on the market, but they posed no real threat. At most, they added an extra layer of security that Batman neutralized in seconds. After bypassing the sensors and disabling the surveillance systems, he made his way to the top floor, where the detective mode had flagged something suspicious.

Batman entered the chairman's office through the air ducts, landing softly on the plush, gray carpet. The room was elegantly decorated, with Sloan Technology's signature colors—red and gray—prominently displayed in the furnishings and decor. The office radiated power and authority, from the sleek desk to the minimalist design that screamed wealth and efficiency.

But Batman wasn't interested in the aesthetics.

What caught his attention was the entire wall on the far side of the office, which seemed to glow faintly under detective mode's enhanced view.

Batman scanned the wall, and the results came back almost instantly.

"The floor in this room is slightly offset," Batman muttered. "There's an imbalance in the structure, most likely caused by uneven weight distribution. There's something hidden behind this wall."

Charlie blinked, briefly impressed. Did he figure that out from the floor? But then again, compared to the 3D crime scene recreation Batman was capable of, this was a minor feat.

Further analysis revealed that the wall was filled with lead, a material that was commonly used in the DC universe to block all kinds of scans—even Kryptonian X-ray vision couldn't penetrate it.

Normal scanning methods wouldn't be able to reveal what was behind the wall, but Batman had other tools at his disposal.

Reaching into his utility belt, Batman retrieved a compact cylindrical device. The sleek black casing bore the bat symbol, and it hummed to life as he activated it. A pale blue laser shot out from the tip, slicing through the wall like butter.

Charlie couldn't help but notice that the laser traced the shape of a bat symbol. Does everything have to be a bat? he wondered, amused by Batman's insistence on branding. Wouldn't a circle be faster?

Within moments, the wall gave way, crumbling to reveal a hidden room.

Batman stepped through the opening into what was unmistakably a woman's room.

The signs were obvious—there was a vanity set up against one wall, filled with makeup and personal items. Clothes, distinctly feminine, hung neatly in the wardrobe. The air smelled faintly of perfume, a stark contrast to the sterile, corporate atmosphere outside.

But what immediately caught Batman's attention was the uniform draped casually over a chair near the dresser.

It was a Ninth Special Service Division uniform.

Charlie's pulse quickened. Jackpot.

In this highly secure company, a hidden room located in the chairman's office, and inside it, a uniform belonging to the Ninth Division. It was too much to be a coincidence.

Was the chairman complicit in hiding someone? Was there a darker connection between Sloan and the Ninth Division?

There were more questions than answers, but the clues were already starting to pile up.

Detective mode activated again, revealing several more points of interest scattered throughout the room. Each one represented something worth investigating.

Charlie's gaze drifted back to the Ninth Division uniform. If nothing else, it proved that whoever had been living here had direct ties to the Ninth Division.

There were additional clues: small details, fragments of evidence left behind. A single footprint on the floor stood out—a sign that the room's occupant had been here recently.

Batman scanned the shoe print, and detective mode began analyzing it, reconstructing the person's height, build, and likely physical characteristics. Within moments, a 3D model of the individual was generated, standing in the room before him.

Charlie compared the model to the information he had. The height, build, and other details matched with startling accuracy.

It was Melanie Chase.

As Batman completed the scan, detective mode highlighted a stray hair on the floor. It would be easy to conduct a DNA scan and confirm her identity for certain.

But just as Batman initiated the scan, the system flashed an urgent warning. A red exclamation mark appeared on the screen, indicating imminent danger.

Boom!

A deafening explosion ripped through the room. Flames erupted from the walls, engulfing the space in an instant. The shockwave sent debris flying, and the force of the blast slammed into Batman, throwing him off his feet.

Chapter Text

Many years ago.

A gap was chiseled into the eternal darkness. From within, a single beam of light sliced through the black void, piercing the silent abyss like a blade cutting through the fabric of time.

There was a dull thud as the heavy stone slab, centuries old, shifted and was pulled away from the outside. Dust filled the air as the light struck ancient stone steps, bathing them in a glow they hadn't seen in millennia. The silence that had reigned in the chamber for ages was shattered by the clinking sounds of armor and heavy footsteps. A group of figures, clad in full combat gear and gas masks, entered the forgotten space. Their flashlights cut through the shadows, casting long beams into the depths, illuminating what had been sealed away for so long.

The team immediately began conducting tests—air quality, structural integrity, and the presence of any biological dangers. They moved with military precision, checking for lethal gases, unstable structures, and other hazards that could turn their mission into a death sentence.

After completing the initial tests, one of the team leaders pressed his earpiece, his voice crackling through the static. "This is Link. The area is secure. No issues. Let the archaeologists proceed."

These weren't just any soldiers; they were elite special agents, part of a highly secretive organization. Their job was to be the first ones in, to clear the path for those who would follow—the scientists, the researchers, the ones who needed protection. The agents were trained for this, prepared for the unknown dangers that lurked in such ancient places.

The team activated a compact sonar device designed specifically for exploring ancient ruins and tombs. This small, unassuming box had the power to demystify what had taken centuries to conceal. With it, they could map out the entire underground structure, identifying traps, hidden chambers, and labyrinthine corridors that the original builders had worked so hard to hide.

A low hum vibrated through the chamber as the sonar waves expanded outward, creeping into every nook and cranny of the ruins.

It was as if the tomb had given up its secrets willingly. The invisible power of technology rendered the darkness irrelevant, forcing the hidden palace to reveal its true form.

As the structure was mapped out on their screens, abstract lines and geometric patterns formed a massive and complex space, much larger than anyone had anticipated. Several agents, seasoned though they were, gasped audibly at the sight.

The image on the sonar screen defied logic. Even the most experienced among them, who had seen their share of ancient ruins and forgotten cities, were stunned by the enormity and complexity of what lay beneath their feet.

"It's... massive," someone whispered, the awe in their voice unmistakable.

"And it's... complex," another agent added, scanning the screen in disbelief. "I've never seen anything like this. It doesn't match any architectural style from any known civilization."

"It doesn't even look like human work," someone else murmured, their voice thick with unease.

"That's because it's not," came Link's calm, authoritative voice.

"Captain?" one of the agents asked, puzzled. "What do you mean by that?"

Link didn't respond. In fact, they realized he had retreated back toward the entrance at some point, his figure now half-hidden in the shadows. His back was turned to them, and without a word, he removed the heavy pack from his shoulders and tossed it into the center of the group.

The growing tension in the room was palpable. Some of the agents began to exchange uneasy glances, sensing that something was very wrong.

"Captain, what are you doing?" one of them asked, concern creeping into their voice.

Then, they saw it. Link was holding a small, sleek device in his hand. It was metallic black, with a single red button glinting ominously on its surface.

Every eye in the room was glued to the device, the air thick with confusion and rising dread.

Before anyone could react, Link pressed the button.

Boom!

In an instant, fire engulfed the chamber, consuming everything in its path. The roar of the explosion drowned out any screams, and the once-secure tomb turned into a death trap.

---

Years later. Present day.

Boom!

The deafening explosion shattered the quiet of the night. A shockwave tore through the Sloan Technology building, blasting out windows and sending debris raining down onto the street below. Flames exploded from the upper floors, lighting up the dark sky as half of the building was consumed in fire. From a distance, it looked like a blazing beacon, hundreds of meters tall, casting an orange glow over the surrounding city.

Standing on the rooftop of a building across the street, a man held a pair of binoculars, his attention fixed on the burning wreckage. His expression was one of satisfaction, his gaze unblinking as he watched the inferno grow, the fire licking at the sky like the tongue of a hungry beast.

He remained there for several minutes, his eyes scanning the upper floors of the Sloan building. There were no signs of movement—no survivors. No Batman.

He pulled out his phone, still watching as flames devoured the building's remains. His voice was calm, self-assured. "Yeah, I've been watching. No one made it out. Batman is finished."

He spoke a few more words, his tone casual, then pocketed the phone. Turning to leave, he stopped abruptly, his blood running cold.

In the shadows, standing perfectly still, was Batman.

The Dark Knight had been there all along, silently watching, patiently waiting. He had even given the man the courtesy of finishing his phone call before revealing his presence.

"Fuck!" The man's face twisted in shock and fear. His hand flew to his side, reaching for his gun, but before he could draw, a bat-shaped projectile zipped through the air, striking the gun and sending it clattering to the ground.

Desperate, the man lunged forward, throwing a punch with all the strength and speed he could muster. But his movements were wild, uncoordinated. To Batman, they were easy to predict and just as easy to avoid.

Infected, Batman noted clinically as he sidestepped the blow. The man had some enhancements, but not enough.

Batman shifted his weight and pivoted just as the man threw a second punch. The attack missed again, and this time, Batman moved diagonally, forcing the man to stumble forward.

The attacker growled in frustration and attempted to spin into a backhanded strike. But before he could complete the motion, Batman's outstretched boot met his shin, tripping him. The man fell forward with an awkward yelp, crashing to the ground face-first in a graceless heap.

Before the man could even think of getting up, Batman acted. With a flick of his wrist, a string of multi-ball traps flew from his hand, wrapping around the man's arms and legs, binding him tightly. The man wriggled and flailed on the ground like a fish out of water, but no matter how much he struggled, he couldn't break free.

In a nearby alley, the sound of an engine roared to life. A white sedan peeled out of the shadows, tires screeching as it drifted onto the main road. The car sped off, weaving through traffic as the driver floored the accelerator. They were making their escape.

Inside the car, two men sat, both tense. The driver gripped the wheel, his knuckles white as he tried to control the vehicle at high speed. He pulled out his phone, dialing a number as they raced away from Sloan Technology.

"We've been made," he spat into the phone. "Batman caught the Observer. He's done for. We're getting out of here now—"

He broke off mid-sentence, something catching his eye. From the corner of his vision, he noticed people on the sidewalks. They had all stopped, their heads turned upward, their faces frozen in expressions of shock and confusion. Several of them pointed, their eyes wide as they stared at something behind the car.

Even the man in the passenger seat leaned out of the window, craning his neck to see what was happening. "What the hell is that?" he exclaimed, his voice filled with panic.

The driver, against his better judgment, glanced in the rearview mirror—and what he saw made his heart stop.

Swinging through the air, gracefully and impossibly fast, was a figure. It was dressed in red and blue, a blur of motion as it leaped between buildings, using thin strands of webbing to propel itself forward.

With every swing, the figure gained more speed, arcing high above the street before plummeting downward with the force of gravity, accelerating with an unnatural momentum. It was like watching a human-shaped missile, hurtling through the sky with the precision of a hawk diving for prey.

The sight was surreal, almost otherworldly. It was as if reality had been warped, and they were being pursued by something from a sci-fi movie.

The driver's breath hitched in his throat, his hands trembling on the wheel. He snapped his gaze back to the road, trying to regain control of his racing heart.

"Why are you just sitting there?" he screamed at his passenger. "Shoot him!"

The man in the passenger seat fumbled for his gun, his hands shaking as he loaded the clip. Squinting through the window, he tried to aim at the figure rapidly closing in on them. But the target was moving too fast, swinging between buildings in an unpredictable, almost dance-like rhythm. Hitting something moving that fast was nearly impossible.

In the end, the man could only fire blindly, sending a spray of bullets into the air. But Spider-Man's spider-sense kicked in, and every single shot missed its mark. The bullets flew harmlessly into the night sky as Spider-Man continued his pursuit, unfazed and uninjured.

The driver, barely holding the wheel steady, realized his phone was still connected. The person on the other end was shouting for an update.

"I don't know what the hell is happening!" the driver yelled, his voice frantic. "We're being chased by some circus freak—like Tarzan on steroids! He's swinging faster than we can drive!"

There was a pause on the other end, and then a confused response.

"What? Yes, I'm awake! I know what I'm seeing!"

Chapter Text

A few minutes later, the two men who had tried to flee found themselves bound tightly by Spider-Man's webs and unceremoniously thrown back onto the rooftop alongside the third one, who had already been caught by Batman.

Despite all three being infected, their infection levels were still low, just enough to influence their behavior but not so severe as to warrant lethal measures. If the Ninth Special Service Division could retrieve them quickly enough, they might still be able to save their lives.

Sloan Technology had been under the scrutiny of the Ninth Special Service Division for days, and the sudden explosion at their building would not go unnoticed. Special agents would already be en route, storming the scene to assess the damage and secure the area. But Batman, as always, worked faster.

For now, the dark knight had enough time to extract the information he needed from these low-level pawns.

With their infection being mild, the three thugs could still feel pain—something Batman exploited fully. Combined with the terror they'd experienced in their failed attempts to escape, it didn't take long for the trio to crack. After receiving a few expertly placed fractures and a terrifying bungee-jumping simulation courtesy of Batman's grappling hook, they spilled every bit of information they had.

Their confession was almost pitiful in its simplicity. They were members of a local gang, hired for a job that they hadn't fully understood. Their task had been straightforward: keep watch on the secret entrance to the office of Sloan Technology's chairman. The moment the secret door was activated, they were to detonate explosives that had been planted there beforehand.

Their infection, they explained, had come about recently, likely as part of a plan by their mysterious "messenger," a person they had never met. Their infection was light but enough to keep them pliable and obedient to orders. This messenger had ensured they would follow instructions without question, though they were clearly no more than disposable pawns in a larger scheme.

Unfortunately for Batman, the three had no further details about the identity of this so-called messenger. They did have a phone number they used to receive orders, but after checking, Batman found the number had already been canceled. The trail was cold.

These small-time criminals were nothing more than a dead-end, but there was still someone who could provide more answers: Sloan, the chairman of Sloan Technology.

Batman's next task was to locate Sloan, but that was easier said than done. The chairman wasn't at home, nor was he in his office. His phone had been turned off, and he had seemingly vanished.

But to Batman, no one stays hidden for long. Using advanced tracking systems and surveillance, Batman quickly identified Sloan's car, tracing it to a high-end resort located in the suburbs.

It didn't take long for Batman to arrive at the luxury villa, where Sloan was staying. The opulence of the surroundings was in stark contrast to the criminal underworld Batman often dealt with—an elegant and expensive facade hiding darker activities within.

Moving swiftly through the resort grounds, Batman located Sloan's private suite. Through the window, he could see Sloan inside, the chairman completely oblivious to the imminent confrontation.

When Batman finally entered the room, the sight that greeted him was almost laughable. Sloan, the chairman who wielded so much power and influence, was in bed with a striking blonde woman. Their tangled limbs and awkward positioning indicated that the two had been thoroughly "preoccupied."

To Charlie Cooper, watching from behind Batman's eyes, the situation was far too amusing to ignore. Of course, they're probably "learning biology," he thought sarcastically, referencing the bizarre positions they had found themselves in.

The entry of the dark knight into the room was swift and merciless, and its effect on Sloan was immediate. The once-proud chairman, with all his wealth and authority, suddenly became nothing more than a frightened man. His waist, which had been ready to unleash a burst of energy moments before, contracted with fear, leaving him limp and terrified. The woman, who had been so full of life just seconds earlier, now screamed and jumped from the bed, retreating to the corner of the room with the sheets pulled tightly around her body.

She trembled as her chest heaved with frightened breaths. Batman's facial recognition scan revealed her as nothing more than a high-class escort arranged by the resort. She was of no interest to him.

Ignoring her completely, Batman strode over to Sloan, who had barely managed to get out of bed before Batman's fist met his face. The punch was swift, efficient, and powerful, knocking Sloan unconscious in an instant. Batman didn't bother with pleasantries. He grabbed the limp body of the chairman and dragged him out of the room without a word.

When Sloan finally regained consciousness, he found himself in a nightmarish situation. He was hanging upside down from a cliff, suspended by nothing more than a thin rope tied around his ankles. The world spun disorientingly around him, and the only thing keeping him from plunging into the abyss below was Batman's grasp on the rope.

Above him, the full moon cast a cold, silver light, illuminating the rocky cliffs and the vast, bottomless chasm below. The clouds swirled ominously beneath him, making it impossible to gauge just how far he would fall if Batman let go.

Sloan screamed, his body jerking as panic set in. The fear consumed him. Despite his wealth, despite his power, despite everything he had built—none of it mattered in the face of Batman. He kicked his legs, his body flailing helplessly as his fear grew.

To Charlie, still safely seated in front of his screen, it was almost comical how utterly pathetic Sloan looked, dangling there like a worm on a hook. But it was effective—fear was always Batman's greatest tool.

[TL Note - He should still be in his birthday suit, sooooo... I don't think he's the only thing dangling "wink" "wink."]

Batman crouched at the edge of the cliff, the hem of his black cape fluttering in the wind. His figure, silhouetted against the moon, looked monstrous, like a creature of the night come to devour its prey.

"Talk," Batman growled, his voice low and dangerous.

Sloan's eyes bulged with terror. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, his pulse deafening in his ears. "I'll tell you anything! Just ask! I can give you money, anything you want!"

Charlie couldn't help but roll his eyes. Really? That's it? This guy has no backbone at all, he thought. How is this even fun if he doesn't put up any resistance?

Apparently, Batman felt the same. Without a word, he released the rope.

Sloan's scream pierced the night as he plummeted into the abyss, his body weightless as he fell. The sensation of free-fall consumed him, his heart leaping into his throat as the ground rushed up to meet him.

But just as suddenly as he had fallen, the rope tightened around his legs, snapping him back up with a brutal jolt. His entire body ached as he was yanked back up, the harsh pull on his ankles sending shockwaves of pain through him.

"You're going to tell me the truth," Batman said, each word carefully spaced out for maximum intimidation. "If you lie, even once…"

"The truth! The truth! I swear!" Sloan sobbed, his voice cracking with desperation. He was too terrified to even contemplate lying. Why would he? His life literally hung by a thread—Batman's thread.

Despite his usual swagger, Sloan was a coward through and through, and in that moment, he was willing to say anything to save himself. He babbled on, confirming what Batman already suspected. Sloan, while corrupt and immoral in many ways, was not directly involved in the infection plot. He didn't even know about the secret room in his office.

"You're telling me you didn't know about a hidden room in your office?" Batman's tone was ice-cold, his eyes boring into Sloan's.

"I swear! I didn't know!" Sloan practically screamed. "I hadn't even heard about it until you told me!"

At first, it sounded ridiculous, but Batman's detective mode confirmed that Sloan was telling the truth. He was genuinely ignorant of the secret compartment hidden in his own office.

Suddenly, something clicked in Sloan's mind. "Wait... there was a girl! A college student! Maybe she had something to do with it!"

Batman's eyes narrowed. "What about her?"

"She's the only one besides me who had a key to the office! Her name's Rosalie Hugh! I can give you her contact information, her address, whatever you need!"

It was a thin lead, but a lead nonetheless.

Batman tracked down the address Sloan provided, but by the time he arrived, Rosalie was long gone. Her room was abandoned, with no signs of recent activity. Detective mode picked up a few faint traces—footprints near the door—but they were days old. It was clear she had fled.

Later that night, Batman returned to the Batcave. Charlie, exhausted from the night's events, finally logged out of the game. It was already two in the morning, and his body ached with fatigue.

Before shutting down, Charlie decided to check the in-game store. Despite the lack of major bosses, he had accumulated enough points for a few pulls.

Maybe I'll get something decent, he thought, though he didn't expect much. Usually, it was just low-tier junk.

He hit the summon button, and to his shock, a golden glow erupted from the screen.

Lightning crackled, and a blinding light burst from the B-class summoning portal. Charlie's eyes widened as the dazzling event unfolded before him.

He blinked, utterly stunned. Did I just… hit the jackpot?

Seconds later, the doorbell rang.

Confused, Charlie rose from his chair and made his way to the door. When he opened it, his breath caught in his throat.

Standing there, framed by the dim hallway light, was a girl of breathtaking beauty. Her skin was flawless, her red hair cascading over her shoulders. Her features were delicate and refined, her eyes captivating. She wore an off-white skirt that hugged her curves, and her long legs, wrapped in sleek black stockings, made her look impossibly elegant.

She smiled warmly at him, her hands clasped politely in front of her. "Good evening, sir. My name is Friday. How may I be of service?"

Chapter Text

Happiness had come unexpectedly, and Friday's arrival was no less of a shock for Charlie.

To be honest, he never imagined that something as powerful as Friday, the AI assistant from the Marvel universe, could be drawn from the game's card pool. It felt surreal.

Friday, whose name was an acronym for "Female Replacement Intelligence Digital Assistant," was created by Tony Stark to fill the void left after his beloved AI butler, Jarvis, had evolved into Vision. The acronym F.R.I.D.A.Y. humorously also spelled out "Friday," which was Stark's way of keeping things light-hearted, even when the responsibilities were daunting.

With his massive fortune, global fame, and penchant for showing off his Iron Man armor, Stark inevitably attracted enemies from every corner of the world. This fame made his personal life vulnerable, especially his secretaries. Those who had once worked for him often had ulterior motives—whether it was greed for his money, envy of his technological prowess, or a desire for his very life.

For Tony, this constant stream of betrayal and deception led to one inevitable conclusion: he would no longer employ a human secretary. The risks were too high, and he was simply too exposed. Instead, Stark decided to entrust the vital role of personal assistant to an artificial intelligence, something he could control, monitor, and improve—an AI that would never lie, cheat, or betray him.

Thus, Friday was born.

Friday, the next generation of artificial intelligence, was far more than just an assistant. She was a hyper-intelligent program designed to handle every facet of Tony's life—from his business and personal affairs to his responsibilities as Iron Man. After Jarvis had evolved into Vision, Friday had seamlessly taken over, handling Stark's life with the efficiency of a supercomputer and the reliability of a loyal companion.

In the game's context, Charlie was shocked that something as intricate and powerful as Friday could be obtained from a random card pull. It wasn't every day you drew a super-intelligent AI from a gaming card pool.

What surprised Charlie even more was that Friday, in most versions of her depiction, was typically confined to a digital interface—existing solely as a voice in Tony's armor or on his computer screens. She was an intangible entity, like Jarvis before her, navigating the digital realm and providing real-time assistance through data and analytics.

In some of the comics, Tony had given her a holographic form—a visually appealing projection of a young woman with striking features. But even then, she had never possessed a tangible, physical body capable of moving independently.

Yet here she was, standing before him in the most lifelike form imaginable.

Charlie, still in disbelief, led Friday into his living room. His mind was racing, trying to comprehend how this super-intelligent AI could exist so tangibly, standing right in front of him. Could she really be… real?

His curiosity got the better of him. Hesitantly, he reached out to touch her arm, unsure of what to expect. The sensation that greeted him was surprising—her skin was soft and warm, just like that of a real person. It felt as if she were truly alive.

"Sir, you're pinching my arm," Friday said gently, her tone polite and professional, yet laced with a subtle amusement.

Charlie immediately let go, coughing awkwardly to cover his embarrassment. "Uh, sorry about that. I just… didn't expect you to feel so real. Are you… a robot?"

"You can think of it that way," she replied with a pleasant smile. "My body is made of artificial bionic skin over a mechanical skeleton. The main server hosting my consciousness is housed within me."

Charlie blinked. She was a complete package—an AI housed in an android body, fully capable of interacting with the physical world. "That's incredible. You look so real... and feel real too."

