Everyone's gaze snapped over.
In the corner, a homeless man reeking of strong acid and decay tightened the tattered blanket around his body. His body shook violently like a sieve, and his murky eyes were filled with the lingering terror of a nightmare.
"I saw it! Behind the 'Old Fish Head' warehouse… He was darker than a shadow!
So huge… He just swooped down from the top of the wall! The ones with the guns… the ones with the knives… they screamed like rats scalded by boiling water!
I heard… I heard bones snap! CRACK! CRACK! And… and steel screaming! He… he tore those things open… like wrapping paper! He… he looked at me…
Those eyes… my God… those weren't human eyes! It's… it's a monster! A monster crawled out of hell!"
The homeless man's voice abruptly cut off, as if choked by the horror of his own description, leaving only heavy, terrified gasps.
His words were like ice water thrown into a boiling oil pot, instantly sparking gasps of shock and even more frantic flash photography.
"Officer, is what he said true?"
"Officer, how do you comment on the fact that his description is completely inconsistent with yours!"
"Ha!" Jay sneered. "The eyewitness is right there. Why are you asking me what you think of his words? Go ask him!"
The reporters looked left and right. Some turned to question the homeless man. Most, however, seemed to conclude that the police station was slightly more credible than the vagrant.
But when they turned back, Jay had already tossed the microphone back to Loeb.
"The law has clear boundaries! No individual, regardless of their motives, has the right to stand above the law and arbitrarily use violence! The Gotham Police Department is capable of maintaining…"
Just as the Chief was righteously making his statement, a figure violently moved right near the inner cordon line at the front of the crowd.
It was a teenager, skinny as a reed that could break in the wind. He wore an ill-fitting, oversized T-shirt, and in his pale face, his eyes burned with an unsettling fire.
The boy had been silently pressed into the crowd, his expression gradually twisting.
At that moment, the fire suddenly ignited.
He let out a hoarse cry, gripping the collar of his faded T-shirt with both hands, and savagely ripped it apart with all his strength!
Tear—!
The sound of the fabric ripping was exceptionally grating, instantly silencing all the surrounding clamor.
The boy's chest was exposed to the cold air and countless looks of shock and dismay. Right in the center of that bony, slightly heaving chest was a brand.
The brand was so fresh; the surrounding skin was still red and swollen, and one could even see tiny blisters and weeping tissue fluid.
Its lines were simple and crude, yet carried a heart-stopping tension: two sharp ears pointing up, and a pair of vast, ready-to-fly wings spreading out to the sides.
The uneven edges of the deep-red mark melted into the boy's pale skin, like a still-warm, recently solidified blood scab totem.
A Bat!
Time seemed to freeze at that moment. All sound—the reporters' questions, the officers' shouts, the crowd's noise—vanished.
Only the flashbulbs continued to fire instinctively and wildly, the pale light hitting the brand again and again.
Each flash made the deep-red bat symbol more glaring and shocking.
It was like a glowing piece of iron thrown into stagnant water, instantly evaporating all speech, leaving only a silent omen.
The teenager stood tall, panting rapidly, staring intently at the officers on the steps with a fervent, almost martyred defiance on his pale face.
Loeb stood rigid, all the blood in his body seemingly rushing to his head, only to turn icy cold instantly. He felt a moment of intense dizziness; the rest of his statement was utterly choked in his throat.
He felt he was standing on the edge of an abyss, with Gotham's boiling darkness below, and that abyss was being torn wider and wider by a teenager branded with a bat.
"The investigation… is currently ongoing. We… uh… we will arrest this lunatic as soon as possible. This matter… will be handled by Detective James Gordon."
Loeb violently turned around, practically fleeing toward the police headquarters. The moment he turned, the long-brewing cold rain finally began to fall.
The sparse raindrops quickly became dense and urgent, beating down on the cold stone steps of the headquarters, striking the officers' hat brims and insignias, hitting the reporters' raised microphones and camera lenses, and splashing onto every shocked, fervent, numb, or terrified face in the crowd.
The rain rapidly collected, streaming down the steps, washing away the dust and the remnants of crushed paper cups.
The muddy water flowed across the large painted GCPD insignia embedded halfway down the steps.
The murky water covered the scales of justice, the protective tower, and the surrounding olive branches, blurring the once-vivid marble.
Under the leaden light, it was only a distorted, darkened outline, smeared by the rain.
James Gordon blankly accepted the microphone, instinctively looking toward Jay beside him.
Jay took the microphone, inwardly rolling his eyes.
"Under the leadership of Detective Gordon, our East Precinct will cooperate fully to bring the whole truth to light as quickly as possible."
"However, the East Precinct is underfunded and understaffed. We've had officers injured recently. With the current resources, it will be very difficult to deal with the high-intensity crime that may continue to occur."
"Police Lives Matter!
We certainly don't want taxpayer money to be wasted," he shook his head, "but we also don't want officers sent to their deaths with just batons and pistols in a conflict. A police officer's life is a life, too."
All eyes focused on his face, which practically spelled out a single message.
Quick! Send money to the East Precinct!
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