Gotham City, Wayne Manor.
Bruce Wayne carefully flipped the steak in the pan. He was ruthless against criminals and cunning in battle, yet here in the kitchen, he moved with patience and precision.
"Master Bruce, you're in unusually good spirits today," Alfred observed, folding Bruce's freshly laundered clothes and placing them neatly in the wardrobe.
"Yes," Bruce replied, "when I have moments of leisure, I try to immerse myself in things unrelated to crime-fighting—gourmet cooking, piano practice, even cycling through Gotham's streets."
Alfred raised an eyebrow. "A fair way to de-stress, but Master, haven't you been keeping up your physical training? High-intensity exercise demands a strict diet. I hired a nutritionist to design your meal plans, yet I notice you haven't been following them."
Bruce shrugged. "I can't stomach it all." He turned to Alfred. "The legend says Batman isn't picky about food, but I follow two rules: Batman never eats fish, and Batman never eats pie. The nutritionist's plan leans too heavily on both."
Alfred chuckled knowingly. "Ah, very much your style. But you love your junk food—hamburgers, fries, chips, cola. If left alone in the Batcave, you'd indulge all day."
Bruce's expression remained unchanged. "Junk food and coffee are quick ways to recover energy," he said.
Alfred shook his head, teasing him. "Yet I've seen you snacking while monitoring Gotham, a leisurely pastime that doesn't require strength."
Bruce fell silent, unwilling to debate the point further. The thought of Alfred's infamous Stargazy Pie made his stomach turn. A dish of fish staring at the sky with lifeless eyes—more grotesque than any horror he'd read in ancient tomes.
Alfred shifted topics. "And how goes your relationship with the Wonder Woman trio?"
Bruce plated the medium-rare steak. "Not exactly friends. Mutual suspicion still lingers. Even if someone swears loyalty, doubts about the future remain. My father often said the future is a dream away. I don't trust dreams that erase the present, that transform everything overnight."
He glanced toward Gotham. "I can accept small changes, but a completely different city? I would question it."
Alfred nodded slowly. "Too drastic a shift breeds disbelief, yet you trust them enough to pursue the intelligence they seek."
"Perhaps," Bruce murmured.
He finished the steaks and offered, "Alfred, a glass of red wine?"
"No, Master Bruce. I must prepare dinner, not indulge. Perhaps you will enjoy it yourself."
"Very well."
Bruce set about pouring wine, but the phone rang, cutting the moment short. He answered, listened intently, and hung up, expression hardening.
"What happened?" Alfred asked.
"Something in Metropolis," Bruce said. "Wayne Bank was robbed."
Metropolis, a deserted alley.
Clark Kent removed his black stocking mask, picked up the heavy wallet, and prepared to leave.
Luxury cars, nightlife, five-star hotels—he craved wealth without effort. Patience was not his virtue, so he robbed banks to sustain his lifestyle.
The Wayne Bank he just hit was supposedly low-profile, yet he remained cautious. Helicopter chases or police interference could complicate his schemes. Most of all, he feared Adrian. Last time he faced his younger brother wearing the red kryptonite ring, Adrian had overpowered him, forcing him to remove it.
"Whoosh!"
A shadow cut across the alley, a cape stirring the air. Clark's instincts flared.
"Who?"
"I've seen you. Stop hiding or I'll make sure you cannot," a hoarse voice replied.
A figure descended, landing in front of Clark. Batman.
"Clark Kent?" the voice said.
Clark looked at him, unimpressed. The suit seemed comical, the pointy ears exaggerated. "Why dress like that? Not Halloween."
Batman ignored the remark. "I know your brother," he said. "Arrogant, but rational. He understands Gotham better than anyone. You are different."
He struck precisely, a calculated attack born from experience.
"You are buried in darkness, Clark. You do not control it; you serve it."
"Wayne Bank lost 1.1 million dollars in cash. Two glass doors destroyed. Three safes smashed. Three security guards injured. Five customers lightly hurt. Confess."
Clark smirked. "Why confess to you instead of God?"
Without warning, he lunged, fist first. Batman's reflexes activated.
The grappling hook shot out, striking the wall. Batman swung overhead, landing in front of Clark.
Bang!
Clark turned, gripping Batman's fist mid-punch.
"Is that all?" he sneered.
Batman calmly executed his signature "Proper Lady Kick," a jump-kick aimed at Clark. Clark barely flinched, breaking one of Batman's small ears instantly.
Adrian had already left a subtle mark on Clark's world. The confrontation left an impression: no one, not even his brother, could control his chaos easily.
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