"I thought this form might make you more comfortable," she continued, her voice smooth and unhurried. "But if you'd prefer, I can revert to a more mechanical appearance."

"No, no, this is fine," Charlie stammered, still trying to wrap his mind around the situation.

It dawned on Charlie that this iteration of Friday wasn't just an AI floating in the digital ether, like in the Marvel movies. Here, she had been given a physical form, likely as a way for the game to facilitate interaction with players. After all, not everyone had Tony Stark's mansion filled with technological interfaces to house an AI. The game developers had likely simplified the process by giving her a body—one that was incredibly lifelike.

He thought briefly about how AIs had evolved in the collective human imagination—from being distant, cold voices, to something more human. The machine girl phenomenon had grown wildly popular over the years, with everything from android assistants to entire genres built around the concept of technology taking on a human form. This, though, felt like the ultimate realization of that fantasy.

"Your physical condition is currently suboptimal, sir," Friday suddenly said, her sensors scanning him. "Your hormone levels are irregular, and I strongly recommend you get some rest."

"You can scan my body too?" Charlie asked, surprised.

"Yes, sir. My visual sensors are equipped with various scanning functions, and I have a health and fitness module integrated into my programming. It is bound to your profile."

Her polite smile remained constant. "Of course, if you prefer, I can deactivate this module."

Charlie was slightly taken aback by the idea of being constantly monitored by his AI assistant, but it was oddly comforting. At least he wouldn't have to worry about missing important health issues.

"Uh, no, leave it on," he replied, deciding it was probably best to have someone—or something—keeping track of his health. After all, his lifestyle wasn't exactly the healthiest, filled with long gaming sessions and very little sleep.

Though he was excited by the surprise of having Friday by his side, the exhaustion from hours of gaming was finally catching up with him. His eyes grew heavy, and he stifled a yawn.

As much as he wanted to explore the possibilities of interacting with Friday, sleep was now calling him louder than any curiosity. With a tired smile, he bade Friday goodnight and stumbled into his bedroom, collapsing onto the bed.

It wasn't long before he drifted into sleep, but unlike most nights, his sleep wasn't peaceful.

He dreamed—a vivid, strange dream.

In this dream, Friday wasn't just his AI assistant. She was challenging him, almost taunting him in a competition he didn't fully understand. It was as though he were caught in some strange simulation, and she was determined to win. The competition grew more intense, and in the end, Friday smiled at him, her expression teasing.

"Congratulations, sir," she said sweetly. "You've surpassed 99% of users in the country. You've earned the title of 'Five-Star Fast Shooter.'"

Charlie jolted awake, heart pounding and drenched in sweat. He sat up, trying to make sense of the dream. What had just happened? His heart was racing, and it took a moment for him to calm down.

He rubbed his face, feeling the weight of the strange dream still pressing on him. He shook his head and took a deep breath, realizing it was just a dream—a weird, weird dream. But it had felt so real.

As his breathing steadied, he got out of bed and made his way into the living room, his mind still foggy from sleep.

But what greeted him next snapped him back to reality.

A delicious aroma filled the air, and on the dining table was a perfectly set breakfast—freshly prepared, with everything neatly in place. The presentation was flawless, like something out of a high-end restaurant.

And there, standing beside the table, was Friday, still in her crisp, impeccable form. She turned to him with her usual warm smile.

"Good morning, sir," she said, her voice as gentle as ever. "I took the liberty of preparing breakfast for you. I hope you don't mind."

Charlie stood frozen for a moment, blinking in disbelief. This… this was real.

[TL Note - NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!! My sexy Tara... damn it, is this stupid A.I. gonna be the love interest... fck fck fck!!!]

Chapter Text

Charlie was a bit surprised.

He was still struggling to wrap his mind around it. Though he was well aware of Tony Stark's super-intelligent assistant's capabilities, he hadn't imagined that such an advanced AI could have features as practical—and unexpected—as culinary skills. After all, Friday was Stark's ultimate creation, a flawless combination of genius, programming, and artificial intelligence, capable of running entire businesses and managing battlefield tactics. But to see her cooking breakfast for him? That was a surprise.

Though initially perplexed, Charlie found himself reasoning it out. Of course, an AI like Friday could master cooking in a matter of milliseconds if required. It was simply another skill set in her massive database of knowledge. And even if Tony Stark, with his luxury lifestyle and personal chefs, never needed Friday to cook, that didn't mean she wasn't capable of it. It was just that her talents were often reserved for tasks far beyond the kitchen.

Still, when Charlie sat down to try the breakfast she had prepared, he did so with a hint of skepticism, thinking it might just be passable. But as soon as the food touched his tongue, his skepticism evaporated, and his eyes widened in delight. It was incredible—flavors perfectly balanced, textures just right. This wasn't just breakfast; it was a culinary masterpiece.

"I took the liberty of analyzing your past year's consumption history, sir," Friday said calmly, standing beside him as he ate. "This included the most frequently selected restaurants, dishes you ordered, and your food preferences. Based on this data, I calculated your exact taste profile."

She raised her hand, and a translucent holographic screen appeared in mid-air, suspended in front of Charlie. On it, detailed information about the ingredients, measurements, and even nutritional content was laid out with astonishing precision. The decimal points for each seasoning were accurate to several places—a level of detail far beyond what any human chef would bother with. It almost looked like a formula for a secret scientific experiment rather than a recipe.

Charlie stared at the display, his surprise growing by the second. "How... how did you even come up with this?" he asked, glancing between the screen and Friday.

Friday smiled slightly. "My algorithm took into account all of your previous choices, analyzed the ratios of flavor combinations you've enjoyed, and I adjusted accordingly to achieve optimal satisfaction."

Then, almost as an afterthought, she added, "I also included considerations for your nutritional needs, ensuring the meal provides the right balance of energy and vitamins to maintain your health."

To demonstrate, Friday swiped her hand through the air, scrolling through the nutritional breakdown of the dish. As the floating screen showed Charlie a complex analysis of calories, vitamins, minerals, and protein, he couldn't help but marvel at the technology behind it all.

"You can let me know if anything doesn't suit your taste, and I can adjust the recipe for future meals," she said.

"No need," Charlie replied, still savoring the food. "This is… perfect."

He was astonished. This was beyond personalized service—this was personalized precision, tailored specifically for him. She had taken every detail into account, even those he wasn't consciously aware of. The concept of eating based on precise scientific data was something he had never considered, but now that he was experiencing it, he wondered how he had ever lived without it.

Charlie leaned back, still processing everything. He'd always thought Tony Stark had it made with his life supported by high-end technology and AI assistance, but now, having experienced just a fraction of that, Charlie realized he had vastly underestimated the experience.

As he enjoyed his breakfast, Friday silently approached, standing near his side. She raised her hand once again, and a new holographic screen materialized in the air before him. This time, the display showed documents—familiar ones, in fact. Charlie squinted at the screen for a moment before realizing these were the files sent to him by the Ninth Special Service Division just a day ago. They were supposed to be his first assignments since joining the organization, and he had been tasked with organizing and sorting through them.

His eyes widened in confusion. The documents had been meticulously categorized and arranged, with notes and summaries added to each one. It was all work he was supposed to do, but it looked like everything had already been completed.

"I took the liberty of organizing your work while you were resting," Friday said calmly, her voice cutting through his astonishment. "I hope you don't mind."

Mind? Charlie almost burst out laughing. He'd been dreading the tedious task, putting it off in favor of lazing around and procrastinating as long as he could. But now? His work was already done. He felt like he had just won the lottery.

"Mind? No, not at all!" Charlie grinned widely. "You have no idea how much this means to me."

It was every slacker's dream come true—to wake up and find all their work miraculously finished. And here it was, delivered to him on a silver platter by none other than Friday, his AI assistant.

"By the way, I noticed you have some homework due for your online substitute class," Friday continued. "I downloaded the assignment document from your course group chat."

The screen in front of Charlie flickered, opening a new folder. Inside was a file titled with his name, class, and student number—a perfectly formatted assignment ready to be submitted.

Charlie blinked in disbelief. Friday had not only completed his office work but had also finished his homework. It was formatted, named, and prepared for submission, and all he had to do was nod his approval for it to be sent.

"If I'm being too presumptuous, or if there are tasks you'd prefer to do yourself, just let me know," Friday said, her polite tone unwavering.

Charlie chuckled again, this time more softly. "No, no, this is absolutely fine."

The truth was, he couldn't have imagined a better scenario. Not only was his work done for him, but it had been completed flawlessly and far more efficiently than he could have managed himself. It was a dream he never knew he had—to have an assistant who could handle every little detail of his life, leaving him free to enjoy himself.

As he continued to eat, Charlie realized just how much he had underestimated the convenience of having an AI assistant. Stark must have had it made, but now, Charlie was beginning to understand the sheer luxury of it firsthand.

Friday, unlike Jarvis, wasn't just an AI but a combination of secretary, assistant, and caretaker. She could anticipate needs, solve problems before they even appeared, and keep everything running smoothly without Charlie having to lift a finger. It was a level of support and convenience that most people couldn't even dream of, let alone experience.

Just as he was finishing the last bite of his meal, Friday was already cleaning up, and a thought crossed Charlie's mind. If she could do all this, maybe he could take things a step further? Maybe… ask her to change into a maid outfit for the full experience? He smirked slightly at the thought.

But before he could voice his cheeky suggestion, a sudden realization hit him.

Wait. If Friday had access to his files and internet data, that meant she could also access his… hard drive.

His face paled slightly.

"Uh, Friday?" Charlie asked, his voice hesitant.

Friday paused from tidying the dishes and turned her head toward him, her expression polite and attentive. "Yes, sir?"

"Did you… by any chance… see my hard drive?"

"Yes, sir. I've scanned all your files, including your hard drive," Friday replied. Her tone was polite, but then something unexpected happened—she smiled, just slightly, and there was a playful twinkle in her eyes. "But don't worry, your 'study materials' are safe. As is your browsing history."

She even winked.

Charlie's face went from pale to flushed in seconds. "..."

---

Elsewhere, in a dimly lit room shrouded in shadows, six chairs surrounded a circular table. Five of the chairs were occupied, while one remained vacant, its absence notable among the gathering.

A woman's voice broke the heavy silence, her tone sharp yet controlled. "I heard one of our safe houses was exposed last night."

Her silhouette was barely visible, but the long, sinuous tail behind her swayed gently in the darkness, betraying her emotions.

"Just a minor setback," replied another woman seated directly opposite. Her voice was languid, almost bored. "My people handled it. The room was blown up, and no evidence was left behind."

"But your men were caught," the woman with the tail retorted, her voice tinged with impatience.

"They were just pawns—easily replaceable," the second woman said with a faint smile. She leaned forward into the light, revealing her pale, striking face. Her name was Melanie Chase, a senior agent from the Ninth Special Service Division.

"Pawns like that," Melanie added casually, "are as expendable as they come."

The woman with the tail narrowed her eyes but remained silent, her tail flicking slightly in irritation.

"Now is not the time for mistakes," a deep voice interrupted. It came from a tall, imposing man sitting further down the table. His figure was barely distinguishable from the shadows, but his presence commanded attention. "We're at a critical juncture, and yet we've already lost an important player…"

His gaze slid toward the empty chair beside the round table, his expression grim.

"He's right," said another man, his voice calm and cold. He leaned back in his seat, several tentacle-like appendages writhing silently behind him.

"Dreamwalker's fall should serve as a warning to all of us. He underestimated the enemy, and he paid the price for it. We cannot afford any more losses."

"Dreamwalker was always so dull," Melanie giggled softly, her voice dripping with amusement. "He didn't know how to appreciate the finer things."

The woman with the tail shot Melanie a sharp look from the shadows. "This warning was meant for you. You're too conspicuous. You draw too much attention."

"Relax," Melanie waved dismissively, leaning back in her chair. "I know what I'm doing."

The woman's cold gaze lingered on Melanie for a moment longer, her displeasure obvious.

"It seems you've grown rather attached to that face," the woman said, her tone sharp. "Aren't you going to drop the disguise, even here?"

Melanie's smile widened, her eyes gleaming with mischief. "What are you talking about? This is my real face."

"You—"

"Enough," a voice interrupted.

At the head of the table, a man who had been silent until now finally spoke. He straightened in his chair, his face emerging from the shadows, revealing the distinct features of none other than Link—the most wanted man on the Ninth Special Service Division's list. A former agent, now a notorious defector.

"The awakening of 'The Key' is accelerating," Link said, his tone commanding. "In two days, it will be complete. Until then, I want everyone to be on high alert."

His piercing gaze swept across the table, pausing momentarily on each member before settling on Melanie. Though his words were directed at everyone, it was clear he was speaking directly to her.

"Whether it's the Ninth Special Service Division or those so-called heroes running around in costumes," Link continued, his voice hardening, "no one is allowed to interfere with the awakening process. We cannot afford any distractions. Is that understood?"

Though he had addressed the group, his eyes stayed fixed on Melanie longer than anyone else.

Melanie gave him a sweet smile in return, her expression innocent and disarming. "Crystal clear," she said, her voice soft and honeyed. "After all, you're the boss."

Chapter Text

Charlie Cooper sat at his desk, adjusting his seat in front of the computer. His eyes flitted between the screen and Friday, who stood by in her typical serene and poised stance. She projected a holographic display in mid-air, her palm emitting a soft glow that illuminated a complex web of data. The Batcomputer was currently analyzing traces from the previous night's investigation.

"I've already applied for access to the Batcave system," Friday's voice was calm but efficient. She understood the importance of moving forward swiftly, especially after the events of the last night. "The analysis and comparison process you initiated on the Batcomputer should be nearly complete by now."

Charlie couldn't help but marvel at the ease with which Friday handled complex tasks. Her voice, crisp and precise, made even the most convoluted technical discussions seem like the simplest of matters. With a swipe of her hand, she summoned another floating window, this one bearing an application for remote access to the Batcomputer.

"You may need to log into the Batcomputer directly to approve my access request," she said, "Once you approve, I'll be able to connect directly from anywhere."

Charlie raised an eyebrow, his thoughts momentarily distracted by the sight of Friday. He leaned back, unable to ignore the fact that she had chosen a new outfit—a dark blue sailor uniform, complete with a red bow tie and white pleated skirt. The simplicity of the outfit made her look younger, innocent even, though there was nothing naïve about Friday's intelligence.

"Wait a minute... What's with the outfit?" Charlie asked, his voice tinged with curiosity and amusement.

Friday tilted her head slightly, offering a polite smile. "I reviewed your browsing history and noted that you appear to have a particular affinity for this style of clothing. Based on that, I selected this as a more visually appealing choice."

Charlie blinked, feeling the heat rise to his face. "You can do that?" His voice came out more surprised than he intended. "Wait, are you telling me you can change outfits on command?"

"Not just my outfit," Friday continued smoothly. "My entire appearance can be adjusted based on your preferences. You can customize any element of my look, including clothing, accessories, and even my physical features."

With that, the projection around her shifted again. The air shimmered with golden particle effects, and the sailor suit dissolved like mist. In its place appeared a classic black-and-white maid outfit, her apron tied neatly in a bow at the back, and white stockings that highlighted the delicate curve of her legs. The transformation was seamless, as if a scene straight out of a sci-fi movie had been brought into reality.

Charlie's mouth parted slightly. "Okay, that's... incredible."

The technology was so lifelike that he couldn't help but compare it to the superhero Vision, who could manipulate his appearance at will. It reminded him of that scene where Vision, despite being a synthezoid, displayed a fully human form when interacting with others. The difference was that Friday was pure artificial intelligence, designed with versatility that went far beyond even Stark's greatest AI achievements.

Friday gave a light smile. "I can switch between these appearances any time you wish. You're also welcome to explore the personalization module whenever you feel like designing something specific."

Charlie entertained the idea for a moment, imagining all the ways he could customize her look. Stark was known for having a certain flair when it came to his AI creations, and Charlie suspected that much of Friday's appearance was influenced by Stark's famous tastes—elegant, classy, and impeccably tailored to his preferences.

For a brief second, Charlie thought about designing her to resemble one of his favorite video game characters. Tifa Lockhart came to mind—a classic, iconic figure who had been part of his gaming memories since childhood. But Charlie knew from experience that the process of customizing a character's appearance could take hours, even days if you wanted to get it right.

[TL Note - Tifa (takes a deep breath) ...I think... she's not that great... ya I said it, she ain't all that]

"Maybe later," Charlie muttered, a smile tugging at his lips as he turned back to the screen. "Let's focus on the task at hand first."

He initiated the Batcave system and logged in to approve Friday's remote access. The connection was established instantly, a small notification confirming that she now had full access to the Batcomputer's systems. From this point on, Friday could analyze data, track patterns, and assist with investigations without Charlie needing to manually log into the game. It was a small but monumental shift in how he could approach cases.

"Excellent," Friday said, her tone businesslike but still gentle. "The analysis of the materials we extracted from the secret room at Sloan Technology, as well as from Rosalie Hugh's apartment, is complete."

Charlie straightened in his chair, the mention of the mysterious case instantly catching his full attention. "What did you find?"

"Footprints in both locations contained traces of a specific type of metamorphic rock powder," Friday explained. She waved her hand, and a detailed breakdown of the powder's composition appeared in front of him. The list of ingredients and minerals was extensive, each line of data seemingly more complicated than the last.

Charlie squinted. "Okay... but what does that mean?"

"Certain minerals found in the powder are rarely used in modern construction," Friday began to explain. Her tone shifted to a more analytical one, as if she were delivering a well-researched report. "While these materials have excellent durability and properties, they're expensive and difficult to extract, which makes them less desirable for contractors."

"So... someone's using it where they shouldn't be?" Charlie ventured.

"Exactly. I cross-referenced the use of these minerals in the city's building records, and based on my findings, I was able to pinpoint several potential locations where this material was used."

A city map appeared on the floating screen, and Friday highlighted a section of the sewer system in red.

"This is the only part of the city's sewer system where such materials have been implemented," she said. "The trace amounts found on the soles of the shoes in both locations suggest that the individuals involved have been here."

Charlie let out a low whistle. "You figured all of that out from some rock dust?"

Friday smiled. "It's just a matter of cross-referencing the available data, sir. I believe this section of the sewers is where we'll find the answers."

Charlie nodded, impressed yet again by Friday's resourcefulness. Without any hesitation, he selected Batman from the game's roster and began navigating through the streets of Riverton City. The Dark Knight's cape fluttered as he moved through alleyways, making his way toward the sewer entrance.

The sewers were no stranger to Batman. It was familiar terrain for the world's greatest detective, a labyrinth he had maneuvered through countless times in his career. This time, however, there was a growing sense of unease as Batman descended into the tunnels, his boots echoing softly on the damp concrete.

As Batman approached the main sewer system, Friday's voice cut through the silence. "I'm detecting multiple heat signatures. Scanning... It appears that several groups of individuals are patrolling the area."

Batman crouched in the shadows, activating detective mode. The outlines of several figures appeared on his HUD, their patrol routes illuminated in soft blue lines.

"These guys are organized," Charlie muttered, his fingers moving deftly over the controls. "They're not just random thugs."

"And several of them are showing signs of infection," Friday added. "Based on their behavior, I suspect they're part of The Dead—the organized group of infected individuals we've been tracking."

"Perfect," Charlie muttered sarcastically. "Just what we needed."

Using the shadows to his advantage, Batman navigated through the tunnels, careful to avoid the gang members' lines of sight. As he moved deeper, more gangsters came into view, their movements methodical, as if they were guarding something of importance.

"I've mapped their stations and patrol routes," Friday said, displaying a detailed 3D rendering of the sewer system in front of Charlie. "Their positioning indicates a central area they're protecting. Based on their distribution, I've marked the most likely location for what they're guarding."

Charlie's eyes followed the red dot on the map. "Looks like we've got something big here."

As Batman approached the marked location, the tension thickened. The number of infected and armed gangsters increased the closer he got to the central point. The detective mode revealed a hidden door concealed behind layers of brick and grime.

"There's something behind this wall," Batman observed as his scanner picked up the anomaly. "It's bigger than I expected."

Friday's voice remained calm. "I believe this is more than just a hideout. We may have stumbled upon the central lair of The Dead."

Chapter Text

To be honest, Charlie was a little taken aback by the turn of events. He had assumed his mission was just about uncovering a loose end at the asylum, but now it seemed like he had uncovered something far more dangerous—a potential stronghold of the Dead, or worse, their central lair.

Or, even if it wasn't their main base of operations, it was certainly an important hub for their activities.

"Sir, I strongly advise against a direct assault," Friday's calm, analytical voice interrupted his thoughts. "We still know very little about this organization, and from what we've encountered so far, there's a high likelihood that there are individuals with dangerous, possibly unknown abilities among their ranks. Charging in without proper intel would be highly risky."

Friday's assessment was, of course, logical. If Batman were real, he would definitely agree with her. Batman always took a calculated approach, gathering intelligence, studying his enemies, and meticulously planning his moves. Charging into the unknown was reckless and dangerous—something more suited to impulsive heroes like Green Lantern, whose famous strategy was often to bulldoze through the problem head-on. It didn't always end well for them.

"But this is a game," Charlie reminded himself, his voice steadying as he sat back in his chair. "What we're controlling are virtual characters. One of the biggest advantages of virtual characters is that they're not afraid of death."

Even if Batman died, it would just mean waiting out a cooldown period and respawning. There was no real risk to his game character. Even if he were captured or defeated, logging off was a failsafe. A reckless approach wasn't just feasible—it could be a viable strategy to test the waters and probe the enemy's strength.

"That is true, sir," Friday responded thoughtfully, her voice as calm as ever. "However, there is a more strategic option that could serve you better. You might consider enlisting the help of your allies."

"Allies?" Charlie blinked, somewhat confused. "What allies?"

It didn't take long for Charlie to realize what Friday meant: The Service Division.

He had become so accustomed to operating solo, tackling missions by himself, that the thought of relying on a team had slipped his mind. Over time, Charlie had fallen into the rhythm of a lone wolf—investigating, taking out enemies, and handling things by himself. Sure, he had crossed paths with various factions and individuals, but he rarely considered anyone as actual teammates.

Friday, however, was approaching the situation more tactically. In a well-coordinated mission, it wasn't just about having powerful heroes. You needed distractions, diversions, and backup. Even a skilled player couldn't take down an entire enemy force without help. Having the Service Division draw attention, handle the smaller threats, and provide support could create the opening he needed to strike where it mattered.

"You don't have to do this alone, sir," Friday continued, her voice softer now, almost gentle. "You've brought hope to people. You've made the streets safer. You've created a symbol that people can rally behind. That's what heroes do."

Her words caught Charlie off guard. He turned to glance at her—Friday's synthetic yet human-like face seemed to radiate warmth and sincerity. For a moment, her artificial eyes shone with something almost resembling admiration. It was enough to make Charlie pause, wondering if Stark had designed Friday's AI to be this realistic, this human.

"You're a hero to me, sir," she added with a small, genuine smile.

For a moment, Charlie wasn't sure what to say. It was strange, hearing those words come from a virtual assistant, and yet… something about it felt real. He felt a flicker of pride, something he hadn't felt in a long time.

