Chapter 17: The Invasion of Bats
In a small Brooklyn coffee shop, a man was generating considerable attention. He sat by the window, and his presence alone seemed to have drawn more customers into the otherwise quiet establishment.
He was dressed impeccably: a slim-fit black suit over a grey collared shirt and a black tie with subtle patterning. His movements possessed an aristocratic grace rarely seen in the United States. The suit emphasized his powerful, muscular build, which, when paired with his slightly melancholic gaze, created a captivating and complex aesthetic.
This was no longer the nocturnal vigilante. This was Bruce Wayne, wading into the social world.
Bruce had initially questioned why he kept using the name "Wayne" instead of "Bruce," but Thomas had settled the matter: "You have become him, and everything about him has completely become a part of you. How can there be anything heavy or not heavy?" Bruce was now the functional Bruce Wayne of this universe, and he needed to embrace the role.
Bruce was holding a copy of the Daily Bugle, feigning interest in the news report on Spider-Man's passing. In reality, his focus was entirely on the house across the street: Fisk's residence.
"Handsome, would you care for some company?"
A confident woman with long black hair and a healthy physique sat down across from him. She was undeniably attractive, and any other man would have been immediately charmed.
Bruce neatly folded the newspaper and placed it on the table. He offered her a polite smile. "I'm sorry, Miss, but I don't care for your type."
The woman started to reply, but Bruce had already placed a dollar bill under his coffee cup.
"I apologize, but I have pressing business. It was a pleasure meeting you." Bruce rose and walked toward the door. The woman, though rejected, watched his graceful, polite departure, her initial annoyance fading. The blend of melancholy and polished aristocracy was utterly magnetic.
"It must be quite pleasant to live with a man like that," she muttered to herself, still watching the door.
Bruce approached Fisk's house. Two burly bodyguards eyed him with immediate suspicion.
"Sorry, sir, Mr. Fisk is not at home today. I can take a message if you need assistance," one guard said, stepping forward. The guards, both over 1.9 meters tall, were intimidating, but they did not physically tower over Bruce. The guard placed his hand on Bruce's shoulder.
"Oh, that is truly unlucky. I went through the effort of making an appointment today, only to find Mr. Fisk busy," Bruce said, affecting annoyance. His peripheral vision, however, had already pinpointed the exact location of the pistol on the guard's waist.
"You'll have to schedule a new appointment," the guard replied, maintaining his icy demeanor.
"Understood. Thank you." Bruce gently placed his hand on the guard's shoulder, subtly shifting his grip toward the neck.
The guard immediately felt a sudden, crushing helplessness. His eyes rolled, and he slumped toward Bruce.
"Hey! What's wrong, brother? Are you alright?" Bruce asked with exaggerated concern, catching the falling man.
The second bodyguard watched cautiously, his hand instinctively moving to his waist. He couldn't dismiss the possibility that Bruce had used some form of contact anesthetic.
"Please place my colleague on the ground. Thank you for your cooperation," the second guard instructed, extending his hand to guide Bruce. His other hand remained ready to draw his weapon.
"Of course, no problem. I certainly wouldn't want you to panic and shoot me by mistake," Bruce said, playing the role of the ordinary, nervous civilian. "See? I'm letting him down."
As Bruce slowly lowered the unconscious man, he smoothly lifted the hem of the guard's suit. An anesthetic needle popped out of Bruce's hand and struck the second guard's neck.
The guard gasped in shock, clutching his neck as he slowly collapsed. He remained conscious just long enough to maintain a defensive posture, his hand still on his gun.
No matter how cunning the fox, he cannot outwit the hunter.
Bruce easily dragged the two unconscious bodyguards aside. He retrieved the spent anesthetic needle. The simple efficiency of the miniaturized Bat-tech was reassuring.
Wilson Fisk was clearly overly confident in his home security; though he was gone, the door was unlocked.
Bruce gave a gentle push. The home of New York's reigning underground king opened, welcoming Bruce inside.
The Bat had finally infiltrated the den.
(End of Chapter)
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