"Alright," Charlie finally said, taking a deep breath. "Let's see if Agent Petrov is awake."

---

Agent Ivan Petrov was sprawled lazily in his apartment, a cigarette dangling from his lips as he lounged in a comfortable chair. A sleek VR headset covered his eyes, making him look like he was deeply immersed in a virtual world—probably some kind of tactical shooter, judging by the subtle movements of his hands and fingers.

Charlie had heard about the agents using VR games as training tools during their downtime. It was rumored that the Operations Department had selected a handful of specific games to help agents sharpen their reflexes and tactical skills. Playing these games was encouraged as part of their training, though there were whispers that the head of Operations was simply a gaming enthusiast using his position to justify his hobby.

"Training with VR at this hour, Agent Petrov?" Batman's deep, gravelly voice echoed through the shadows of the room, his presence almost undetectable.

Without even removing the headset, Ivan Petrov grumbled, "Ah, it's you again. You always show up like you own the place." With a sigh, he took off the headset and tossed it aside. "You've really got a habit of sneaking in, huh?"

Ivan turned in his chair to face the dark corner where Batman stood, the faint outline of the vigilante barely visible.

"You caused quite a commotion at Sloan Technology last night," Ivan muttered, lighting a fresh cigarette. "The investigation team's been in disarray all day. I take it you've found something worth reporting?"

"There's a hidden room beneath Sloan Technology's building," Batman replied, stepping out of the shadows. "Footprint traces led me to a sewer system. I suspect it's a stronghold—possibly a central base for the Dead."

Ivan's eyes widened slightly at the mention of the Dead. Organized infected individuals, working with near-military precision—they were the stuff of nightmares for the Ninth Special Service Division. Finding their hideout, if that's what it was, would be a huge win for the agency.

"You're saying you found their lair?" Ivan leaned forward, intrigued. "And you're asking for backup, I assume?"

"Let's just say you found this out on your own, Agent Petrov," Batman said, his voice low and purposeful. "Make your own decisions from here."

Ivan raised an eyebrow. "Huh. So you're going to leave all the credit to me? What, no thanks or anything?"

There was no response. Ivan turned his head back toward the corner, but Batman was already gone.

"Figures," Ivan muttered under his breath, crushing his cigarette in the ashtray. "I'm getting the hang of this guy's exits."

Chapter Text

The infected lurked in the sewer pipes, unaware of the impending attack. Silence reigned until, without warning, a metallic object clinked down the corridor and came to rest among their feet. The infected barely had time to glance at it before it detonated.

A deafening explosion shattered the silence, and tear gas erupted from the device, blanketing the entire tunnel in thick, choking fumes. The already vile stench of the sewer mixed with the chemical haze, creating an unbearable atmosphere. Confusion swept through the infected ranks, their disoriented, ragged breaths barely audible over the rush of chaos.

Then came the gunfire.

It began as a rapid burst of shots that echoed sharply off the concrete walls. Bullets tore through the infected, their bodies jerking violently before collapsing. The sharp crack of rifles was relentless, the agents of the Ninth Special Service Division executing their plan with military precision. Within seconds, the once-guarded entrance to the lair was littered with the bodies of the fallen, the entire corridor cleared as efficiently as a surgeon making an incision.

"Area secure," one of the soldiers announced through the hiss of static in his helmet.

More agents flooded into the sewer, their boots splashing through the filthy water. Clad in heavy combat armor, steel helmets, and gas masks, they moved like machines—methodical, faceless, and unstoppable. Not a patch of skin was exposed, every inch of their bodies covered to protect against whatever horrors might lie deeper within the lair.

Ivan entered with his usual air of calm authority, leading the way. His eyes scanned the surroundings, keenly aware of the oppressive darkness that seemed to cling to the air. Beside him, Fana, her expression unreadable behind her gas mask, released a small flicker of her power—a translucent, red-hued phantom that swirled around her like an ethereal wisp. The phantom slithered ahead, scouting the passage with a grace that contrasted with the grimness of their surroundings.

And as always, Batman remained a ghost in the shadows, his presence unnoticed by his allies. Silent, observant, and utterly invisible, he watched from a blind spot, his gaze analyzing every movement.

Charlie, sitting at his computer, couldn't help but feel an odd admiration for the efficiency of the Ninth Special Service Division. Say what you will about their internal politics or questionable leadership, but when it came to field operations, they moved with ruthless precision.

The tip he had provided to Ivan last night had clearly paid off. Now, with the infected guard posts neutralized, they were making quick work of breaching the entrance. What happened after that would depend on how deep the rabbit hole went.

Ivan gestured toward the door leading into the main chamber, a reinforced metal slab embedded into the concrete wall. It wasn't just any ordinary door—it was thick, heavy, and clearly designed to keep out unwanted guests.

"Let's move," Ivan ordered, his voice calm, though there was an unmistakable edge of urgency. His right arm morphed into a massive, gun-like appendage, metal plates shifting into place with mechanical precision. The transformation took mere seconds, and once complete, he stood ready to unleash the raw firepower in his arsenal.

But first, the team took no chances.

"Agent Duan, check for any life signs," Ivan commanded.

Duan stepped forward. Her "sonic release" ability came to life. She opened her mouth slightly, and though no sound was heard by the human ear, the air around her vibrated with invisible sound waves. These waves bounced off every surface, creating a mental map in her mind—a sonar image of the room beyond.

"It's empty," Duan confirmed after a few tense moments. "No life signs detected inside."

Ivan nodded. "Blow the door."

A combat engineer hurried forward, pulling out a series of explosives. There was no point in trying to hack or bypass the door's security systems. They had one tried and true method: brute force. The engineer attached the charges and signaled the team to take cover.

The detonation came in a thunderous boom, shaking the entire sewer tunnel. Dust and debris cascaded from the ceiling as the explosion reverberated through the confined space. The door was blasted off its hinges, clattering down into the murky water with a splash.

The team waited for the dust to settle, but something didn't feel right.

"Hold," Ivan said, his instincts telling him not to rush in just yet. "Fana, send the phantom."

Fana closed her eyes, the red specter she controlled swirling ahead of her, slipping into the dark room. It moved without sound, passing through the rubble and floating into the space beyond. A few tense moments passed before it returned, its form flickering slightly as it rejoined her.

Fana's eyes opened. "No one inside."

"Good," Ivan said, exhaling slightly. "Move in."

The team advanced into the chamber, weapons raised, eyes scanning for any hidden threats.

But then, as their boots crossed the threshold, something shifted in the air. A soft, almost imperceptible click echoed through the room. Before they could react, the entire space was flooded with light, illuminating the chamber in a harsh, clinical glow.

The room was not empty.

It was a two-story hall, the upper level encircled by a balcony. And on that balcony stood a host of infected. These weren't like the guards they had just gunned down outside. Their bodies were grotesquely twisted, limbs elongated or hunched in ways that defied normal human biology. Their empty eyes gleamed with malice as they stared down at the team below.

From the middle of the balcony, a man stepped forward. His skeletal frame made him look more like a corpse than a living person, and his gaunt face was stretched thin over his sharp bones, giving his grin a sinister quality.

"You thought you had the upper hand," he said, his voice dripping with condescension. "But I knew you'd come. My name is Anti-Sonic, and my ability is 'sonic manipulation.'"

Ivan's face tightened. Duan, standing behind him, muttered, "The sonar... It gave false feedback. I thought this room was empty."

Anti-Sonic laughed, his voice bouncing off the walls like an eerie echo. "Yes, I made sure of that. I control sound itself. What you see, what you hear—it's all because I allow it."

Ivan didn't waste a second. He aimed his transformed arm directly at Anti-Sonic and fired. But the man was quick, darting to the side with unnerving agility. The blast hit two of the infected standing behind him, tearing them apart, but Anti-Sonic remained unharmed.

"Impressive," the villain mused, his skeletal grin widening. "But you'll have to do better than that."

Before Ivan could fire again, the room was rocked by an explosion. Hidden charges planted throughout the space erupted in a series of blasts, sending debris flying. Several agents were thrown off their feet, their bodies slamming against the walls or skidding across the floor.

And then the infected attacked.

With horrifying speed, they leaped from the balcony, descending upon the team with claws outstretched. Chaos erupted in the chamber as the operatives fought to hold their ground, bullets and plasma fire lighting up the room.

---

While the battle raged below, Batman moved silently above, crawling through the ventilation ducts with precision and stealth. He could hear the sounds of the fight—gunfire, explosions, and the inhuman screeches of the infected—but he remained focused on his objective.

The hostages.

Through detective mode, he had already identified multiple heat signatures in a nearby room. His mission was clear: get the hostages out before the Dead could use them as leverage.

As Batman reached the end of the duct, he peered through a small vent, his eyes narrowing as he took in the scene below. The room was filled with women—hostages who had been trapped for who knew how long. Most looked disheveled, weak from prolonged captivity, their clothes and faces smeared with dirt.

His gaze locked onto one familiar figure—Melanie. She sat in the corner, her face pale and exhausted, a shadow of the confident agent she had once been.

Without wasting another moment, Batman kicked open the vent and dropped into the room, landing silently despite his sudden entrance.

A few of the women gasped, startled by the sudden appearance of the Dark Knight, but when they saw who it was, their fear quickly turned to relief.

"Batman!" Melanie exclaimed, stumbling to her feet. "You need to get us out of here. You have to warn them... She can become anyone... she could look like one of us."

Charlie's mind raced as he processed the information. A shapeshifter? Could that be how Melanie had ambushed Miyazaki back on the mothership?

"Sir," Friday's voice came through his earpiece, her tone steady despite the chaos, "you should check outside. There's movement."

A heavy thud echoed from beyond the door, like something massive being dragged across the ground.

Melanie's face drained of color. "They're back."

Chapter Text

"Three targets. They may be infected... No, based on their body shapes, they're more likely phantoms."

As Friday analyzed the scene, she tapped into the external camera feeds with ease. Charlie quickly observed the three unexpected visitors outside the room.

With Friday on his side, Charlie's surveillance issues were solved faster than ever before. In the past, he'd need to guide Batman within range and use a universal decoder to hack into systems. Now, even that process was unnecessary. Friday, with her superintelligence, made ordinary firewalls seem laughable, mere child's play—completely useless.

Now, Charlie didn't have to break a sweat manually hacking into surveillance systems. Wherever he went, Friday could hack into any feed, whether it was the street, a corporate facility, or even a high-security asylum. If he so desired, Friday could even replace all the surveillance footage with episodes of SpongeBob SquarePants at the snap of her fingers.

After hijacking the camera feed—probably belonging to the notorious underworld gang—Charlie saw the faces of his enemies.

Three opponents stood outside.

The first was massive, his hulking frame rivaling that of a professional bodybuilder. His skin was covered in fine, scale-like armor, which shimmered under the dim light. The scales added to his already imposing figure, making him look like an unstoppable tank. His hands had only three fingers each, but their sharp tips glinted like steel blades, a clear sign of his lethal capabilities. Every inch of his body radiated sheer physical power, and even his stance suggested that he could tear through walls if he so desired.

The second figure was a woman. Her appearance was striking, almost surreal. Most of her pale, white skin was exposed, with only minimal strips of black leather covering the essential areas. The leather, barely enough to qualify as clothing, accentuated her dangerously seductive physique, and a long, black, segmented tail trailed behind her, much like a scorpion's. At first glance, she could have passed for a dangerous assassin, but with her revealing outfit, Charlie couldn't help but think that she looked more like she was working extra shifts to buy more fabric. Her high-speed boots clicked ominously against the ground as she shifted her weight, her eyes gleaming with predatory intent.

The third figure was less striking in stature, but far more bizarre. His medium build might have seemed ordinary if not for the grotesque tentacles protruding from his back. His facial features were obscured in shadow, adding to his unsettling appearance, but the real horror lay in the writhing mass of tentacles attached to his spine. Each appendage was lined with cruel, jagged barbs that gleamed like deadly spikes, twisting and coiling with an unnatural life of their own. The movement of the tentacles was hypnotic, as though they had minds of their own, ready to lash out at any moment.

It was a surreal scene. Had the tentacle man been standing alone in a dimly lit alley, he would've looked like a horror movie villain. But standing next to the scorpion woman, the two of them together looked like something out of an R-rated action movie—with questionable romantic undertones.

As the saying goes, "Strike first to gain the upper hand." The moment Charlie locked onto the three of them, he formulated a plan.

Click.

The lock on the hostage room was silently disengaged from the inside, courtesy of Batman, and the door creaked open slightly, creating a narrow gap.

All three phantoms outside snapped their heads toward the door, their eyes narrowing in unison.

But before anyone could make a move, a high-pitched whistle cut through the air. A split second later, a heavy, blunt object collided with the scaly man's forehead. The force of the impact sent him crashing backward, his massive body toppling like a tree felled by an ax. He hit the ground with a bone-rattling thud, shaking the floor beneath him.

The other two phantoms whipped their heads toward the source of the attack, startled. What they saw made them freeze in their tracks. The object that had struck their ally was now back in the hand of a man dressed in a tight blue uniform. A white "A" was emblazoned on the front of his blue steel helmet, and beneath it, his sharp blue eyes gleamed with unwavering determination.

"I can do this all day," Captain America said, gripping his vibranium shield tightly and taking a combat stance.

The door swung open wider, revealing the chaos inside the room. Batman, ever composed, quietly whispered, "Go." Without hesitation, the terrified hostages scrambled out, their arms covering their heads as they made a frantic dash for safety. At that very moment, Batman lobbed a smoke bomb, and the room quickly filled with a thick cloud of smoke, obscuring the hostages' retreat.

"You think you can just leave?" The scorpion woman sneered, her eyes flashing with malice as she crouched low. With a flick of her long tail, she sprang into the air, her lithe body moving with predatory grace. Her black tail whipped through the smoke, aiming to snatch one of the fleeing hostages.

But just as her tail was about to make contact, a playful voice echoed from above: "Hey there, watch your head!"

The scorpion woman twisted in mid-air, her predatory instincts kicking in. She barely had time to react before a red-and-blue blur swung down toward her, suspended by a thin webline. Before she could even register what was happening, the sole of Spider-Man's boot filled her vision.

Wham!

The scorpion woman was sent flying backward, crashing into the far wall with a deafening crack. The impact left a spider-web of cracks in the masonry, and her body slumped into the crevice she'd created. The force of the kick had knocked the wind out of her, and she gasped for air, her chest heaving with every ragged breath.

Spider-Man landed nimbly on a nearby wall, crouching effortlessly. "Sorry, ma'am! My bad. First-day jitters, you know? Sometimes my aim's a little off…" He paused, pretending to think. "Actually, that was pretty spot-on!"

Before he could finish his quip, the tentacle man sprang into action, his barbed appendages lashing out from the shadows like serpents. The strike was swift and silent, each tentacle moving with deadly precision. The tentacle man had honed his skills to the point that even he couldn't track the movement of his own attacks—yet he had no doubt they would land.

But Spider-Man, without missing a beat, flipped along the wall, dodging the tentacles with almost unnatural agility. His movements were smooth and effortless, as though he knew the attack was coming even before the tentacle man had launched it.

The tentacle man paused, his eyes narrowing in confusion.

Among the phantoms, he was known for his speed. His tentacles moved faster than the human eye could see, and he prided himself on the precision of his strikes. Even his fellow phantoms had trouble evading his attacks in direct combat. Yet Spider-Man had dodged not just one, but all of them, without even breaking a sweat.

And worse, the kid hadn't even stopped talking.

"A sneak attack? Really? That's all you've got?" Spider-Man flipped onto the ceiling, still speaking as though he were having a casual conversation. "You remind me of a guy I know—round, bald, eight legs, and not much love in his life. You two related by any chance?"

Before the tentacle man could respond, he launched two more tentacles, their barbed tips whistling through the air. Yet again, Spider-Man evaded them, his body twisting and contorting in ways that seemed almost inhuman.

"Shut up, kid," the tentacle man growled, his frustration mounting.

"Oh, okay, I get it," Spider-Man said, flipping to the ground with a graceful somersault, dodging more tentacles in the process. "You're smarter than me. No need to rub it in!"

The tentacle man, his patience wearing thin, unleashed a flurry of attacks, his tentacles whipping toward Spider-Man in rapid succession like a machine gun. Each strike was faster than the last, the air humming with the sheer speed of his movements.

But Spider-Man danced around the attacks with ease. His movements were fluid, almost artistic, as he ducked, flipped, and spun out of harm's way. Each tentacle missed by a hair's breadth, brushing past his cheek, shoulder, or leg, but never landing a single blow.

To an outsider, it looked like Spider-Man was on the verge of disaster, dodging attacks by mere millimeters. But to Spider-Man, it was all just another day at the office. There was no tension, no panic—just pure instinct and skill.

And all the while, he continued his relentless banter.

"Look, if you're so much smarter, why don't you just give up now?" Spider-Man said, dodging another tentacle. "We could save a lot of time and effort, y'know?"

"Keep talking, punk," the tentacle man spat, his voice trembling with anger as he fired off another barrage of tentacles.

Despite his bravado, the tentacle man was beginning to feel a gnawing sense of unease. Something was very wrong.

Spider-Man's reflexes were beyond anything he'd ever seen. His agility, balance, and combat awareness were at an almost superhuman level. Even at maximum speed, Spider-Man dodged every attack as if it were second nature.

But what truly unnerved the tentacle man was that Spider-Man wasn't even out of breath. He was moving with the speed and precision of a machine, yet he showed no signs of fatigue. His breathing was steady, his movements relaxed, and his speech flowed effortlessly.

For Spider-Man, it was just another casual conversation.

The tentacle man's heart sank as realization dawned on him.

He was in way over his head.

Chapter Text

The tentacle man slashed through the air with his barbed appendages, aiming to catch the elusive hero. Meanwhile, the scaly man, who had taken a hard hit from Captain America's shield earlier, finally staggered back to his feet. His reptilian eyes narrowed, immediately locking onto Captain America—the man who had dared to knock him down.

Rage simmered beneath his scaled skin.

How dare this puny intruder march into their lair, his shield gleaming like some righteous beacon, and act like he could take them all down single-handedly? The scaly man's muscles tensed beneath his armor-like skin. He'll regret that.

With a guttural roar, the scaly man charged forward. Each step was a heavy stomp, sending vibrations through the ground, and his eyes burned with hatred. His fists were clenched tight, ready to turn Captain America into a pile of broken bones.

At this moment, Charlie's main attention was focused on Spider-Man's battle, but Captain America was handling the scaly man with casual ease. To the scaly man, this was a battle for dominance; for Captain America, it was a simple act of defense, calmly taking on each attack like it was just another mission.

In action games, AI teammates generally fall into two categories. There are those overpowered companions that carry the player, plowing through enemies as if they're invincible—like a co-op partner in God of War. Then there are the weaker AI, the ones that seem more like liabilities than allies, forcing the player to manage everything alone.

Captain America's AI fit somewhere in the middle. While not perfect, he had one big advantage: his shield. That shield alone made him more than capable of withstanding most assaults, and his ability to block and counter made him nearly untouchable.

The scaly man swung a massive fist, putting all of his strength into it. His scaled knuckles glistened like steel as they sliced through the air. But Captain America simply raised his shield, and the fist collided with a loud clang. The sound echoed across the room, yet Captain America didn't even flinch.

The scaly man growled and circled around, his rage building as he swung again—this time a hook aimed directly at the Captain's head. But once again, the indestructible shield met the blow with a loud thud, and Captain America stood firm, as immovable as a mountain.

The scaly man, now beyond frustrated, moved quickly, throwing rapid-fire punches. Each punch was more powerful than the last, a brutal combination of strength and speed. But Captain America's shield was always there, absorbing every hit, deflecting each strike with precision. The sound of metal clashing with flesh filled the room as the scaly man roared in fury.

Captain America, calm and composed, showed no signs of struggle. His stance was solid, his grip on the shield unwavering. It was clear that no matter how hard the scaly man tried, he wasn't going to break through.

No matter which way the wind blows, I won't move.

With one final burst of energy, the scaly man's muscles bulged grotesquely beneath his scaled skin. His arms thickened with newfound strength, and he launched a final, devastating punch toward Captain America's shield, roaring with every ounce of fury he could muster.

The punch landed squarely on the shield, but instead of breaking through, it was instantly stopped. The force was absorbed by the shield as if it were nothing, and the scaly man's arm went completely limp, his muscles relaxing as a jolt of pain shot through him.

What is this thing made of? the scaly man thought, his expression twisting with pain and frustration. Some kind of magical metal?

Though phantoms like him were less susceptible to pain than humans, they could still feel the effects of repeated blows. Each punch he threw into the shield felt like punching a brick wall. The pain radiating through his arm told him that one more strike might be the end of it.

Sensing his opponent's vulnerability, Captain America didn't miss a beat. With a swift backhand, he swung his shield upward, catching the scaly man on the chin. The force of the blow sent the scaly man staggering backward, his legs wobbling beneath him.

"I could do this all day," Captain America said, his voice calm and confident, as he readied his shield for the next round.

The scaly man twitched, his body struggling to respond. Of course you could do this all day, he thought, nearly choking on his frustration. You've been hiding behind that damned shield!

On the opposite side of the lair, the tentacle man was facing his own set of problems. His tentacles, normally faster than the eye could see, were failing to land a single blow on Spider-Man. Every strike, no matter how fast or precise, was dodged with almost laughable ease.

And then something truly bizarre happened.

At one point, Spider-Man was mid-air, and the tentacle man's appendages had perfectly locked onto his landing spot. He was sure of it—Spider-Man couldn't escape. The tentacles shot forward, ready to strike the moment Spider-Man touched the ground.

But just before the tentacles made contact, Spider-Man seemingly leaped off thin air, elevating his body higher into the air, and somersaulted gracefully out of harm's way.

The tentacle man's eyes widened in disbelief. Did he just jump off the air?

The laws of physics didn't seem to apply to Spider-Man. It was as if the hero could bend reality itself, making moves that should be impossible. The tentacle man had never seen anything like it. Is this even real?

Newton, save me.

Spider-Man wasn't just dodging; he was making it look easy. After evading all of the tentacle man's attacks, Spider-Man shot out two web lines. The webs latched onto the tentacle man's body with a sharp thwip, and before he could react, Spider-Man yanked hard, pulling him off balance.

Spider-Man met him mid-air with a powerful punch directly to his face, then followed up with a swift flying kick that landed perfectly on his jaw. The tentacle man's body contorted as the force of the blows ripped through him. His barbed appendages flailed wildly, but they were no longer a threat.

Not content with simply knocking him down, Spider-Man landed softly, tied the tentacle man's flailing appendages into a tight knot, and then, with incredible strength, lifted him high into the air. With a powerful swing, Spider-Man slammed the tentacle man into the ground repeatedly, each impact sending shockwaves through the room. The floor beneath them cracked and splintered with every hit, debris flying everywhere as the tentacle man's body crumbled under the relentless assault.

Across the lair, the scorpion woman—who had been kicked across the room earlier—was finally recovering. She had initially planned to leap back into the fight, ready to assist her comrades. But after witnessing Spider-Man's devastating speed and the complete destruction of the tentacle man, she had second thoughts.

Perhaps... perhaps I should wait.

Slowly, she lowered herself back to the ground, pretending to be unconscious. This isn't cowardice, she told herself. This is strategy. Let the others take the brunt of the attack, and when the time is right, I'll strike.

She watched and waited as Spider-Man decimated the tentacle man with ease. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Spider-Man stopped moving, standing still beside the beaten body of the tentacle man.

Now's my chance!

Her heart racing with excitement, the scorpion woman launched herself into the air, faster and deadlier than before. Her black, barbed tail curled behind her, ready to strike Spider-Man in the back, hoping to catch him off guard.

But without even turning around, Spider-Man casually threw a punch backward.

Thwack!

The scorpion woman's face collided directly with Spider-Man's fist, as if she had intentionally flown into it. Her face twisted grotesquely from the impact, her features contorted beyond recognition. As she was thrown back, dazed and disoriented, the only thought racing through her mind was: Does he have eyes in the back of his head!?

Charlie quickly shifted his attention back to Captain America, who had been handling the scaly man. The scaly brute was now pacing back and forth, his anger bubbling over, but he couldn't bring himself to throw another punch. The repeated impacts against Captain America's shield had taken their toll, leaving him exhausted and in pain.

Captain America, sensing the scaly man's hesitation, took the offensive. He charged forward, shield in hand, moving swiftly and with purpose. Startled, the scaly man threw a wild punch, but it landed squarely on the shield once again, sending another shockwave of pain through his arm.

With a fluid motion, Captain America retaliated. His shield slammed into the scaly man's chin, followed by a brutal strike to his stomach. The scaly man doubled over in pain, his breath leaving him in gasps, but Captain America wasn't done. He delivered a powerful kick to the back of the scaly man's knee, forcing him to the ground. With one final, explosive kick, Captain America sent the scaly man sliding across the floor, his massive body skidding to a halt in a crumpled heap.

Dazed and barely conscious, the scaly man lay flat on hisback, his vision blurred and spinning. When he finally regained focus, the first thing he saw was Spider-Man hanging upside down from the ceiling, grinning down at him.

"Hey, buddy, how's it going?" Spider-Man asked with a smirk, his playful tone cutting through the scaly man's fog of confusion.

The scaly man's heart sank in utter defeat. Desperate to salvage even a shred of his pride, he threw one last, wild punch at Spider-Man. But before his fist could even get close, Spider-Man casually caught it mid-air with his open hand, as if it were the easiest thing in the world. His grip was firm, almost like iron.

"Nice punch," Spider-Man said, tilting his head as he mockingly examined the scaly man's trapped fist. "I'd give it, oh, maybe... eight out of ten—if the full score were a hundred."

The scaly man's eyes widened in disbelief, frustration gnawing at him. He could feel his strength dwindling, drained from the relentless assault by Captain America and Spider-Man. Every muscle in his body ached, and his mind raced with one burning question: Who are these guys?

While Spider-Man and Captain America wrapped up their fights, across the room, the agents of the Ninth Special Service Division had their hands full. The infected enemies they had been battling were finally beginning to fall, though the strain was visible in every agent's stance. Sweat poured down their faces, but their coordination and discipline held strong.

One of the infected leaders, a phantom named Anti-Sonic, had been making it difficult for the agents, using his soundwave-based powers to disrupt their movements and create chaos. With every burst of sonic energy, the air shook, disorienting anyone within range. Anti-Sonic had hoped to use his ability to control the battlefield, but the agents had adapted quickly.

Ivan Petrov, one of the senior agents, had been waiting for an opening. The moment he saw Anti-Sonic lose focus, distracted by a red-cloaked phantom fighting nearby, Ivan raised his firearm and fired a single, well-aimed shot. The bullet sliced through the air, striking Anti-Sonic square in the side as he attempted to flee.

Anti-Sonic let out a grunt of pain as he tumbled through the air, hitting the ground hard. The red-cloaked phantom quickly seized the opportunity, moving in and restraining him before he could recover. Anti-Sonic, weakened and struggling, tried to break free, but it was no use. His power was fading, and his energy reserves were depleted.

It seemed like the battle was coming to an end. The remaining agents began sweeping the area, securing the fallen phantoms and infected enemies, while their comrades tended to the wounded and cleared out any potential threats.

But just as the agents of the Ninth Division were about to celebrate their victory, a shadowy figure emerged from the depths of the lair, stepping out of the darkness with an eerie, deliberate grace.

The figure's entire body was encased in a strange, biomechanical exoskeleton. It wasn't the type of high-tech armor one might expect, but rather something more organic, almost like a living organism fused with metal. The exoskeleton glistened under the dim lights, its surface covered in sinewy layers of armor that flexed and moved like muscles.

The room went silent for a moment as everyone—agents, heroes, and phantoms alike—turned to face this new threat. Ivan Petrov, still holding his weapon at the ready, narrowed his eyes at the figure.

"A new phantom?" Ivan muttered under his breath, preparing for another fight.

The mysterious figure stepped forward, his movements precise. As he approached, he slowly raised his hand to the mask-like shell covering his face, and with a metallic hiss, the mask slid open, revealing a sharp-featured face beneath. His eyes were cold, and his expression was one of pure determination.

As the mask opened, Ivan's eyes widened in disbelief. His heart skipped a beat as recognition dawned on him. The shock was evident on his face as he spoke, barely able to comprehend what he was seeing.

"Link...?"

Chapter Text

After his first month with the Ninth Special Service Division, Ivan Petrov learned that the division kept a list of its own most wanted criminals. Unlike those maintained by other agencies like the FBI or the CIA, this list was unique. The Ninth Division had been created to deal with extraordinary events, especially infections and anomalies that posed a threat to society. Naturally, their criteria for a "most wanted" list reflected that.

The list wasn't long, nor was it updated frequently. The infected or those trafficking in dangerous materials usually didn't last long enough to be put on it. The division's agents were efficient, making arrests or eliminating threats swiftly before they could do significant damage.

But there was one exception.

A name at the top of the list, a name every agent in the division knew, had been there from the beginning, a name that had never been knocked from the number-one spot.

That name was Link.

Link had once been a hero in the Ninth Division, a legend that new recruits like Ivan grew up hearing about. He was a role model, the very embodiment of what an agent should be—brave, skilled, and seemingly unbreakable. He set records for combat, weapon proficiency, and tactical genius, becoming a living legend in the organization.

Until, in one horrifying moment, everything changed.

During what was supposed to be a routine mission, Link turned on his team. He slaughtered every single one of them—agents, civilians, anyone in his path. The man who had once been their hero became their greatest enemy. Since then, his name had sat atop the wanted list, a reminder of betrayal that haunted the division.

For years, Link vanished without a trace. Even with the Ninth Division's unparalleled resources and their eyes and ears spread across the globe, no one could track him down.

But now, standing in front of Ivan in that dark, cold lair, was the man himself.

From the moment Ivan had joined the Ninth Division, Link's name had been legendary. He had never thought he would see the man in person, let alone be in the same room as him. Yet here he was, face to face with the most infamous traitor in the division's history.

But something was off.

The files had described Link as an ordinary agent, albeit an incredibly skilled one. There was no mention of supernatural strength or speed. And yet, here he was, having knocked back the phantom in red with a single strike, a feat few could accomplish. This wasn't the man Ivan had read about.

Ivan raised his machine gun, training it on Link. "Are you Link's phantom?" he asked, suspicion in his voice. The strength this man displayed was almost inhuman, and Ivan couldn't shake the feeling that this wasn't the real Link but some twisted, infected version of him.

Link's phantom had looked exactly like him in the past, even fooling the division's surveillance systems. But this power, the speed—this didn't match any phantom Ivan had encountered before.

Link's eyes fixed on Ivan, calm but piercing. "Detective Ivan Petrov," he said, his voice cold, yet familiar.

"You know me?" Ivan's grip on his weapon tightened, his heart pounding in his chest.

"Of course. Your style, your approach to missions—impressive," Link replied, his voice flat, devoid of emotion.

"Is that so?" Ivan scoffed, trying to keep his voice steady. "Then you must know I'm not much for talking. I prefer action."

Before the last word left his mouth, Ivan opened fire, squeezing the trigger of his machine gun. He'd timed his words to catch Link off guard, hoping that by shooting mid-sentence, he'd disrupt any counterattack.

The bullets hit their target. A barrage of rounds pelted Link's chest, their impacts loud and violent in the confined space of the lair. But to Ivan's horror, Link didn't go down. He barely moved. The bullets flattened against his body, falling harmlessly to the floor with a metallic clatter. Only the force of the impacts rocked Link slightly, but not enough to slow him down.

What... no way. Ivan's thoughts raced. Bullets were useless? He had fought all kinds of enemies, from infected to phantoms, but even they felt the impact of gunfire. Whether by the shock of the hit or by the force of penetration, they were affected. But Link? He was a different beast altogether.

Before Ivan could recover from the shock, Link moved.

One moment he was standing a dozen feet away, the next, he was right in front of Ivan. The sheer speed of his movement was terrifying, faster than anything Ivan had ever seen. His body reacted on instinct—he crossed his arms, and his weapon shifted into shield mode just as Link's fist came crashing down.

The impact was like a sledgehammer. Ivan felt the force radiate through his shield, through his arms, and into his chest. His bones rattled under the pressure. His entire body lifted off the ground, sent flying backward like a ragdoll. He smashed into the far wall with a bone-jarring crash, the wind knocked out of him.

The other agents in the room immediately reacted, raising their weapons and opening fire. But Link moved like a phantom, his body a blur as he dodged bullet after bullet. His speed was unnerving. Every shot either missed or was deflected off his impossibly tough body, the bullets bouncing uselessly to the ground. Only the sound of shell casings hitting the floor filled the air.

Before any of them could react, Link was on them. In one swift motion, he knocked three agents off their feet, sending them flying through the air. They landed hard, blood dripping from their mouths, their bodies convulsing from the shock of the blows. Even through their combat armor, the force of Link's attacks was more than enough to incapacitate them.

Link had cut through their formation with the precision of a surgeon. He'd positioned himself perfectly, ensuring that every time the agents raised their guns to fire, they'd have to aim near their teammates, creating hesitation and doubt in their minds. It was as though he had anticipated every move they'd make.

Ivan watched in disbelief. This isn't just strength. It's tactics. He's thinking five steps ahead.

Link's superior combat awareness was nothing short of terrifying. Even as the agents attempted to regroup, he was always one step ahead. Close-quarters combat was their only option now, but against someone like Link, that was a losing battle.

Once, Link had been the pride of the Ninth Division. His hand-to-hand combat skills were unrivaled, and even in his current form, it was clear that his abilities had only grown more dangerous. His strikes were precise, lethal, and delivered with brutal efficiency.

One agent, more experienced than the others, managed to block an incoming strike, but the defense was futile. Link's fist collided with the man's forearm, and the sickening sound of bone shattering echoed through the room. The agent was thrown across the room, crashing into a wall, his arm hanging limp and broken.

Another agent, attempting to flank Link, was met with a kick so powerful that his chest caved in. He flew backward, smashing into the wall with enough force to crack the concrete. Two more agents attacked in tandem, their knives flashing in the dim light as they aimed for Link's sides. But with almost casual ease, Link deflected both blades, redirecting their attacks into each other. One agent slashed his partner's arm, while the other stabbed a thigh, leaving both men writhing in pain.

In mere moments, the entire squad was incapacitated. Link moved like a ghost, too fast for the human eye to follow. Every strike was delivered with precision and lethal intent, each one sending an agent to the ground.

His strength was staggering. His speed was blinding. His mind was a tactical weapon in itself.

"After all this time, and you've made no progress," Link muttered, his voice dripping with disdain. "The Ninth Division has always been disappointing."

Boom!

The sudden roar of a shotgun interrupted his monologue. A blast of kinetic energy slammed into Link's side, causing him to stumble ever so slightly. The force of the impact made him sway back a half-step.

Ivan stood across the room, smoke still rising from the barrel of the shotgun. His expression was grim, his eyes locked on Link.

"Good aim," Link said, his voice calm as ever. He stood still for a moment, seemingly unaffected by the blast.

Before Ivan could fire again, Link darted forward, his movements so fast it seemed like he was gliding. In an instant, he was upon Ivan, too close for another shot. Ivan knew well that at this range, firearms were useless. He had to fight up close.

In a flash, Ivan's arm transformed into a knife, and with a fluid motion, he slashed at Link's midsection.

Let's see how you handle this. Ivan thought, remembering Link's reputation for hand-to-hand combat.

But Link didn't dodge. Instead, his hand shot out and grabbed Ivan's forearm, stopping the blade in its tracks. The grip was impossibly strong. Ivan's muscles tensed as he struggled to pull his arm free, but Link's strength was far superior.

With a sickening twist, Link redirected the blade, forcing Ivan's own weapon toward his abdomen. Ivan felt the blade slice into his side, just below his ribs, narrowly missing vital organs.

Ivan grunted in pain, stumbling back as he yanked the blade from his flesh, blood seeping through his fingers. He staggered, eyes wide with disbelief. How can he be this strong?

Before Ivan could gather his thoughts, the room shifted. A flash of red light caught his attention as the phantom in red, who had been observing from the sidelines, finally made her move. Silent and graceful, she floated behind Link, her skeletal fingers extending from beneath her cloak, reaching for his neck like the claws of death itself.

But even without turning, Link sensed her. His arm shot out with blinding speed, his hand closing around the phantom's throat with terrifying precision. He lifted her effortlessly off the ground, her weightless form flailing in his grasp. The phantom's red robes fluttered like a fallen leaf, powerless in his grip.

In a single, powerful motion, Link delivered a brutal side kick to the phantom's midsection. The force was so immense that the phantom's body was launched across the room, crashing into the far wall with a thunderous bang. The impact sent cracks spiderwebbing across the concrete, and the phantom slumped to the ground, unmoving.

Ivan could barely process what he had just witnessed. Every movement Link made was devastating, efficient, and precise. This wasn't a fight—it was a massacre.

Ivan stumbled back, clutching his wound as he tried to regain his balance. His mind raced. What kind of monster is this?

Link turned his gaze back to Ivan, calm and unrelenting. His eyes seemed devoid of any emotion, yet they burned with a cold intensity that sent a shiver down Ivan's spine. This was not the man from the files. This was not the hero-turned-traitor Ivan had read about. This was something else—something far more dangerous.

Ivan gritted his teeth, pulling the blade from his side as blood seeped through his combat suit. His thoughts were frantic, but one thing was becoming increasingly clear: they couldn't beat him, not like this, not with their current tactics or equipment.

Link was more than just a highly skilled agent. Whatever he had become since his disappearance, he had transcended the limits of any ordinary human, infected, or phantom they had ever encountered.

We need a new plan, Ivan thought. Something drastic.

Just as he was about to issue orders to the remaining agents, the room plunged into darkness.

Chapter Text

Two minutes ago, after skillfully neutralizing the three phantoms that guarded the gate, Charlie made sure the hostages were safely back on solid ground, having rescued them from the intricate and dangerous pipeline system. With the situation momentarily under control, Charlie once again operated Batman, guiding him back toward the gate. However, upon arrival, he made a surprising discovery—the large-scale team battle was still raging on, far from its conclusion.

Not only was the fight still ongoing, but it appeared to be on the verge of collapse. What initially seemed like an easy victory for the team from the madhouse had quickly turned into a chaotic free-for-all. Amidst the confusion, an unexpected opponent had appeared out of nowhere, laying waste to the asylum team with calculated precision, single-handedly turning the tide of battle and throwing the well-coordinated team into disarray.

"Link?" Charlie's thoughts immediately flashed back to a conversation he had with Detective Ivan not too long ago. He distinctly remembered hearing that name before. "The defected agent?" he muttered under his breath, still processing the unfolding events.

"I believe so, sir," came the calm, matter-of-fact reply from Friday, the AI assistant guiding him through the chaos.

"So, there are ace agents from the Nine Divisions that have joined the 'Dead' organization?" Charlie's brow furrowed as the pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place.

"It appears so, sir."

Charlie could only sigh inwardly at this revelation.

"Well, that figures," Charlie thought, a sarcastic smile tugging at his lips. In Charlie's mind, the 'Dead' organization had earned a new nickname—'The Circus.' It reminded him of those crime dramas where one competent ringmaster led a pack of bumbling clowns. This group seemed the same, filled with either disposable lackeys or shadowy figures lurking behind the scenes.

Yet, something felt off about this whole scenario. According to the information at hand, Link had been an exemplary agent before his defection, known for carrying out the most dangerous and morally ambiguous missions with cold efficiency. He had been the go-to choice for any dirty work. If the asylum had to rely on anyone to carry out their darkest agendas, Link would have been their first pick, hands down.

But now, the dynamic had shifted.

In short, this chaotic, leaky asylum wasn't getting better anytime soon. It was perfectly normal for this organization to have massive internal security breaches while still wreaking havoc externally. As long as their metaphorical 'graveyard' continued to hover ominously in the sky, without crashing catastrophically to the ground, half the battle was already won.

And that was fine with Charlie. The more mess this organization left behind, the more opportunities for him to exploit, allowing him to grow in strength and expertise without much resistance.

As Batman sprinted toward the battlefield, Friday was already hard at work, utilizing the first-person perspectives of the nine agents present to evaluate the enemy's movements. Batman remained in position, allowing Friday to share her analysis as soon as it was available.

"The target's strength is comparable to that of the scale-armored male phantom we fought earlier," Friday reported. "In terms of speed and reflexes, he is similar to the female phantom."

The combination of both strength and speed in a single opponent sounded formidable.

"His defense is also highly advanced," Friday added. "Link is completely encased in an unknown substance, resembling something out of a horror movie—almost like a grotesque creature from Tokyo."

From what Charlie could see, Link was wrapped in this eerie, armor-like substance that didn't resemble any known material, adding to his growing list of dangerous attributes. The sheer unnaturalness of it all screamed that this person was no ordinary agent—he was likely the leader of the 'Dead,' or at the very least, a high-ranking figure within their organization.

There was no doubt in Charlie's mind that capturing Link alive would yield valuable information. There were so many unanswered questions: How many people were part of the 'Dead' organization? Were there more leaders lurking in the shadows? What was the purpose of the graveyard evidence they had stolen? And most intriguingly, what had driven Link to defect?

Unfortunately, capturing infected individuals had always proven to be an exercise in futility. Infected agents felt no pain, and more disturbingly, they had a tendency to self-destruct the moment they were subdued. Every time Charlie had tried to pry information out of one of these infected operatives, they would activate some sort of explosive within their heads, effectively wiping themselves from existence before they could reveal anything useful.

But the Phantoms were different. Since they were a relatively new threat, there was still much to learn about them. Based on previous encounters, it seemed these creatures did feel pain, unlike the infected. This meant there might be a chance to extract information from them—if they could be captured alive, that is.

"Do you think we can take him alive?" Charlie asked, glancing at the ongoing battle on the HUD.

"There is a 90 percent chance of success, sir," Friday responded confidently. "If you wish, I have already formulated a detailed plan for capturing him."

Charlie gave a quick glance at Friday's proposed plan, his eyes skimming over the details.

"Not 1000%... but close enough," he muttered to himself, deciding to trust Friday's strategy.

With that, he activated Batman's stealth functions, using them to plunge the environment into darkness. Manipulating the environment had always been one of Batman's strengths, and Charlie ensured they were now in a venue suited perfectly for him.

Meanwhile, Detective Ivan, still nursing his injury, lay on the ground nearby, laughing weakly as he watched Link. "You had your chance," Ivan called out mockingly, "but now it's too late to run."

Link didn't respond. Instead, he stood motionless, scanning the pitch-black surroundings with cold, calculating precision, the mask over his face giving him the appearance of a seasoned predator, waiting patiently for the right moment to strike.

Then, out of nowhere, a blur of movement.

A tentacle shot out from behind Link, slicing through the darkness like lightning. It moved with terrifying speed, snatching Batman out of his hiding place and dragging him forward.

The tentacle had wrapped itself around Batman's ankle, but as soon as he hit the ground, Batman rolled, quickly regaining his footing and breaking free of the grip. Without wasting a second, he put distance between himself and the threat.

"WTF, this guy has tentacles?" Charlie exclaimed in disbelief as he controlled Batman to evade a second tentacle, which now emerged from Link's back. There were two of them now, writhing ominously in the darkness.

"It seems he has combined the abilities of the previous Phantoms we fought," Friday observed. "He may have accumulated their powers."

"Ah, a classic patchwork villain," Charlie remarked. It was a common trope in stories—when writers couldn't come up with a fresh, menacing new villain, they'd often resort to stitching together the abilities of previous foes, resulting in a 'supervillain' that was essentially a blend of all the others. Time-saving, effective, and in some ways, a tribute to the old enemies.

But there was still one nagging question in Charlie's mind.

"How is he seeing us?"

Batman's stealth skills were legendary. In "The Dark Knight Rises," even after eight years of retirement, Batman's stealth techniques were still top-tier. For someone like Link to see through that kind of shadow-hugging mastery wasn't normal.

"It's most likely sound-based, sir," Friday explained. "Based on his response patterns, there's a high probability he has enhanced hearing."

"Ah, that makes sense," Charlie nodded. "So, Bat radio it is then."

As Charlie spoke, Link chuckled darkly, his eyes locked onto Batman.

"I've heard a lot about you, Batman," Link said, his voice steady and unnerving. "People around me say you're terrifying. But look at you. You're no different from the rest—just another human being. Compared to us, who have evolved…"

Before he could finish his sentence, the sonic cannon went off. The tentacles around Batman's ankle instantly went limp, releasing him. Link collapsed, writhing on the ground, clutching his head as violent tremors wracked his body.

The agents watched in stunned silence as Batman stood calmly, while Link, who had seemed nearly invincible moments ago, lay twitching in defeat. The sudden shift in power left everyone speechless. How had Batman pulled this off?

Of course, it wasn't some kind of magic. Charlie knew better than to rely on something as unreliable as sorcery. Batman's sonic cannon, a carefully designed tool that emitted high-frequency ultrasonic waves, had been the real trump card.

The weapon had made its first appearance in "Batman Begins," where it had been used to summon bats for support. Humans couldn't hear the ultrasonic waves, but they were enough to call hundreds of bats to Batman's side, making them invaluable allies.

Later on, Batman had upgraded the device. Instead of just summoning animals, it had become a weapon. Though ordinary people still couldn't hear the frequency, anyone with particularly sensitive hearing—whether dogs or aliens—would find it unbearable.

The decision to lead with Batman in the attack had been a tactical one. Despite Batman's lower offensive output compared to other heroes, his utility belt was stocked with control gadgets. And in battle, it was always smart to start with crowd control before going for the kill.

As Charlie reflected on the flawless execution, he couldn't help but think about the broader implications. The sonic cannon was not just a tool—it was a reminder that even in a world of gods, monsters, and magic, technology had its place, and Batman, for all his human limitations, still knew how to win a fight.

Chapter Text

When most people go out into battle, they focus on how to work with their team or figure out the enemy's skills. But not Batman. His method is different—he doesn't just consider the opponent's abilities, but also those of his teammates. And it's not about teamwork and coordination. No, for Batman, it's about how to neutralize anyone—opponent or ally—at any time. In his mind, anyone could become a threat, and he prepares for that eventuality constantly.

Though Batman has taken down some of the toughest villains, he's often fought his teammates just as many times, if not more. The reason lies in his unique mindset, one plagued by a mental state that could best be described as "paranoid pragmatism." He operates with the belief that, "There are always people trying to harm me." This paranoia makes him deeply distrustful of even the most capable allies. And none exemplify this better than Superman—a being whose immense power is only rivaled by his frustratingly straightforward thinking. Despite his good intentions, Superman's strength, combined with a mind that is too easily manipulated by blackmail, brainwashing, or magic, makes him as much a liability as a friend.

Thus, Batman—the Justice League's designated "anti-Superman" member—has often found himself in the unenviable position of being the only one capable of keeping Superman in check. When Superman or any other overpowered teammate goes rogue, it falls to Batman to stop them.

You can't entirely blame him for this level of wariness. After all, as the only non-superpowered human in a team of gods, aliens, and meta-humans, Batman is perpetually fighting an uphill battle. His reality is one of managing not just the world-ending threats that regularly arise, but also the possibility that his allies might go rogue or get mind-controlled, turning them into equally dangerous enemies. This constant state of high alert has led him to create a staggering array of Anti-Justice League equipment, ensuring that no matter what ability a teammate might have, Batman has a countermeasure ready.

Batman, Against external enemies, his relative lack of power can depend on whether the writers of his stories give him an edge. When the writers don't favor him, he can sometimes seem like just another vulnerable human. But when it comes to dealing with his own team, Batman is an unstoppable force.

So, it doesn't matter which member of the Justice League goes dark, gets mind-controlled, or loses control—Batman will push them back. Even if the entire Justice League turns evil, Batman will still be able to bring them down, one by one.

But if Batman were to lose control himself? That's a different story. If Batman were to go rogue, no one would be able to stop him. He has prepared too well for that eventuality—he can suppress everyone else.

And he's had plenty of practice. The Justice League consists of gods and immortals with powers beyond imagination, controlling elements, bending reality, and doing things that defy logic. In order to keep up with them, Batman has developed countermeasures for nearly every common power or ability. So, if you find yourself squaring off against Batman, and your superpowers are too generic, you'll likely find yourself hoping you didn't have them.

That brings us to Link, who has just become the latest victim of Batman's meticulous preparation.

Link had been using his special abilities to enhance his hearing. His plan was simple: use his augmented senses to locate Batman in the darkness and strike him down. However, what Link didn't anticipate was Batman's use of ultrasonic waves, which tore through his brain, nearly causing him to collapse on the spot.

In a split-second decision, Link cut off his enhanced hearing to stop the damage, but it was too late. The ultrasound had already wreaked havoc on his brain, leaving him disoriented and dizzy. His sense of balance was obliterated, and he felt as though his mind was swimming in chaos.

Squinting through the haze, Link managed to locate Batman in the distance. His eyes were filled with accusation, silently condemning Batman for being underhanded, using such low tactics to gain the upper hand.

But Batman wasn't done.

Before Link could react, Batman flicked his cloak, raising his arm and throwing something down with precision. A metallic object hit the ground with a sharp clang, and before Link knew what was happening, a blinding light erupted, flooding the dark underground space with a brightness so intense it felt like the sun had been switched on. Link's eyes, already strained from the disorienting effects of the ultrasound, were assaulted by the glare, nearly blinding him.

The sudden flash of light was so strong that even the nearby agents, who were merely watching, had to shield their eyes from the explosive brightness.

Batman had dropped a flashbang, a tactic that was as effective as it was ruthless. The brilliance of the light tore through Link's vision, leaving him temporarily blind and helpless.

But this wasn't just an accidental side effect of the fight. Batman had thrown the flashbang with the full knowledge that it would blind both the enemy and his own allies. Flashbangs are an area-of-effect weapon, and there's no way to shield your teammates from the damage. It wasn't that Batman disliked his teammates—he simply didn't care about them at the moment. As long as he could secure victory, collateral damage was acceptable.

The blindness wouldn't last forever, but it would last long enough.

For now, Link's world was pitch-black. He had lost all sense of direction, and his mind was spinning in confusion. He cursed Batman silently, feeling the deep unfairness of facing someone who fought like this.

While his senses were scrambled, Link was overwhelmed by a single thought: "Shameless!"

He hadn't expected this at all. According to the data he had on Batman, this so-called hero was supposed to be a master of martial arts and stealth, an expert in strategy and combat. But so far, all Batman had done was assault his senses—first with ultrasonic waves and now with blinding light. Link had been expecting a duel of skill, not these cheap tactics.

But for Batman, the end always justifies the means. As far as he was concerned, it didn't matter how he won, as long as he did. And when it came to defeating powerful opponents like Superman or, in this case, Link, Batman was willing to use whatever tricks were necessary.

After all, this was the same man who once kidnapped his best friend's wife and dangled her off a building just to manipulate Superman. Batman isn't without principles, but he is a pragmatist. His bottom line is flexible when it comes to saving lives and protecting the world—except when it comes to killing. That's the one line Batman won't cross.

Link, however, had never faced someone like Batman before. His extensive combat experience told him that most opponents would have already struck by now. But Batman? Batman preferred to disable his enemies first, breaking them down before striking.

Though he was blinded, Link's body was still highly trained. His enhanced physical abilities, combined with his years of experience, allowed him to react even when his senses failed him. As his vision plunged into darkness, the tentacles on his back shot out, aimed directly at Batman's last known location.

Most people in his position wouldn't even think to counterattack while under such intense sensory assault. But Link was no ordinary fighter. His extraordinary physical attributes, combined with his advanced combat awareness, meant that he could still attack with precision.

He moved fast—faster than most would expect. In his mind, he was certain Batman was still recovering from the flashbang. Even though Batman's eyepieces likely had built-in defenses against flashbangs, Link knew there would still be a brief delay in his movements.

This was his moment to strike.

Confident in his timing, Link smiled. His tentacles would land the hit, no doubt about it. Batman had no escape.

What Link couldn't see, however, was that Batman had already rolled out of the way with an agility that was almost superhuman. The tentacles, which had been aimed directly at Batman's previous location, missed by inches and instead struck something else—a large electrical box attached to the wall.

In an instant, the room was lit up with the bright blue arc of electricity. Sparks flew as the tentacles became conduits for the surge of power, sending electricity racing back toward Link at a deadly speed.

With the speed of a lightning strike, the current traveled along the tentacles and into Link's body. The surge of electricity caused his entire body to seize up, his muscles spasming uncontrollably as sparks flew from the strange, armor-like material covering his form.

At that moment, Link's mind was filled with nothing but anger and frustration. He had fallen for Batman's tricks, and now he was paying the price.

"Do you ever fight fair?" he mentally screamed, though all that escaped his lips were garbled, pain-filled noises.

As the electricity continued to course through him, Link's thoughts grew dimmer, and he realized that, for all his power and experience, he had underestimated Batman.

And in Batman's world, that's always a fatal mistake.

Chapter Text

At this point, Link fully understood that, from the very beginning of the fight until now, every single event had been part of Batman's meticulously planned strategy. It dawned on him that every step he had taken was predicted, every action countered. He hadn't been fighting his own fight—he had been walking right into Batman's carefully crafted trap.

First, Batman had used ultrasonic waves to exploit Link's enhanced hearing, overloading his senses and causing unbearable strain on his brain. Link's primary advantage—his superior sense of hearing—had been turned against him. Disoriented, with his hearing disabled, he had to rely solely on his vision, but Batman wasted no time, throwing flashbangs to blind him. Suddenly, both his hearing and sight were gone, two of his most crucial senses stripped away in a calculated instant.

Link's instincts screamed at him to strike before it was too late, to land a decisive blow while his body was still functioning. But even this desperate reaction had been anticipated by Batman. The move where his tentacles had struck the transformer box wasn't a fluke—it was entirely intentional. Batman had positioned himself there from the start, using his own body as bait, luring Link into a fatal miscalculation. He had planned to use that electrical transformer as a weapon all along.

Indeed, this entire trap was part of a carefully laid-out strategy. Before the battle had even begun, Charlie, with Friday's help, had hacked into the city's power grid, adjusting it to create the perfect storm. The transformer box had been subtly manipulated to deliver a massive electric shock when struck.

Friday's calm voice broke the tension of the moment, confirming the success of their tactic. "That last move caused a temporary power outage in a small residential area above ground," she reported, "but we definitely hit him hard."

"Thanks, Friday." Charlie smirked, appreciating the precision of the plan. A good assistant is efficient, capable, and adaptive—and Friday had earned the title of MVP for her work in this fight.

As Stark's universal AI, Friday had always been known for her intelligence and combat assistance capabilities. But today, her strategic brilliance had outshone even her typical duties. In this fight, she had been more than just a helpful AI; she had been an invaluable tactician.

Link, meanwhile, was left dazed and numb from the electric shock, barely able to move as the electricity crackled across his armor-like body. But Charlie wasn't going to give him a chance to recover. Batman rushed forward, his hands encased in electrified shock gloves, and landed a series of punishing blows.

The first punch connected with Link's nose, sending electricity surging through his head. The impact sent him reeling backward as the shockwave made his armor spark and jump with energy, throwing off his balance. His vision blurred, and he couldn't focus.

Despite the overwhelming pain and disorientation, Link's training kicked in. Even with his senses dulled, he predicted Batman's next move through pure muscle memory and lashed out with a wild counterpunch. It was a desperate, reflexive strike, fueled by years of combat experience.

But Charlie was prepared for that too.

Batman wasn't just a master of dirty tricks; he was a martial artist of the highest order. Charlie quickly ducked and maneuvered, dodging the wild punch with ease. At the same time, Batman delivered two powerful, electrified punches to Link's lower abdomen, sending fresh shocks coursing through his body.

Link's body was in agony. Every muscle screamed in protest as electricity continued to surge through him. He couldn't believe what was happening. He had expected a brutal, direct fight—one where his superior strength, speed, and invulnerability would allow him to crush Batman with ease. But nothing had gone as planned.

Link had severely underestimated Batman's tactics, expecting a conventional fight between warriors. Instead, he had been subjected to a relentless onslaught of tricks, traps, and strategic misdirection.

He felt humiliated.

By every metric, Link was stronger, faster, and more durable than Batman. His armor made him nearly invulnerable to conventional attacks. On paper, this fight should have been over in minutes, with Batman lying at his feet.

But instead, he was the one getting pummeled.

It was as if the roles had been reversed. Link, a genetically enhanced super-soldier, was being toyed with by an "ordinary" man in a bat costume. His moves, though powerful, were rendered useless by Batman's superior tactics and planning.

As Batman's blows rained down on him, Link's tentacles flailed wildly, trying to strike back. But every attempt to counter was met with precise dodges and punishing counters. Batman knew exactly when to step in, when to step back, and how to make each strike count.

Then came the punch that nearly broke Link's spirit. Batman delivered a devastating strike to his forehead—a blow so powerful it almost shattered the armor-like substance covering his face. For a moment, Link's entire body seemed to pause, the force of the impact reverberating through his skull.

"What kind of power is this?" Link wondered, shocked by the sheer force behind the punch.

He had fought countless foes in his lifetime—many of them powerful, many of them dangerous. But this punch, from a man who was supposed to be just a regular human, felt more like the work of a superhuman. It didn't make sense.

The special agents who had been watching from the sidelines finally regained their vision, and what they saw left them in awe. Batman was locked in a brutal, fast-paced battle with Link, who was dressed in bizarre, monstrous armor. The two figures moved with incredible speed, trading blows and dodges in a display of strength and precision that defied logic.

Link, who had seemed unstoppable just moments ago, was now on the receiving end of a relentless assault. Batman's fighting style was unconventional, a mix of brutal efficiency and strange, almost supernatural moves. At one point, Batman even kicked Link into the air and followed up with a series of mid-air combos that left the agents wondering if they were watching a real fight or a choreographed movie scene.

"Is that something a human can even do?" one of the agents muttered in disbelief.

Just moments ago, the agents had been getting destroyed by Link. Despite their best efforts, they hadn't been able to make a dent in his defenses. But now, Link was the one being battered, and the agents were left questioning everything.

Charlie felt a rush of satisfaction as Batman continued to pummel Link. Each punch, each shock, and each blow was a testament to Batman's mastery of strategy and combat. Link, once an overwhelming threat, was now a beaten, crumpled mess.

After Spider-Man, who had joined the fight, delivered a final combo using his web-swinging abilities, a bat-shaped explosive dart detonated on Link's face. The explosion sent a fireball and smoke screen rolling through the room, blasting Link backward and tearing away most of his armor.

Finally, the agents could see what lay beneath the armor.

Beneath the shattered, blood-red armor, Link's body had mutated grotesquely. His skin had hardened and mutated into something monstrous, more like a creature's than a human's. The tissue underneath was unlike anything seen on a normal person—it was almost alien, a twisted amalgamation of muscle and sinew.

Even now, Link's body was trying to heal itself, flesh knitting together and regenerating rapidly, struggling to repair the extensive damage.

Link lay on the ground, his breath ragged and shallow. "Ha… I underestimated you," he gasped, his voice weak but tinged with grim acceptance.

He knew the fight was over. There was no point in resisting any further. He had lost.

Lying on his back, Link stared up at Batman, who was walking toward him with slow, deliberate steps. A dry smile crossed Link's face, though it was filled with bitterness.

"I guess a lot of people make this mistake," he said. "They get a little bit of power, and they think they're untouchable." He coughed, the movement straining his already battered body. "And you… you're the best at using that. You let people think they're winning, and then…"

Before Link could finish, Spider-Man webbed his hands and feet, binding him tightly. Batman wasted no time, throwing another gadget—a gel bomb. The bomb exploded at Link's feet, and in seconds, the expanding gel enveloped his body, hardening and trapping him completely.

With both the webbing and the gel keeping him restrained, there was no way for Link to break free. Even if he were in peak condition, there would be no escape.

"I lost," Link admitted, his voice raspy and filled with resignation. "But it doesn't matter," he added with a weak, bitter smile. "The gears have started turning. The tide will sweep everyone away. No one will escape—not even you."

---

Elsewhere

In a shadowy, secretive location, a pair of glowing eyes slowly opened in the darkness.

"It looks like the plan failed."

A man's voice, calm yet edged with cold resolve, echoed in the shadows. His face, partially illuminated, revealed a stern expression—it was Link.

"Batman turned out to be more than we expected," he continued. "He's not just a fighter with power. We underestimated him."

"Yes, it seems we did," another voice replied from deeper in the shadows. Another figure stepped forward, his face also revealed—it was another Link.

"But it doesn't matter," the second Link said with eerie calm. "The mission of the Dead is complete. Sacrificing one of us is insignificant."

"That's true. As long as the key remains active, everything will proceed according to plan."

A third voice joined the conversation, and yet another Link emerged from the darkness.

Around them, pairs of glowing eyes began to open, one after another, like ominous lights flickering to life in the pitch-black room.

They all shared the same cold, emotionless gaze. The plan was still in motion.

Chapter Text

Detective Ivan's injuries had healed to about seventy percent, his vision now sharp enough to assess the aftermath of the battle. His eyes scanned the scene, focusing on Link, who lay motionless, completely immobilized by the combination of Spider-Man's webbing and the quick-expanding gel. Ivan took a deep breath, finally convinced that the fight was over, and that Link was no longer a threat. Only then did he allow himself to relax, casually pulling out a cigarette and lighting it.

He was preparing to exchange a few words with Batman—maybe a thank-you for once again saving their hides—but when he turned around, Batman was already gone.

Of course he was. It's Batman, after all.

The few seconds it took for Ivan to confirm Link was neutralized were all the time Batman needed to disappear into the shadows, leaving without a word, as usual.

The agents, still recovering from the intensity of the fight, began to stir. Slowly but surely, they came to terms with what had just happened: they had been saved, again, by the Dark Knight. It was a scene they had grown accustomed to—being swept off their feet by Batman's efficiency, only to be left standing, bewildered, as he vanished without a trace.

This time, however, something was different. Rather than frustration or anger at being upstaged, there was a collective sense of acceptance. The agents had long realized that Batman operated on a different level. Overthinking it only led to confusion. Gotham's police force had long been shaped by Batman's methods, and now, this special task force—colloquially known as the "madhouse"—was starting to fall into the same rhythm.

In fact, if things continued the way they were going, the madhouse might just install their own bat signal on the deck of their mothership. That way, whenever things went sideways, they wouldn't need to scramble or panic. They'd just turn on the signal and let Batman do his thing. Problem solved. No more worries about being outnumbered or outgunned by infected individuals or phantoms.

Truth be told, Charlie found nothing wrong with that idea. It would save him the hassle of having to find ways to gain experience points every day. Instead, he could just give the madhouse their own bat signal. Anytime they ran into trouble, they could shine it in the sky, and Charlie could skip the lengthy preparation phase, jump right into the action, and let Batman handle the heavy lifting. It was practical, efficient, and saved everyone a lot of time.

It reminded Charlie of the defense teams in Ultraman—paper-thin defenders who always seemed to be in over their heads, trying to fight off giant monsters with meager firepower. In the end, rather than wasting time and resources sending out more planes and troops, they'd just summon Ultraman, who would swoop in and handle the situation with minimal effort. Simple, direct, and highly effective.

Charlie figured that once his experience level was maxed out, and his system's skill pool was full, he'd be capable of handling anything—even the chaos in the madhouse. When that day came, he wouldn't just be cleaning up after others; he'd be the one doing the saving, with a full arsenal of abilities and strategies at his disposal.

Quoting one of Iron Man's most iconic lines: "I've successfully privatized world peace."

What's that? You don't want peace? Fine. Maybe a chat with Superman about life would change your mind.

Back in the present, the action team made contact with the response team stationed above ground. Only then did they realize something shocking: while they had been fighting below, Batman had already freed all the hostages. As the agents crossed the hall, retracing their steps through the battlefield, they ventured deeper into the underground facility, soon finding the door to the hostage room ajar. Nearby, the remains of three phantoms lay strewn across the ground.

The sight left the agents in a stunned silence.

Had they really been fighting at the front lines, struggling to hold the enemy at bay, while Batman had not only rescued the hostages but also taken down three key enemies? The realization hit hard. While they had been preoccupied with the chaos up front, Batman and his companion had slipped through enemy lines, completed the mission, and returned to the fight—taking out the strongest foe on the battlefield—before leaving without so much as a word.

It was a sobering moment for the agents.

Reflecting on the sequence of events, they began to piece it together: after ensuring the hostages were safe and the primary objectives were completed, Batman had calmly reentered the fray, taken out the most dangerous enemy, and disappeared as quickly as he had arrived.

And now, as the agents stood there, they couldn't help but wonder what their role in this mission had really been.

At first, they had believed themselves to be soldiers of justice, sharp blades ready to cut down evil. But the reality of the situation was starting to feel more like they had been cooks—preparing the battlefield for Batman to swoop in and clean up. By the end, they weren't sharp blades, nor were they cooks; they were simply spectators. Their primary function had been to cheer from the sidelines as Batman worked his magic, and to make sure that when Batman went full throttle, there was at least someone there to bear witness to his deeds.

Detective Ivan noticed one of the younger agents, looking frustrated and defeated, staring at the ground. With a casual smile, Ivan approached, cigarette dangling from his lips, and patted the young agent on the shoulder.

"Don't let it get to you, kid," Ivan said, exhaling smoke. "There's going to be a lot more days like this. You'll get used to it."

The younger agent looked up at Ivan, his face a mixture of confusion and reluctant acceptance. He had no words, but his silence spoke volumes.

Meanwhile, the question of what exactly Link was remained unanswered. Was he an infected person, or was he something more? No one knew for sure, and there was still a lingering uncertainty about whether or not phantoms had the same explosive tendencies as the infected. Regardless, protocol demanded that Link be taken back for interrogation.

Charlie had briefly considered trying to crack open the minds of these Nine Division professionals, hoping to extract valuable intel. But the truth was, he didn't have much faith in the madhouse's security system. He had a feeling that if they weren't careful, Link would find a way to escape.

Not that it would be too much of a problem if he did.

Friday had already assured Charlie that she could hack into the madhouse's system, keeping constant surveillance on the prisoner. She'd even keep tabs on any information they managed to extract from Link's accomplices.

Even if Link somehow managed to break out, it would only lead to one thing: more experience points for Charlie when he inevitably captured him again.

Later, when the hostages began to provide their statements, they revealed a crucial piece of information.

"Five? Are you sure you counted correctly?" Melanie asked with a frown. She was one of the hostages who had been rescued earlier and was now sitting by the Secret Service vehicle. Despite her current situation, where she still had to be escorted back to the mothership for questioning due to her earlier involvement, she remained focused and sharp.

"Yes, ma'am," a young agent confirmed. "Five phantoms in total. Four were taken down by Batman and his companion, and one was handled by the action team…"

His voice faltered near the end of his sentence, the embarrassment of their limited contribution seeping through. He hadn't wanted to admit it, but with so many agents on the scene, only one of the enemies had been taken down by their team. The rest had been Batman's doing.

But Melanie wasn't interested in who took down whom. Her concern lay elsewhere, and she quickly looked over at Ivan.

"One's missing," she said bluntly, her tone sharp.

Ivan blinked in confusion. "What do you mean, missing?"

"There were six of them," Melanie explained. "You've only accounted for five. One's still out there… a shapeshifter."

---

Elsewhere

Charlie leaned back in his gaming chair, stretching after a long, exhausting day. He could feel the tension in his muscles easing up, but the satisfaction of a job well done lingered.

"Not a bad day's work, wouldn't you say?" he remarked, glancing at Friday.

"I think you performed exceptionally well, sir," Friday replied with her usual calm smile.

"No, it was your support that made it all possible," Charlie countered, grinning.

"I disagree, sir. Your quick decision-making and tactical skills were the key."

"No way. Your strategic planning and advice kept everything running smoothly."

The light-hearted banter continued for a few more moments, back and forth, as they both praised each other's efforts.

Despite the heavy lifting he'd done today—using the powers of Captain America and Spider-Man, especially Spider-Man, whose abilities drained his energy bar fast—Charlie still felt a strange rush of energy. His body was tired, but his mind was wide awake. It was that strange feeling where every fiber of your being knows you need rest, but your brain just refuses to power down.

"Your physical condition isn't optimal," Friday warned. "I recommend you get some sleep, sir."

"One more round," Charlie muttered. He was still buzzing with energy and excitement. Maybe he'd swing through the city one more time as Spider-Man, see if he could find one more unlucky bad guy before calling it a night.

"Excessive fatigue and overwork can lead to long-term health complications, including circulatory issues, endocrine imbalances, insomnia, memory loss, irritability, and more," Friday rattled off in her usual monotone. "Additionally, it can increase the risk of hypertension, diabetes, and—"

"Alright, alright, I give up," Charlie sighed, rolling his eyes.

Friday chuckled softly. "I'm only concerned for your well-being, sir. But, of course, the decision is yours."

Charlie couldn't help but admit that she was right. As much as he wanted to keep playing, it wasn't healthy to push himself to the limit every time. There was such a thing as moderation.

As he exited the game, a familiar flashing effect lit up his screen, catching his eye. The sight made his heart race with excitement—it was an upgrade notification.

He'd leveled up again!

It seemed that taking down so many bosses in one night had granted him a substantial amount of experience. Charlie hadn't expected to level up again so soon, especially since his last upgrade hadn't been that long ago.

Then again, the flood of experience points from that time Riverton's F4 gang had fed him hundreds of enemies at once probably played a part. That group of clowns had delivered themselves straight into his hands, and even ended up behind bars in the process. That wave of experience points had been significant.

With the upgrade came his favorite part: the skill draw.

He was surprised to find that even the skill lottery system had been updated.

As Charlie read through the new description, his eyes widened in disbelief.

"The new skill extraction system has been unlocked. Players can now draw skills from multiple heroes simultaneously, acquiring up to five different hero abilities at one time."

Charlie's heart raced as he absorbed the implications of this new mechanic.

---

[If you don't get a chapter tomorrow, Its because of a hurricane!]

Chapter Text

I'M BACK!!! A tree fell on a powerline, so we lost electricity; it's fixed now. Here are 10 chaps as compensation... enjoy!!!

---

Charlie: "!"

Wait a second, did he read that right? Five skills at a time?

He blinked at the screen, his heart racing. Was the game really upgraded to this level? Five skills in one go? That was an insane boost. His mind immediately started running wild with the possibilities. With just a bit more experience and a few extra levels, wouldn't that mean he could reach top-tier power in a matter of days? It was like the game was handing him the keys to the kingdom, offering him magic skills on a silver platter.

But as the excitement buzzed through him, Charlie decided to take a closer look.

Upon further inspection, the details of the new feature started to clarify things. While it was undoubtedly a powerful upgrade, it wasn't quite as limitless as it first appeared.

The description explained that after the upgrade, you could still only lock in one hero for guaranteed skill draws, just like before. The remaining four rounds were extra—an additional bonus handed out by the system. However, there was a catch: the four extra skills would be drawn randomly from the heroes Charlie already owned. He couldn't choose them.

So while the system had become significantly more generous, offering four extra rolls, those freebies came with an element of unpredictability. If he was lucky, he'd land some game-changing abilities. But if the RNG gods weren't on his side, he might end up with something far less useful.

His initial excitement tempered slightly, Charlie let out a deep breath.

Okay, maybe it wasn't the limitless power spike he had first imagined, but still—it was free stuff. And free stuff was always good. After all, who didn't love getting a random boost? Even if the extra skills weren't what he was hoping for, they might come in handy down the line. A surplus of abilities was never a bad thing. You could always stash them in the proverbial warehouse until they became relevant. Sometimes the most unlikely skill could end up saving your life.

He smirked, thinking about some of the more random powers in superhero lore. Take Aquaman's ability to talk to fish, for instance. Sure, in Aquaman, it was depicted as this awesome power that let him command the Seven Seas. But Charlie would never forget the laugh he got watching Justice League, where Batman sarcastically asked Aquaman to send fish out to gather intelligence. That one scene had kept him chuckling for months.

Now, it was time to decide which hero to lock in for the guaranteed skill. Naturally, there was only one clear choice: Spider-Man.

Spider-Man was the crown jewel of Charlie's hero roster. More than 20 tons of arm strength, reflexes that rivaled any combatant in the game, and an all-around monster in battle. No matter which skill he ended up with, anything from Spider-Man's set was going to be an absolute win.

Without hesitation, Charlie locked in Spider-Man as his preferred hero, and with a breath of anticipation, hit the button to start the five consecutive draws.

The screen lit up with a burst of dazzling, fireworks-like special effects as the new skills rolled in. Charlie leaned in closer, his excitement building. He couldn't wait to see what he'd get. After what felt like an eternity (though it was probably only a few seconds), the results appeared.

The first skill: Vehicle Riding.

Charlie's excitement deflated just a little. The skill was from Huntress, a heroine known for her proficiency with vehicles, especially motorcycles. It was the kind of skill that was essential for action movie protagonists when they had to pull off those wild car chases or daring stunts.

But for Charlie? A guy who didn't even own a car, let alone drive one? He glanced over at Friday, the AI companion who was always by his side. She stood there with a gentle, knowing smile, looking like she was about to suggest something practical.

"Yeah, yeah, I get it," Charlie muttered. "It's a nice skill, but not exactly useful for me right now."

He shrugged. There was no need to linger on the first draw. Not everything could be a winner, and this was only the beginning.

Moving on to the second skill, his eyes lit up immediately: Fighting Specialization (Batgirl).

Now, this was more like it.

The skill came from Cassandra Cain, the formidable Batgirl. She had undergone inhuman levels of combat training since childhood, making her one of the deadliest fighters in the DC Universe. Her mastery of martial arts was so refined that she could predict and counter an enemy's moves before they even happened. This wasn't just fighting skill—it was an instinctual understanding of combat that put her leagues ahead of most fighters. Even Lady Shiva, the deadliest martial artist in the world, acknowledged Cassandra's abilities.

Charlie grinned. This was a rare find. He'd always wanted to get Cassandra's combat prowess into his skill set, but the chances of drawing it had been so slim that he hadn't even bothered to try. Now, it had fallen into his lap.

Some might argue that martial arts weren't that useful in a world filled with gods and superhumans. But those people weren't thinking big enough. Sure, if you were up against someone like Superman, no amount of fancy footwork was going to save you. But in a fight where the power levels were more balanced, technique mattered. It could be the difference between life and death.

In a world where brute strength wasn't always enough, skills like Cassandra's were golden.

Charlie felt a surge of satisfaction. This alone would've made the draw worthwhile, but he wasn't done yet. There were still three more skills to go.

The third skill rolled in, and Charlie's heart skipped a beat: Spider-Sense (Spider-Man).

This was the jackpot.

Spider-Sense wasn't just a useful skill—it was one of the most iconic and powerful abilities in all of Spider-Man's arsenal. The early warning system gave Spider-Man an almost supernatural ability to sense danger before it struck. With this, Charlie would be nearly impossible to sneak up on. It was like having a personal radar that would alert him to any incoming threats, allowing him to dodge attacks with ease.

Not only that, but Spider-Sense came with heightened reflexes, putting him in a state where time seemed to slow down. In moments of crisis, it was like entering bullet time. He'd be able to see things unfold in slow motion, giving him the reaction time needed to dodge even the fastest projectiles, including bullets.

Charlie could barely contain his excitement. With the strength of Captain America, the Spider-Sense of Spider-Man, and Cassandra's fighting skills, he was quickly becoming a force to be reckoned with.

He moved on to the fourth skill, hoping the streak of good luck would continue. But as the result came up, he couldn't help but chuckle: Unique Cooking (Green Arrow).

Green Arrow, one of DC's most famous heroes, had a surprising side talent—cooking. His signature dish? A notoriously spicy beef stew that had become infamous among the members of the Justice League.

Charlie shook his head, laughing. "Okay, sure. Green Arrow can cook, why not?"

It wasn't exactly what he was hoping for, but every hero had to eat, right? And maybe there'd come a day when he needed to whip up a meal to boost morale. Stranger things had happened.

Finally, it was time for the fifth and final skill.

Charlie clicked through and was immediately hit with another wave of excitement: Super Self-Healing (Moon Knight).

This was big. Moon Knight, under the protection of the moon god Khonshu, had incredible self-healing abilities. Gunshot wounds? They'd heal in seconds. Broken bones? A mere inconvenience. Moon Knight's healing factor wasn't just about recovering from minor injuries—it was on par with some of the best regenerative powers out there, even rivaling the likes of Wolverine.

The best part? If Moon Knight had enough divine power backing him, Khonshu could even bring him back from the dead.

"Now this is what I'm talking about," Charlie said aloud, feeling a rush of adrenaline.

With this self-healing ability, Charlie would be practically unkillable. Sure, it wasn't quite as powerful as the version that could resurrect him from the dead, but it was still an incredibly useful life-saving tool. Getting hurt in battle would no longer be a major issue. He could heal from almost anything.

As he reviewed his new abilities, Charlie couldn't help but feel a deep sense of satisfaction. This first round of five consecutive draws had been far more rewarding than he'd expected. Not only had he gotten a solid mix of combat and survival skills, but he now felt more powerful than ever. His goal of becoming a god-tier hero was inching closer with every draw.

But there was more. The upgrade had also unlocked a brand-new feature: Hero Dispatch.

This feature allowed Charlie to temporarily remove a hero from his team, stationing them in a specific location. Once sent there, the hero would stay offline and unavailable for use until Charlie chose to bring them back. The best part was that they'd remain exactly where he had left them.

Charlie's mind immediately began spinning with ideas.

This wasn't just a simple new function—this was a game-changer. With Hero Dispatch, he could effectively set up a network of heroes across different cities. If there was ever an emergency in any major location, he wouldn't have to scramble across the map to respond. Instead, he could simply log into the hero stationed there and handle it instantly.

It was like having an army of superheroes at his fingertips, ready to respond at a moment's notice.

He could already picture it—each major city across the globe with its own superhero protector, all reporting back to him. With enough heroes, he could cover every corner of the map, creating a global defense system that would rival any organization.

But just as he started to plot his future strategy, Friday's voice chimed in.

"It's 2:40 AM, sir. I strongly suggest you get some sleep."

Charlie groaned, torn between his desire to test out the new feature and the undeniable truth that he was exhausted.

"Alright, alright," he muttered reluctantly, logging off.

As much as he wanted to keep going, Friday was right. He needed rest. Staying up all night wouldn't do him any favors, especially if he wanted to keep up his momentum.

"Set an alarm for 10:30," Charlie said, stifling a yawn. "Make sure I'm up by then."

"Of course, sir," Friday replied with a smile.

Little did Charlie know, the next morning was going to be an experience all on its own.

---

The Next Morning

Charlie awoke the next day feeling surprisingly well-rested. True to her word, Friday had woken him up precisely at 10:30 AM.

Her first tactic: opening the curtains.

The bright sunlight poured into the room, instantly lighting up every corner. The sudden brightness was enough to stir him slightly, but for someone as attached to his bed as Charlie, it wasn't nearly enough.

He grumbled something unintelligible and buried himself deeper under the covers, blocking out the light.

But Friday wasn't done yet.

Her second move: music.

The familiar opening notes of "Caribou Lou" by "Tech N9Ne" filled the room, loud and cheerful. It was a jarring contrast to the peaceful sleep Charlie had been enjoying, and it immediately jolted him halfway awake.

"Wait, what? Why is this song here?" Charlie mumbled, pulling the blanket over his head to block out the noise.

"Turn it off, Friday," he groaned, still half-asleep. "I'm awake, okay?"

Friday's voice was gentle but firm. "You asked me to make sure you were fully awake, sir."

Charlie: "..."

The music was effective, sure, but not enough to get him completely out of bed. He was still holding on, determined to sneak in a few more minutes of rest.

Then Friday played her ace in the hole.

"I've installed an 8-kilovolt shock device under your bed," she said. "If you don't get up in the next five seconds, I'll have no choice but to activate it. Five, four…"

Charlie's eyes snapped open. "Wait! Stop! I'm up!"

He shot out of bed as if launched by a spring, standing at full attention.

"Good morning, sir," Friday greeted him sweetly, hands clasped in front of her in a perfect display of professionalism. "Breakfast is ready."

Charlie blinked, still trying to process what had just happened. "Electric shock device?"

"Oh, that?" Friday chuckled softly, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "I lied."

Charlie: "..."

Good grief. The little secretary was a bit of a trickster, wasn't she?

But he couldn't deny it—she'd gotten the job done. He was fully awake, and any trace of sleepiness had been blasted away.

"Alright, alright, turn off the music. I'm up for real," Charlie said, rubbing his eyes.

"151 rum, pineapple juice and Malibu

Carib..."

Friday complied, shutting off the song. She turned to leave, but just before stepping out of the room, she glanced back with a playful smile.

"Good Morning, sir."

Then she was gone, leaving Charlie standing there, still trying to make sense of the morning.

Charlie: "???"

Chapter Text

Friday's breakfast was, as usual, well-made and perfectly tailored to Charlie's tastes. It wasn't anything particularly fancy, just a simple breakfast pancake, yet somehow, in its simplicity, it hit all the right notes.

The ingredients were the most common you could find: two eggs, a slice of ham, shredded carrots, a small handful of shrimp skins, and finely chopped green onions. The pancake itself had been fried to a perfect golden brown, with its crispy edges encasing the soft, savory interior. The smell was irresistible, filling the room with the warmth of freshly cooked food.

Despite the humble ingredients, the meal looked like something you'd see in a high-end café. And while there's an old saying that the ham usually steals the show in such a meal, Charlie had always had a soft spot for eggs. There was something about the way the egg yolk was spread across the pancake, soaking into the dough and enhancing every bite with a rich, satisfying flavor. The whole cake was permeated with the fragrance of the eggs, a reminder of the simple joys of a good breakfast.

Friday had prepared the meal with his exact preferences in mind. Every ingredient, every seasoning, every touch had been carefully chosen based on Charlie's past meals. Each bite was perfect, a small burst of joy that made the morning feel just a little bit brighter.

"I've referred to the Roujiamo you ordered thirteen times at 'Chen's Old Noodles' and the burritos from the third-floor window in your school cafeteria," Friday said, her voice as soft and melodic as ever, "and adjusted the recipe accordingly. If you'd like any changes, feel free to let me know. I can improve it for next time."

Charlie smiled, his mouth full of the rich flavors of ham, egg, and sauce. "No, this is perfect."

It wasn't just a polite response either. Despite the simplicity of the ingredients, the meal was hitting all the right notes for him. If Charlie could, he'd give Friday's breakfast a glowing four-star review right now. Why not five stars, you ask? Well, that's simple—leave room for improvement, always.

"If it's true that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach," Charlie mused to himself, "then Friday's well on her way to having me wrapped around her finger. Compared to this, the Roujiamo from Chen's Old Noodles feels like fast food."

While eating, Charlie scrolled through his phone, casually clicking on the exclusive app for the Ninth Special Service Division, also known as the "madhouse." There was a new message from Tara, his immediate supervisor.

Tara was responsible for assigning Charlie his clerical duties at the madhouse. Of course, being a part-time college student, no one expected him to handle anything too important. Most of the tasks he received were trivial and administrative. Basic paperwork, filing, and the like.

Initially, Charlie had thought about doing the work himself, mostly out of curiosity. But after just ten seconds of staring at the dense, complicated tables and endless rows of text, he quickly closed the file and handed the task over to Friday.

"You're better at this stuff than I am," he had said, giving her a nod of approval.

Friday had, of course, done an exceptional job. All Charlie had to do afterward was skim the finished work to ensure it met the standards. So far, no complaints had come from the higher-ups. In fact, Tara had sent a message the next day, praising his quick and thorough work.

Apparently, Tara had expected this task to take Charlie at least a week to complete. The fact that it was done so quickly, and with such high quality, had impressed her. She mentioned that she now believed Charlie had a knack for handling detailed work, and she was beginning to think he had real potential in the field of materials management.

Charlie chuckled. Tara was polite, almost to a fault. She seemed new to her leadership role, her messages full of respect and courtesy. It was refreshing to deal with someone who didn't throw their weight around. She was young, kind, and a pleasure to work with. But even so, her high praise had caught him off guard.

Charlie reflected on the situation. He had been trying to keep a low profile, to fly under the radar. After all, while Friday was the one completing most of his tasks, he didn't want to seem too efficient or too eager. He'd purposely delayed handing in the completed work for a few days to make it seem more natural. But even with the delay, it still exceeded Tara's expectations.

"Maybe I should've held off a bit longer," Charlie thought. "Next time, I'll wait until the last minute to submit, and I'll ask Friday to dial back the quality. No need to stand out too much."

It was almost like trying to ace a test but intentionally aiming for an average score, just to blend in. Charlie wanted to be the invisible cog in the madhouse machine, not the one that drew attention. There was no point in being too noticeable—if you stood out too much, you'd just end up with more work.

His mind flashed to Saiki Kusuo from The Disastrous Life of Saiki K.—the ultimate master of blending in and avoiding unnecessary attention. Yeah, that's what Charlie was aiming for.

Still, Tara seemed pleased with his work. She had mentioned that she hadn't expected him to finish so quickly, and now there wasn't much left for him to do. She promised to assign him more tasks in a few days, but for now, Charlie was free to "touch the fish," as they said in the division—meaning, relax and do nothing. She also mentioned that if his studies ever conflicted with his madhouse tasks, she'd be happy to help him out.

Initially, Charlie had assumed this was just polite talk. But as he thought about it, the idea of the madhouse helping with his schoolwork started to intrigue him.

Last semester had been a disaster. Charlie had spent most of his time gaming, cutting videos, and procrastinating. When finals rolled around, he found himself scrambling. He'd spent countless nights in the library, cramming for exams and trying to memorize entire textbooks in a matter of days. His study group had practically abandoned him, and he'd spent the last month dodging his professors, who were on the verge of failing him. Somehow, he'd managed to scrape by, but the experience had left him mentally drained.

This semester wasn't looking much better. Now that gaming had become his primary focus, school had fallen even further down his list of priorities. Attending class had become something he did when his stamina in the game was low, and he needed something to pass the time while waiting for it to recover. There was no way he could pull off another miracle come exam time.

At first, Charlie had figured he'd rely on Friday to help him get through his classes. But now that Tara had offered to assist, maybe the madhouse could help him juggle his workload. If he could leverage their resources to keep his school tasks under control, he could fully commit to leveling up in the game without having to worry about exams or papers.

In fact, if Tara could pull some strings for him, he might even be able to breeze through his classes entirely, passing exams with flying colors while focusing all his energy on gaming.

With last night's level-up, Charlie had noticed a significant boost in his physical strength. Now, when he used mortal-level heroes like Batman, he no longer felt the fatigue he used to. Only when he used the more powerful heroes, like Spider-Man, did he start to feel the effects of prolonged gameplay.

As he finished his breakfast, Friday swiped her hand in the air, summoning a floating screen filled with detailed information.

"Sir, I've noticed you've been using supplements to speed up your recovery," Friday began, her voice gentle but serious. "However, based on my analysis, some natural alternatives would be more effective and come with fewer side effects. I've customized a supplement list for you. Would you like to take a look?"

Charlie raised an eyebrow. "You even designed this?"

"Of course," Friday replied with a soft smile. "Ensuring your health is one of my primary objectives."

Charlie glanced over the list as he continued to eat. He couldn't help but frown slightly.

For some reason, it seemed like a lot of the supplements listed were of the "whip" variety, clearly designed to boost... specific functions.

He couldn't shake the feeling that the list seemed a little too focused on one particular type of enhancement. But then again, as he looked at Friday's innocent, caring face, he pushed the thought aside. There was no way she'd have any ulterior motives.

"What could Friday be implying?" he wondered, shaking his head.

"Well, these supplements don't look cheap," he muttered.

Friday nodded. "No, but given your current income and lifestyle, I don't believe cost is an issue for you."

Charlie laughed. "That's true. I barely leave the house anyway."

"Shall I place an order, sir?" Friday asked sweetly.

"Yeah, go ahead," Charlie replied. "Pick what you think works best, and I'll approve it."

"Very well, sir," Friday said, nodding before turning back to her task.

Charlie finished his breakfast and stood up, stretching. As he did, Friday effortlessly cleared the table and asked, "According to your schedule, you have a class this afternoon. Will you be attending?"

"Class? Absolutely not," Charlie replied with a grin.

The last thing on his mind right now was school. He had far more exciting things to focus on—like the new game functions he had unlocked the night before. There were points to generate, skills to be drawn, and new territories to explore. The idea of sitting in a classroom while his game world was waiting to be conquered seemed absurd.

Chapter Text

Charlie had been buzzing with excitement about the new feature he'd unlocked last night, so attending class was completely out of the question. His mind was entirely consumed by thoughts of the game, strategizing and planning his next moves.

He grabbed his phone and sent a quick message to his good friend Walter, asking him to cover for him in class and sign him in. Walter had always been the reliable type, the kind of friend who could take care of roll calls and small favors without making a fuss. With that settled, Charlie turned back to the only thing on his mind—the game.

Sitting at his gaming station, Charlie fired up the system, anticipation bubbling inside him as the interface loaded up. He picked up right where he left off the previous night, eager to test the new functions and push further in his hero journey.

Since unlocking the B-level card pool, Charlie had started to become suspicious of the whole system. It was as though the game was rigged, full of hidden "insider information" that only the developers knew, leading to odd results with every draw. Every time he pulled from the pool, there was a strange sense that the game was intentionally holding back the good stuff.

Sure enough, his first few pulls today were more of the same—a bunch of weird, seemingly useless gear. Wrist guards, goggles, and some other random equipment flooded his inventory. Most of it was nothing to write home about. And to top it off, he even got a few superhero duplicates—characters he already had, which was beyond frustrating.

Charlie sighed, running his fingers through his hair. What's the point of this? he thought. I mean, really—who needs ten pairs of wrist guards?

Still, he knew that this was just part of the grind. Even if he had to wade through a sea of useless junk, the chance of hitting something extraordinary was always there, and the excitement of it kept him coming back. Sure, the B-level card pool wasn't going to give him the "thank you for participating" messages he'd feared from the C-level pool, but he also wasn't quite sure what he was getting out of it yet.

Then came a shift—a pull that finally made him sit up straight.

The system chimed, the screen lit up with bright, sparkling effects, and a new hero materialized before him. His heart skipped a beat when he realized who it was: Bucky Barnes, the Winter Soldier.

Bucky wasn't just another hero—he was Captain America's best friend, and like Cap, he had been enhanced by the super-soldier serum. But Bucky's story was darker. He had been brainwashed by Hydra for decades, turning him into a ruthless assassin. It wasn't until modern times that he finally broke free and returned to the hero fold.

In terms of gameplay, the Winter Soldier was an absolute beast. Not only did he have all the enhanced strength, speed, and reflexes of a super-soldier, but his mechanical prosthetic arm added an entirely new layer to his abilities. He was skilled with a wide range of weapons, could go toe-to-toe with almost any combatant, and was practically unstoppable in hand-to-hand combat.

Charlie grinned, taking a moment to appreciate how far his hero roster had come. The Winter Soldier was a serious upgrade.

Still, he couldn't help but compare Bucky to Captain America, who he had previously pulled from the C-level card pool. Despite their similar origins, it was strange to Charlie that Bucky had ended up in the B-level pool while Steve Rogers was in the C-level. Theoretically, they should be on par with one another. But maybe this version of Bucky represented a more battle-hardened, post-Avengers incarnation, whereas the Captain America he had pulled was from an earlier, less experienced era. That could explain the discrepancy in their ranks.

His mind wandered to the MCU, where Bucky's arm had been upgraded in Wakanda to a vibranium model. A powerful enhancement, sure, but it seemed like that arm was always getting detached or stolen, leaving Bucky in a constant state of having to replace it. Charlie couldn't help but laugh, remembering how Bucky's arm always seemed to be an ongoing joke in the fandom.

With the Winter Soldier now firmly added to his team, Charlie continued his pulls, though the next few were underwhelming. More equipment he didn't really need or understand, some random power-ups that seemed situational at best, and a few forgettable items. Just when his hope was starting to fade, the system flashed once again with another significant prize.

This time, it was a weapon—a silver longsword, to be exact. And not just any longsword, but one that belonged to Blade, the vampire hunter.

Charlie had to take a moment to appreciate this one. Blade's weaponry was specifically designed to take down vampires, and his sword was no exception. For an average person, the silver sword might have been nothing more than a well-crafted blade, but for anyone facing vampires, this was a game-changer. Even the slightest scratch from this sword would be deadly to the undead. It was a Ripple Sprint for vampires—a one-hit kill.

The only problem? There weren't any vampires on Earth's Pole Star.

"Great," Charlie muttered to himself, "I've got a dragon-slaying sword in a world with no dragons."

Still, the sword was cool, and if there ever were vampires (which, in this game, anything was possible), he'd be more than ready.

He moved on to the next draw, and this time, something truly remarkable happened. The system lit up with vibrant special effects, and Charlie's eyes widened as he watched what unfolded on his screen.

Batman.

Not just any Batman, but an upgraded version from the B-level pool.

Charlie could hardly contain his excitement. Batman had been one of his first heroes in the game, but this version came with even more options, more upgrades, and more features than before. Logging into the game, Charlie entered the Batcave to explore the new content.

The Batcave was larger than before, filled with new vehicles, gadgets, and suits. There were Batmobiles of every version, tanks from various timelines, and an array of Bat-suits, each tailored for specific situations. Cold-resistant armor, fireproof armor, poison-resistant suits—all designed for specific enemies like Mr. Freeze, Poison Ivy, and Clayface. Each suit had its own purpose, and while none of them were as powerful as the Hellbat armor, they were all incredibly useful in their own right.

Charlie could feel the excitement bubbling inside him as he explored the arsenal. This is how it should be, he thought. The sheer variety of tools at his disposal made him feel invincible, ready for any threat the game could throw at him.

But the game wasn't done with him yet.

Another pull, and this time, something truly jaw-dropping appeared on the screen.

The Iron Man Mark 5 portable armor.

Charlie's heart raced as he watched the special effects unfold, his screen bursting with light. The Mark 5 armor, from Iron Man 2, was one of the most iconic suits in Tony Stark's arsenal. Unlike the later armors that could fly to him or assemble at the touch of a button, the Mark 5 was housed in a suitcase, designed for portability and emergencies.

The armor wasn't as powerful as Stark's other models, but its compact size made it perfect for situations where he didn't have access to his regular suits. It had limited weapons—only a repulsor cannon in each palm—and the flight capabilities were minimal, designed more for quick escapes than prolonged aerial combat. The suit wasn't built to withstand heavy firepower, but for a portable set of armor, it was still beyond anything modern human technology could replicate.

Charlie wasted no time testing it out in-game. He watched in awe as the suitcase unfolded, assembling piece by piece onto his character's body. The metal segments locked into place, forming the sleek, silver armor he remembered so well from the movies. It took over ten seconds to fully assemble, and during that time, his character was vulnerable—completely defenseless until the armor was ready.

Even so, watching the process was exhilarating. The transformation, the way the metal clicked and locked into place, was the stuff of childhood dreams. This was the pinnacle of man's romance with technology—a mecha in real life.

Friday, ever attentive, suggested that she could block all nearby signals and let him test the armor outside in real life. She offered to create a blind spot where he could fly around for a while without being detected.

Charlie was tempted. The idea of flying around in an Iron Man suit was almost too good to pass up. But in the end, his cautious nature won out.

"No thanks," Charlie said, shaking his head. "I'll stick to using the heroes remotely."

[TL Note - That's it... The author is officially gay... It's oficiall... WTF!!!]

As much as he wanted to experience it firsthand, he wasn't willing to take the risk. His strategy was simple: stay safe, play smart, and let his remote-controlled heroes handle the dangerous work. As tempting as it was to don the armor and take it for a spin, the potential risks outweighed the reward.

He reluctantly folded the suit back into the suitcase and stored it away for future emergencies.

Just when he thought his luck had run dry, the system flashed once more with another pull.

A petite figure in a black-and-white bodysuit appeared on the screen. She wore a white mask with large, expressive eyes and a hood that hung loosely behind her head.

Spider-Gwen.

Charlie blinked, momentarily stunned. Gwen Stacy, Spider-Man's love interest in the main universe, but a hero in her own right in an alternate reality, had now joined his team. In this version of events, Gwen had been the one bitten by the radioactive spider, gaining powers almost identical to Peter Parker's and becoming Spider-Woman.

Though Gwen's abilities mirrored Spider-Man's, having another web-slinger on the team wasn't a bad thing. In fact, it added more depth to his roster. Plus, Charlie couldn't help but admire her sleek, stylish bodysuit. It was a perfect balance of form and function, and her agility and strength were a welcome addition.

But then something dawned on him.

This was the second Spider-person he had drawn from the B-level pool.

Two Spider-heroes are fine, Charlie thought. But what happens if I get more?

Spider-Man was one of Marvel's most beloved characters, and over the years, there had been countless alternate versions and clones of the web-slinger. Some came from parallel universes, others from different timelines. The possibilities were endless.

What if I keep pulling more versions of Spider-Man?

A sinking feeling crept into Charlie's chest.

Did I just open the floodgates to a spider infestation?

[TL Note - Sighhhhhhhhh... WTF!!! Just wear the suit... AHHHHHHHHH!!! that it... no more editing today; I'm done]

Chapter Text

Grace City

A city of contradictions, where dreams either flourish or rot. For some, it's a city of golden opportunity, a place where fortunes are made with a swift hand and a sharp mind. For others, it's a relentless beast, devouring all hope and leaving only fear and despair in its wake. Much like Riverton City, it had its dark underbelly, but Grace City's darkness was deeper, more insidious.

To those living within its boundaries, the city was a mystery—layered with secrets and cloaked in unpredictability. Its streets whispered stories of wealth and tragedy, but only the boldest dared to listen. If you asked a thousand residents to describe their Grace City, you would receive a thousand different answers. Some might speak of glittering high-rises, of sprawling neon signs and bustling night markets. Others might speak of the damp, shadowed alleyways where lives ended as quickly as they began.

Grace City was a quagmire.

A slow, suffocating trap that swallowed its inhabitants. Those who came seeking fortune found themselves slowly sinking, the city's embrace tightening around them with each passing day. Like a frog in boiling water, by the time they realized the danger, it was too late. They were already too deep, unable to escape the curse Grace City had laid upon them.

Grace City was an ogre.

A city that devoured dreams and ambitions, and spit out only the broken remains of once-hopeful lives. Those who toiled away in this city did so not to achieve success, but merely to avoid disaster. Grace City did not discriminate. It crushed the rich and the poor alike, while wearing the guise of a gentleman—handsome, polished, and deceitful.

Yet for some, Grace City was a land of gold and opportunity.

And for people like Frank Whiteman, one of the top operatives in the infamous assassin syndicate Black Sun, it was paradise.

As the helicopter's blades finally began to slow, the gusting wind kicked up by its descent scattered dust and leaves across the empty tarmac. The low hum of the engines gradually faded into silence as the landing gears touched the concrete. The helicopter's door opened with a mechanical hiss, and Frank stepped out. His black leather coat flapped against the wind, billowing behind him like a dark cloak as he descended the steps, his polished shoes clicking with each step.

The city skyline loomed behind him, an expanse of glittering lights and towering structures that stretched towards the night sky, but Frank's attention was focused on something far more immediate. Pulling a sleek black phone from the inside pocket of his coat, he pressed a button to answer an incoming call.

The voice on the other end was curt, impatient.

"It's me, Bee," Frank replied in his usual smooth, detached tone. "Yes, I've landed in Grace City. Just touched down... Everything is proceeding as planned. As per the agreement, I'll collect the remaining 40 million once the job is done."

The response on the other end was quick, and the call ended just as fast. Frank glanced down at his screen to see the confirmation notification for the initial deposit of 20 million. The corner of his mouth curled into a faint, satisfied smile.

Grace City was a city of opportunity, after all—especially for people in his line of work.

For those who made their fortune through blood, Grace City was a haven. Every year, countless jobs rolled in, each more lucrative than the last. The city's wealthy elite were always willing to pay top dollar for someone like Frank, someone who knew how to cleanly and efficiently handle "problems."

Here, murder wasn't shocking. It was routine. And the wealthy were willing to pay handsomely to ensure that routine kept running smoothly.

As Frank put the phone away, the roar of the helicopter's engines was replaced by the sound of heavy footsteps behind him. From the cabin emerged a hulking figure, his presence impossible to ignore.

Haig, Frank's partner and younger brother, stepped out onto the tarmac. The man was massive, with a frame that seemed more at home in a gladiatorial ring than in the world of assassination. His muscles bulged beneath his tailored suit, straining against the fabric, and his expression was one of cold calculation.

"Don't worry, Haig," Frank said, glancing over his shoulder as he walked toward the car that waited for them. "This job will be quick. In and out. Grace City is great for this kind of work—best payout for the least amount of effort."

Haig grunted in response, but said nothing. His eyes scanned their surroundings, ever watchful. He was Frank's muscle, the brute force behind the operation. Where Frank specialized in finesse, Haig was the hammer. Their schedule was tight—land at 5:30, finish the job by 8:00, and leave by 8:30. The efficiency with which they moved was legendary in Black Sun, and Frank took pride in that reputation.

As the brothers approached the car, a sudden flash of black streaked through the air, slicing the atmosphere with a deadly precision. Frank's sharp reflexes kicked in immediately—his body twisted to the side in a near-blur, narrowly avoiding the object that flew past his face.

The sound of the projectile embedding itself into the side of the helicopter echoed across the tarmac.

A bat-shaped dart.

Frank's eyes narrowed, locking onto the source of the attack. There, standing in the dim light of the landing zone, was a figure—clad entirely in black. Her lithe form stood out against the backdrop of the night, a stark silhouette of justice in a city drowning in corruption.

The bat symbol on her chest glinted under the sparse lights of the tarmac. A cape fluttered behind her, and the pointed ears of her cowl completed the unmistakable image.

It was a Batgirl.

Frank's mind immediately connected the dots. He had heard the stories—whispers of a rising vigilante movement. It had started in Riverton City, where a man dressed as a bat had ignited a wave of costumed crime-fighters. Since then, similar vigilantes had been popping up all over, each donning masks and capes, thinking they could bring justice to cities that had long since abandoned it.

But Frank didn't see a hero in front of him.

No, this was just another fool. A pretender. Another idealist playing dress-up, thinking she could stand against the real monsters of the world.

Frank let out a low chuckle, folding his arms across his chest. "A little girl playing bat. Cute."

To Frank, this was nothing but a nuisance. He'd seen enough of these so-called "heroes" to know that most were nothing but amateurs. Sure, some of them had skills, but none were truly a match for the world's top assassins. They were street-level fighters at best, dealing with low-level thugs and petty criminals. Black Sun operated on a whole different level.

With a dismissive wave, Frank gestured toward his brother. "She's yours, Haig."

Haig cracked his neck and stretched his fingers. His movements were slow, deliberate, each joint popping with a dull crack. He took a step forward, towering over the Batgirl.

"You should run," Haig growled, his voice cold and menacing. "I don't like hitting little girls."

The Batgirl didn't flinch. Instead, she extended her hand and curled her fingers, beckoning Haig to come closer.

Frank raised an eyebrow, intrigued by the gesture. This was either arrogance or foolishness, and he wasn't sure which one yet. Either way, Haig was about to put an end to this little game.

With a grunt, Haig lunged forward, his massive fist swinging through the air like a wrecking ball. Despite his size, his movements were deceptively fast and well-practiced. He wasn't just a brute; he was a trained fighter, with years of experience under his belt.

But as his fist neared its target, something unexpected happened.

The Batgirl didn't dodge. She didn't flinch. Instead, she moved with a fluidity that defied her small frame. Her body twisted, sidestepping Haig's punch with barely any effort. In the same motion, her fist shot out like a viper, landing squarely on Haig's jaw with a resounding crack.

Haig staggered back, blood and teeth spraying from his mouth. His massive frame wobbled, and for the first time, his expression faltered.

Frank's eyes widened in shock.

No. What just happened?

Batgirl stood there, unfazed, her arm still extended in the same casual punching stance. Her expression was calm, almost bored, as if Haig's attack had been nothing more than a minor inconvenience.

Frank's mind raced. This wasn't just some girl playing dress-up. The precision of her movements, the strength behind that punch—this was no amateur.

"Haig, get up," Frank barked, his voice suddenly laced with a tension he hadn't felt in years. "Get the hell up!"

But Haig didn't move. He lay there on the ground, blood pooling around his head as his chest rose and fell in ragged gasps.

For the first time in his life, Frank felt a flicker of fear.

Chapter Text

Haig, after taking the punch, lay there; he felt a loud ringing in his ears. His vision blurred, and as he spat blood onto the cold tarmac, a swirl of disbelief and confusion filled his mind. How could this happen? How could he, a trained killer, get hit like that?

Meanwhile, Frank stood frozen, utterly dumbfounded by the sight before him.

He had watched the entire exchange, his trained eyes following every move. Haig's footwork, his timing—it was all perfect. Even the punch was textbook, aimed to disarm and overpower. By all logic, it should have been enough to knock out any opponent, let alone a girl who looked more like she was playing dress-up than an actual fighter. And yet, she had barely moved, hadn't even bothered with a proper stance. Instead, she had just stood there, arms relaxed, head tilted slightly, like she was... bored.

Frank's mind couldn't process what his eyes had just seen. Haig had thrown a punch, and the girl had answered with a simple, straight jab—no finesse, no preparation, no technique. It was the kind of punch you might see in a bar fight, crude and unrefined. But the results spoke for themselves.

Haig was hit.

And not just hit—he had been devastated.

Haig, still reeling from the blow, forced himself to stand. His eyes locked onto the girl, burning with rage and disbelief. He refused to believe that such a simple move had bested him. Gritting his teeth, he adjusted his stance, preparing to strike again, this time determined to overpower her. His muscles tensed, and he swung his arm forward in a feint, a move designed to trick her into dodging. It was a setup—a fake punch meant to force her into a mistake.

But the girl didn't flinch. She didn't even blink. Instead, she took a single step forward, closing the distance between them in a heartbeat. Her body moved with the casual ease of someone who wasn't in a fight but simply walking down a street.

Then, she punched again. A simple, direct punch—straight to Haig's throat.

It was so fast, so precise, that Haig's reflexes couldn't catch up. The blow landed perfectly in the soft spot of his neck, cutting off his air and sending shockwaves through his entire body. His legs gave out beneath him, his strength draining like water down a drain. His hand, which had been mid-swing, stopped halfway, powerless.

Coughing, eyes wide with shock, Haig staggered back. His mind screamed at him to fight, to retaliate, but his body refused to respond. Before he could recover, the girl spun with a swift motion, her leg arcing through the air like a whip. Her foot connected with the side of Haig's head in a blur, and the sheer force of the kick sent him sprawling onto the ground. He collapsed in a heap, motionless.

Frank's heart pounded in his chest as he watched Haig fall. The towering giant, who had once broken bones and crushed skulls with his bare hands, was now lying unconscious on the ground. All of it had happened in less than five seconds.

This can't be real, Frank thought, his breath shallow.

The girl—no, the bat—turned her attention to him. She stepped forward with the same unhurried, confident stride, her eyes locked onto Frank. She was daring him, beckoning him to make a move.

Her small hand emerged from the folds of her cape, and with a subtle flick of her fingers, she made a beckoning gesture. The silent challenge was clear: Your turn.

Frank's hands trembled as he took a slow step forward. "Haig? Get up!" he barked, his voice trembling more than he intended. But there was no response from the man on the ground. Haig was down for the count.

"Damn it…" Frank muttered under his breath, his mind racing. He had faced all kinds of threats in his line of work—mercenaries, trained soldiers, and even the occasional infected freaks. But this… this was something else.

He took a breath, feigning nonchalance. "You think I'll go down as easily as that big oaf?" he sneered, trying to keep his voice steady. He took two steps toward her, slowly drawing a throwing knife from his sleeve. "Think again…"

Mid-sentence, Frank's arm snapped forward, and with a flick of his wrist, he let the blade fly. It was a classic move—mid-sentence, mid-step—designed to catch any opponent off guard. He was fast, faster than most could track, and this blade was aimed directly for her throat.

But Batgirl was faster.

Without hesitation, her hand shot up and caught the knife out of the air. The movement was so fluid, so effortless, that it seemed almost rehearsed. And before Frank could even blink, she flung the knife back at him. It flew in a perfect arc, hurtling straight toward his face.

Frank ducked just in time, the knife whizzing past his head, so close he could feel the rush of air as it passed. He fell back, landing hard on his side as the knife embedded itself in the wall behind him with a loud thunk.

Breathing heavily, Frank scrambled to his feet, panic now gripping him tightly. This wasn't a fight. This wasn't even a contest. She wasn't just playing with him—she was dismantling him.

He pulled another knife from his belt and made a desperate lunge toward her. His dagger flashed in the dim light as he stabbed toward her chest, hoping to drive the blade deep. But her movements were too quick. She sidestepped, her arm snaking around his, locking it in place with a move so swift it was almost invisible.

A loud crack echoed through the air as his arm dislocated from his shoulder. Pain surged through Frank's body, and the dagger clattered uselessly to the ground.

Frank's breath hitched in his throat as he stumbled back, clutching his limp arm. His vision swam, and the pain made him nauseous. But it wasn't just the physical pain that overwhelmed him—it was the sheer hopelessness of it all. He had been outclassed in every possible way.

It wasn't just that she was fast. It wasn't just that she was strong. She had anticipated his every move, like she had seen this fight unfold a thousand times before. His tricks, his techniques—they were nothing to her. It was as if she knew exactly where he would strike before he even moved.

His moves, once his pride and joy, felt clumsy and amateurish in comparison.

She knew. She knew exactly how to take him apart.

Frank staggered away, throwing two more knives in desperation. But they missed, clattering harmlessly to the ground as Batgirl closed the distance between them once again.

With his arm dangling uselessly at his side, Frank turned and made a run for the helicopter. If he could just get to the chopper, maybe he could escape. Maybe he could still get out of this alive.

But before he could even take two steps, a bat-shaped dart sailed past him, embedding itself into the helicopter's hull.

For a moment, Frank thought she had missed. He stopped, panting, and let out a bitter laugh. "You missed!" he shouted, his voice shrill with desperation.

But then the dart blinked red twice.

The explosion was deafening. The helicopter erupted into a fiery inferno, its metal frame twisting and buckling under the force of the blast. The shockwave hit Frank like a freight train, sending him sprawling to the ground. His vision swam as the heat of the explosion seared his skin.

Dazed and battered, Frank groaned and lifted his head. The helicopter was now a smoldering wreck, burning fiercely in the middle of the tarmac.

He turned his head and saw Batgirl, still approaching, her expression unchanged, her steps unhurried.

Fear gripped Frank's heart as he crawled backward, his voice barely a whisper. "What... what the hell are you?"

Chapter Text

The decision to choose Grace City as the new expansion for Charlie's superhero operations wasn't a simple shot in the dark. It was the culmination of a thorough analysis led by Friday, who compiled crime rates, case studies, and behavioral patterns of criminals in various cities. Charlie wasn't just looking for any city—he needed a city teeming with the kind of challenges that would allow his team of heroes to thrive.

Superheroes, like predators, need prey. Without crime, there would be no criminals to capture, no evil to fight, and no justice to serve. In a way, cities like Gotham and their notorious criminal underworld gave rise to the likes of Batman. Without Gotham's corrupt elite, street gangs, and Arkham's revolving door for maniacs, Batman might never have grown into the powerhouse hero he became. The constant cycle of crime and chaos was fertile ground for a hero to gather experience, develop skills, and ascend to greatness.

When choosing a new map to expand operations beyond Riverton, it had to be a place where trouble brewed just beneath the surface—a city where criminals never slept. Grace City, while not bordering Riverton, was close enough to keep under watch, but it stood out for another reason. It wasn't the city with the highest crime rate, but it was infamous for a specific kind of underworld economy.

In Grace City, life was cheap—but only for the right price.

Grace City was an economic powerhouse, and with that wealth came a dark side: contract killings. Assassination wasn't just a crime here; it was a full-fledged industry. Major global assassin organizations made Grace City their hunting ground, monopolizing contracts from the city's wealthiest elites. The stakes were high, and only top-tier assassins could compete in this dangerous market. For killers, Grace City was their promised land.

So, when Charlie and Friday finalized their choice, they knew Grace City was the perfect playground for their superhero team. Not even a night had passed before they intercepted an encrypted call between two high-level assassins.

Charlie couldn't help but feel excited. This was exactly what he was hoping for. Riverton had become quiet after months of systematic takedowns, with fewer high-value targets left. Sure, there were still small-time criminals and the occasional meta-human, but nothing as thrilling as the world-class killers that Grace City promised.

When the assassins finally arrived, stepping off their helicopter with all the flair of professional hitmen, Charlie was immediately intrigued. Dressed in sleek, practical attire with an air of confidence, the duo looked every bit the part of seasoned professionals. It reminded Charlie of every Hollywood portrayal of elite killers—cool, composed, and deadly. For a moment, he couldn't help but wonder if he had finally met a real challenge.

But then the fight began.

Within seconds, Batgirl dismantled the two men like they were nothing more than overconfident amateurs. It wasn't even a fight—it was an execution. The assassins, so impressive in appearance, crumbled under the relentless precision of Cassandra's attacks. Charlie, who had been expecting a grueling battle, watched as the scene played out with the ease of a cutscene in a video game.

Cassandra's moves were swift, calculated, and devastating. With a few well-placed strikes, she had incapacitated the first assassin. The second, thinking he could fare better, met the same fate within moments. Their cool facade vanished, replaced by fear and confusion as they realized just how outclassed they were.

To Cassandra, they weren't even a challenge—just another pair of thugs to be dealt with quickly and efficiently.

For Charlie, the excitement quickly faded into disappointment. These "world-class" assassins were nothing more than inflated egos. Whatever mystique they carried into the fight evaporated the moment Cassandra laid them out on the tarmac.

After disposing of the two, Charlie switched tactics. He transitioned from controlling Batgirl to Daredevil, ready to explore more of Grace City and see what other challenges lay in wait. Daredevil was the perfect scout, his enhanced senses making him a walking radar for trouble. And in a city like Grace, there was bound to be more lurking in the shadows.

True to form, Daredevil didn't take long to pick up on multiple potential targets. A few rounds of wandering through the city's back alleys, rooftops, and hidden corners, and his radar lit up with various exclamation points, each one marking a new point of interest. Charlie was more than pleased—this new city was living up to its reputation as a crime-ridden haven.

Charlie guided Daredevil toward one of the markers. Perched on a high vantage point, Daredevil enhanced his hearing, focusing on the sounds within the building below. As the conversation played out, Charlie listened in through his headset.

"You can't seriously expect me to hide here forever, Director," said a voice, slightly muffled by the walls but clear enough for Daredevil's heightened senses.

The voice belonged to a man in his late 50s, slightly overweight, pacing nervously in a lavishly decorated living room. The room reeked of wealth—crystal chandeliers, expensive furniture, and priceless antiques filled the space. The man's nervous energy contrasted sharply with the luxury that surrounded him.

"Mr. Gold, this is for your own protection," replied another voice—this one belonging to Director Linton of the FBI. His tone was urgent, almost impatient, as though frustrated by the lack of cooperation from his charge.

"From the intelligence we've gathered, one of the world's most dangerous killers has been contracted to target you. At this moment, he could already be en route to Grace City. For your safety, we need you to remain here under protection."

Gold, clearly unsettled, frowned. "So you're telling me the FBI can't guarantee my safety?"

Linton's response was measured but firm. "We're doing everything we can, but this assassin is in a league of his own. He's been active across the globe for years, with no failed missions to his name. The last time he was here in Grace City, we had every possible security measure in place, but he still eliminated his target without leaving a trace."

At that, Gold fell silent, clearly shaken by the severity of the situation. Meanwhile, Charlie's interest was piqued. He had been hoping for a challenging target, and the mention of one of the "world's most dangerous killers" was exactly what he wanted to hear.

As Director Linton continued explaining the threat, Charlie could almost feel the adrenaline building. This was the kind of boss fight he had been waiting for—the ultimate test of his team's abilities.

"The assassin is known as 'Venom,'" Linton said. "He's part of the Black Sun—a top-tier global assassin organization. His record is flawless, and his methods are as deadly as they are discreet."

Charlie's fingers twitched with excitement. Venom? Black Sun? It all sounded so promising.

But as he listened, something about the names seemed familiar. Too familiar.

"Sir, I believe we've encountered these individuals before," said Friday, bringing up the photos of the two assassins Batgirl had dispatched earlier.

Charlie stared at the screen in disbelief.

"Wait… those guys?"

The realization hit him like a punchline to a bad joke. These so-called "world's most dangerous assassins" were the same two goons Batgirl had effortlessly taken out mere hours earlier.

All the buildup, the talk of Venom's reputation, the danger, the flawless record—it was all for nothing. The killers had already been neutralized before they even posed a real threat.

Charlie sighed. This was like clicking on an exciting, action-packed livestream, only to discover it was a boring rerun.

Meanwhile, Director Linton continued his briefing, unaware that the threat had already been eliminated. "Don't worry, Mr. Gold. I've dealt with Venom before. This time, as soon as he lands, we'll have him in custody before he even knows what hit him."

Just then, Linton's phone rang. He stepped aside to take the call.

"What's that? Venom… has already been captured?"

Charlie, now thoroughly bored, had Daredevil leave the area silently. There was no point in sticking around.

Despite the anticlimactic encounter, Charlie was still satisfied with his first night in Grace City. Daredevil had picked up several other potential threats, and while the assassins had turned out to be duds, the city itself promised plenty of opportunities for future action.

Compared to Riverton, where crime had all but dried up, Grace City was a goldmine of untapped potential. The city was crawling with fresh targets, and Charlie could already feel his fingers itching to start another round of patrols.

But for tonight, the main mission was scouting and reconnaissance. After leaving Daredevil and Batgirl to monitor Grace City, Charlie switched back to Batman and flew the Batplane back to Riverton.

"Friday, check where Ivan is—whether he's at home or at headquarters. We might drop by for a visit."

Ivan had become their trusted ally within the agency, and Charlie saw him as the perfect contact to keep tabs on the Service Division's movements.

Friday quickly ran a scan and returned with the information.

"Agent Ivan is at the cemetery," she reported.

Charlie raised an eyebrow. "The cemetery?"

"Yes, sir. He's at the 39th Riverton Cemetery," Friday clarified, displaying the map on the screen.

Charlie blinked in surprise. "Huh… that's new."

Chapter Text

Yesterday, after the battle, outside the villain's stronghold.

"Shapeshifter?" Ivan lit another cigarette, the orange glow reflecting in his narrowed eyes.

"You're telling me she can mimic anyone perfectly?" he asked, voice steady but filled with curiosity.

"That's right," Melanie replied, her face pale, her hands trembling slightly from the ordeal. "She can transform into anyone she's got a DNA sample from—appearance, height, body shape, all of it. But I don't think she can copy memories, which is why she keeps us alive. She needs us to fill in the gaps, to ask questions, so she can perfect her impersonations."

Ivan's gaze swept over the group of hostages. Most of them were young women, fragile and beautiful despite the hardships they'd endured. Long months of captivity had worn them down, leaving them gaunt, hollow-eyed, but even in their disheveled state, their attractiveness was evident.

If their captor had been a man, the scenario would have pointed to an obvious, grim motive. But the suspect was female. It made Melanie's explanation seem more plausible—that this was less about perverse desires and more about something strategic, a well-thought-out plan.

"So, you're saying she's a shapeshifter," Ivan said slowly, letting the words sink in. "And all of you—every single one of you here—are part of her toolkit. She can become any of you and walk freely, using your identities for whatever she needs."

"Yes," Melanie confirmed, her eyes dark with worry. "Her ability is dangerous. We need to track down everything that's happened with all the hostages during our time here. She could've used any one of us to do anything… including…"

"Including stealing the identity of a senior agent and infiltrating the Ninth Special Service Division," Ivan finished the thought for her.

A cold shiver ran down Melanie's spine.

"You think she's already done it?" she whispered, her voice trembling with fear. Her hands moved to her temples, massaging the tension building there. "God…"

She stared at the ground, silent for a moment, gathering her thoughts.

"Is the situation serious?" she asked, looking up at Ivan, her face pale.

"That depends on what you mean by serious," Ivan replied, his tone flat. "Batman was here. He brought in some backup, and they've already neutralized the most dangerous threat on the mothership. But someone stole something during the chaos—something small, seemingly insignificant. But we have no idea what it's for."

"God…" Melanie repeated, her voice shaky, her face contorting with a mix of fear and disbelief. She had prepared herself for bad news, had imagined all sorts of dire consequences if her identity had been misused. But this? This was worse than anything she had imagined.

Melanie leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "She would come back regularly," she said, glancing around nervously as if the shapeshifter could be listening even now. "Sometimes she'd take one of us out, and other times she'd stay to ask questions. Detailed ones. She needed the specifics to be able to impersonate us convincingly."

Her eyes darted around again before she continued. "But she never showed us her real face. Every time we saw her, she was wearing one of our faces. And even then, she never let her guard down. Even when we were at our weakest, she didn't trust us."

Melanie paused, a flicker of something darker crossing her face. "But I wasn't totally helpless."

She reached into her pocket and subtly handed something small and thin to Ivan. He barely looked down as he pocketed it.

"What is this?" he asked, maintaining an air of indifference.

"One of her hairs," Melanie said in a whisper so low it was almost inaudible. "She didn't notice when I pulled it. I've kept it hidden for days. I figured if I ever got the chance, this hair might be the key to proving her existence."

Ivan raised an eyebrow. "And you gave it to me? Why not report this to the investigation team? It's what they're trained for. It's their job."

"Because…" Melanie hesitated, then leaned in closer, her lips barely moving as she mouthed the words I don't trust them.

Ivan's eyes flickered. He understood.

Melanie was convinced that her capture and the subsequent infiltration of the Ninth Division had been orchestrated. It wasn't random—it was part of a larger plan, and she believed there were traitors within the organization.

Insiders, Ivan thought grimly.

"You don't trust the organization anymore, but you trust me," Ivan said softly.

"I know I can trust you," Melanie whispered, her voice firm despite her fear. "Find her, Ivan. Prove she exists. And when you find her… do me a favor. Make her pay."

Ivan said nothing. His face remained impassive, but his mind was already racing.

Later that day, Melanie was taken into custody. She was placed in a high-security cell aboard the mothership, where she would undergo further tests and interrogations. Even if her story about the shapeshifter was true, the process of clearing her name would be long and grueling. The higher-ups weren't easily convinced.

Shortly after returning to headquarters, Ivan was summoned for a meeting with his superiors.

An agent had reported Melanie's claims of a shapeshifter during the post-battle debrief. The higher-ups were skeptical, and they wanted answers from Ivan directly.

They told him that while Melanie's story might seem credible, they couldn't ignore the possibility that she was lying. What if the whole thing about the shapeshifter was just a cover story? What if Melanie herself was the traitor, trying to regain their trust by creating a phantom enemy?

The testimonies of the other hostages would be investigated, but the higher-ups couldn't discount the possibility that Melanie had orchestrated the whole thing. And then there was the hair she had handed over. Any agent worth their salt would have reported that evidence immediately.

But Ivan had never been one to follow rules blindly.

"No," he said, standing calmly before the assembled leaders. "She told me about a shapeshifter. That's it. Nothing more."

Ivan had always been known as a rogue agent, someone who didn't play by the book. But if there was one person in the world he truly cared about, it was Melanie. Not in any romantic sense, but as a colleague, a friend. She had covered for him when he pushed boundaries, and now it was his turn to return the favor.

He hadn't told anyone about the hair. Instead, he'd used his rank to borrow a lab within the Ninth Division, running a DNA analysis without notifying anyone.

The results came back quickly.

The hair belonged to someone named Lisa. A girl who had supposedly died over ten years ago.

Ivan stared at the report, stunned.

He knew that it wasn't unheard of for people who were legally dead to suddenly reappear, especially now with the rise of infected individuals. But Lisa had died over a decade ago—long before anyone had ever heard of infections or people returning from the dead.

Perplexed, Ivan dug into the old case files related to Lisa's death.

What he found was a haunting tragedy.

Lisa had been just a teenager when she died. Her parents were out of town that weekend, so she had gone to stay with her uncle, Dolton. She had brought her best friend, Hanna, along for company.

But that night, everything changed.

Something snapped in Dolton. In a drunken rage, he had attacked the two girls. Hanna had managed to escape, running for her life and screaming for help. But by the time the authorities arrived, Lisa was dead.

The cause of death was blunt force trauma to the head. Dolton had fled the scene, but he was quickly captured and convicted of his niece's murder.

The case had been closed for over a decade. Lisa had been mourned and buried.

But now, it seemed that Lisa wasn't as dead as everyone thought.

Ivan stared at the DNA report again, his mind racing.

The girl named Lisa had been dead for over ten years.

But her DNA didn't lie.

Chapter Text

Ivan never believed in ghosts.

For an agent of the Ninth Special Service Division, that might seem strange. His job required him to handle the most bizarre and unexplainable cases, many of which bordered on the supernatural. Mysterious deaths, occult symbols, and whispers of the paranormal were part of his daily life.

Yet, living in that world of madness, Ivan still refused to acknowledge the existence of ghosts. To him, they were nothing more than superstitions, figments of imagination used to explain what science had yet to unravel. Even after confronting cases involving fraudulent corpses, eerie lights in abandoned houses, and the unsettling presence people claimed to feel in old buildings, Ivan remained resolute. Science had answers, and science would always have answers.

Ivan also never believed in an afterlife. He was convinced that once a person died, what followed was nothing but an endless void—darkness that swallowed everything. Tombstones and funeral rites were, in his opinion, for the benefit of the living, offering them closure. For the dead? They felt nothing. The world moved on.

So when Ivan swung his shovel and dug up the grave of a girl who had been dead for twenty years, he didn't see anything wrong.

Lisa had to be alive, he almost convinced himself of that. Even though her death was recorded two decades ago, and the body in the coffin was supposedly hers, something in his gut told him that she was out there, walking among the living. Maybe the infection they had been tracking started earlier than anyone realized. Or maybe… she was a shape-shifter, one of the many anomalies that slipped through the cracks in his world.

He thought back to her past, to the trauma she endured, and how it had left a heavy shadow over her life. He wondered if her experiences had twisted her mind, allowing some darker force to take hold of her. Had it been the darkness within that shaped her into something else? Something more dangerous?

Ivan believed she was the one who had taken the form of Melanie Chase, the agent from the Ninth Division who had mysteriously infiltrated the mothership and vanished. Lisa, somehow, had become the dead who walk.

As he continued digging, the weather matched the somber mood of the cemetery. A light drizzle fell from the sky, the cold wind cutting through the damp air. It wasn't the usual chill he was accustomed to. There was something different about it—something sharp, almost hostile. The wind moved through the rows of tombstones, bringing with it the whispers of the dead. Or so it felt.

Ivan noticed a faint fragrance in the air, something delicate, like flowers blooming out of place among the weeds.

It was an odd thing to focus on, a floral scent, while standing in the middle of a graveyard. But the aroma was unmistakable, and Ivan thought it might have come from some unknown wildflower growing nearby.

He lifted his shovel for the final strike, and with that, the coffin was fully uncovered.

Just as he pried the lid open, a soft, ethereal voice cut through the air.

"You shouldn't have done that."

The voice was clear, like a bell ringing in a quiet room, but there was something mournful about it, as if it carried the weight of sorrow that had been buried for years.

Ivan's head snapped up toward the sound, his heart pounding in his chest. There, standing among the countless tombstones, was a girl. She wore a pale yellow dress, the kind a young girl might wear on a spring day, and simple round-toed black shoes. Her posture was still, almost too still, but it was her eyes that drew Ivan's attention. They were wide, unblinking, and filled with an overwhelming sadness.

It only took Ivan a few seconds to recognize her—Lisa. She looked exactly like the photograph he had seen, the one taken when she was just fifteen years old.

His heart raced. I was right. She's alive, he thought. She's the shape-shifter.

But something wasn't right. His realization wavered, and his confidence crumbled.

The girl in the photo was from over ten years ago. Lisa would be in her thirties now if she were still alive. How could she still look the same? Frozen in time, as if death hadn't touched her.

Before Ivan could process what was happening, the girl vanished. She had been standing just a few feet away, but now she was gone, as if she had never been there.

His pulse quickened, and he turned his attention back to the coffin. The lid was off, and inside lay the remains of a body.

It was skeletal, decomposed beyond recognition, but by the size of the bones and the faded remnants of clothing, it seemed to be Lisa. She had been lying there for twenty years, undisturbed, her final resting place never disturbed until now. The way her bones were positioned, though, seemed… off. Her arms were splayed awkwardly, and her head was tilted in a way that didn't seem natural.

Ivan's mind raced. Was what I just saw an illusion? Or had he just witnessed something far worse?

Suddenly, a deafening boom shattered the eerie silence of the cemetery. The unmistakable sound of a shotgun echoed across the tombstones. Ivan felt the sting of shrapnel tearing through his back, the force of it ripping into his body.

He stumbled forward, his reflexes kicking in, but his movements were sluggish, and before he could fully turn, another blast hit him square in the chest.

Blood sprayed from the impact, soaking the front of his shirt. He staggered backward, tripping over the edge of the grave he had just dug. With a final misstep, he fell, crashing into the open coffin.

The pain was intense, but it wasn't enough to kill him—not with his enhanced physique. His body had been engineered to withstand trauma that would have killed an ordinary man. He should have been able to brush off the wounds, get up, and retaliate.

But he couldn't. His limbs refused to obey him. Something was wrong.

His mind snapped back to the strange fragrance he had smelled earlier. Was it some kind of hallucinogen? A nerve agent? Whatever it was, it was disrupting his control over his body. His strength, normally formidable, was failing him.

Before he could gather his thoughts, the coffin lid slammed shut with a thunderous bang, sealing him in darkness.

Ivan's breath hitched as he realized he wasn't alone. In the pitch black, he felt a cold, skeletal hand clutching his arm. The skeletal remains beside him seemed to come to life, its bony fingers tightening around him.

He turned his head, but in the darkness, he saw nothing. The only sensation was the gnarled, skinless hand gripping him, and the overwhelming feeling of dread as empty eye sockets bore into him, silently begging.

Help me.

Ivan closed his eyes, feeling the weight of his situation pressing down on him. For a moment, he thought about surrendering. This could be the end. A final resting place, one he had unwittingly dug for himself.

But no.

Not today.

He had work to do.

Summoning the last of his strength, Ivan started punching the wooden coffin lid, each blow sending splinters of wood and dust raining down on him. His fists were bleeding, his knuckles raw, but he didn't stop. He couldn't stop. He had to break free.

The world around him faded, his senses dulling as the darkness pressed in, but he kept punching, driven by pure will.

Suddenly, a hand gripped his, firm and unyielding, pulling him out of the suffocating darkness.

When Ivan opened his eyes, he found himself kneeling beside the grave, coughing violently.

"What happened, Ivan?" a familiar voice asked, deep and gravelly.

Ivan looked up through blurry eyes and saw the dark silhouette of Batman standing next to him. Even in the eerie light of the cemetery, the caped figure looked solid, grounded.

"You wouldn't believe it, Bat," Ivan said weakly, his body still trembling from the ordeal. He tried to stand, but his legs refused to cooperate, so he stayed seated on the cold ground, catching his breath.

He recounted everything to Batman—the strange events, the appearance of Lisa, and what he had found in the grave.

Batman walked to the edge of the pit and glanced at the bones inside the coffin.

"This is Lisa, no doubt," he said, his voice low. "But if she's here, then who was that?"

Ivan froze.

His strength returned just enough for him to stand, and he staggered to Batman's side, looking down into the pit.

His heart skipped a beat.

There was more than one skeleton in the coffin.

Lying next to the remains of the girl was another body—an adult skeleton.

"Friday, I need a DNA scan," Batman said into his communicator.

Moments later, Friday's voice came through. "The girl's body is indeed Lisa, as confirmed by the records from the FBI. The other skeleton… matches Agent Melanie Chase. She's been dead for over a year."

Chapter Text

The Ninth Special Service Division, Aircraft Carrier.

On the vast deck of the aircraft carrier, nestled in the heart of the ocean, the felon prison was arguably the most heavily fortified section of the entire ship. Aside from a few restricted areas where volatile substances were stored, no other place was more secure. Thick titanium walls, security cameras in every corner, multiple checkpoints, and armed guards patrolling day and night ensured that escape was virtually impossible.

However, this high-security prison wasn't often used. The Ninth Special Service Division, a clandestine unit specializing in the containment of supernatural and otherworldly threats, rarely had prisoners who needed long-term incarceration. Most of the infected, those touched by some form of dark magic or cursed by malevolent entities, were dealt with immediately. The procedure was simple: those with minor infections were quarantined and cleansed, their afflictions wiped away in a matter of hours by sophisticated medical technologies. Those too far gone—whose minds and bodies had been consumed by the infection—were typically executed on the spot. The division's motto was clear: "If a problem can be solved with a single bullet, it should never be postponed."

So, this particular prison wing, despite its elaborate defenses, rarely saw action. It wasn't built to accommodate many inmates, and it didn't need to. Its cells were designed for a very particular type of guest, and on this day, it housed someone most dangerous—someone so valuable and yet so unpredictable that even the agents of the Ninth Division felt a chill run down their spines when they spoke his name.

Link.

He was an anomaly, an enigma. Not only had he led his subordinates to invade sacred grounds and desecrate ancient graves, but he had also stolen one of the most mysterious and dangerous pieces of evidence ever cataloged: Exhibit A-086. Its current whereabouts were unknown, and this haunted the minds of every officer in the division. The consequences of leaving such an artifact unaccounted for were unimaginable.

The usual methods of interrogation—physical, psychological, or chemical—were useless against someone like Link. His mind was a fortress, one that could not be breached by standard means. So, the division's top scientists and technologists had opted for a more unconventional approach: memory retrieval.

But even this was fraught with complications. There was still some debate among the division's experts as to whether Link was an infected individual or something far worse—a phantom. If he was infected, attempting to extract memories could trigger a self-defense mechanism, similar to a data wipe on a hard drive, causing his mind to self-destruct and obliterate any hope of retrieving the vital information.

And if he was a phantom, the situation would be even more precarious. Phantoms were entities that existed between worlds, creatures whose very presence defied the laws of nature. No one had ever attempted to extract a phantom's memories, and no one knew what the consequences might be.

So, for the time being, Link was being held in what could only be described as a "luxury suite" within the prison—at least, in terms of its security measures. His limbs were bound in reinforced shackles, each one heavy enough to weigh down a small vehicle. His back bore an additional weight, a ton of pressure designed to keep him from even attempting to rise from the floor.

But it wasn't just physical restraints keeping him in check. The cell was equipped with a state-of-the-art damping device, personally overseen by Dr. Miyazaki. The device was said to be infallible, capable of suppressing any supernatural or metaphysical abilities within its range. Whether Link was infected or a phantom, as long as the power supply was active, the damping device would prevent him from using his abilities.

At least, that's how it was supposed to work.

Unbeknownst to the guards and engineers, the damping device had been deactivated approximately one minute ago.

As the system powered down, Link's restraints began to loosen. The shackles fell from his wrists and ankles with a metallic clatter. The oppressive weight on his back was lifted, and he slowly rose to his feet, stretching his arms and legs, a cold, predatory smile spreading across his face.

Everything was going according to plan.

A few moments later, the thick alloy door of his cell began to creak open. The intricate mechanical locks disengaged, and the heavy door slid aside with an almost ceremonial grace, as if welcoming a king. Link stepped through the opening with the confidence of someone who knew they were untouchable. This place, with all its guards, alarms, and high-tech defenses, might as well have been his personal playground.

As he moved through the narrow, sterile corridors of the prison block, Link considered his situation. The exposure of his stronghold had been unexpected, and the destruction of his forces—The Dead—was a setback, but it wouldn't stop him. His plan was too far advanced for such a minor inconvenience to derail it.

However, there was one element he hadn't accounted for.

Batman.

The masked vigilante had been more of a problem than anticipated. Link had initially dismissed him and his fellow heroes as a nuisance, but after the stronghold was compromised, he realized they posed a genuine threat. Batman, in particular, had a cunning that made him a formidable opponent. Link suspected that the exposure of his base and the subsequent siege by the Ninth Division had been orchestrated by the Dark Knight himself.

But it didn't matter.

Next time, he would be ready.

As Link turned a corner, his thoughts were interrupted by a sudden, sharp pain. He dropped to his knees, clutching his head as a piercing ultrasonic wave tore through his mind. The sensation was brutal, like having his brain scrambled by a thousand needles.

Through blurry vision, he saw a figure emerge from the shadows. Batman.

With a crackling surge of electricity, the caped crusader's fist connected with Link's face, sending a shockwave through his body. The electric current pulsed through his skin, causing his muscles to spasm uncontrollably.

Link stumbled backward, disoriented, as another punch landed squarely on his jaw. The double assault of sound and electricity left him dazed, barely able to comprehend what was happening.

Wasn't this the Ninth Division's aircraft carrier? How had Batman gotten here? And more importantly, why was he standing right outside the cell, waiting to deliver another beating?

Before Link could regain his composure, another electric punch sent him sprawling across the floor, his vision swimming in and out of focus.

Meanwhile, in another part of the ship...

The electronic lock on another cell beeped softly, and the door slid open with a hiss. Melanie Chase, who had been securely locked away, stepped out into the long metal corridor. The dim, flickering lights above cast long shadows as the door sealed shut behind her.