---
Pfft—!
Hahahahahahaha!
The moment Mrs. Anderson walked away from the classroom, a burst of barely suppressed laughter erupted around Dick.
He didn't even need to look up to know what it was about.
His headphones were gone.
Confiscated.
The gloating whispers, the amused looks, the subtle shoulder shakes—his classmates were enjoying this far more than they should have.
Still, Dick didn't react. He leaned back slightly in his chair, hands behind his head, looking far more relaxed than someone who had just been singled out by a teacher.
Honestly, this could have gone a lot worse.
Fortunately, he had already ended the call with Barbara.
If Mrs. Anderson had walked over even ten seconds earlier, things would have become extremely troublesome. Explaining why he was secretly on a call during class was one thing—explaining who he was talking to would have been another matter entirely.
And if Dick really wanted to stop her?
He could have.
With his reaction speed, he could have removed the headphones before Mrs. Anderson's fingers ever brushed against them. No one in the room would have noticed.
But there was no reason to.
It wasn't worth the risk.
Just a pair of headphones—no big deal.
"Hey."
A quiet voice came from the seat in front of him.
Dean turned his head slightly, keeping his posture casual, his eyes sharp.
"What were you listening to that had you so focused just now?"
Dick scratched the back of his head and laughed awkwardly.
"…Nothing special. Just a few new rock tracks. Thought I'd check them out."
Dean raised an eyebrow.
"Rock? Since when are you into that?"
His tone was calm, almost indifferent, but his eyes briefly flicked toward the teacher's desk.
"Careful," he added softly. "Mrs. Anderson is already watching you."
With that, Dean turned back around and sat up straight, as if nothing had happened.
No one noticed the small, gum-like object now resting in his palm.
Moments earlier—while everyone's attention had been on Dick—Dean had moved with lightning speed, quietly retrieving the listening device attached beneath the desk.
Clean.
Silent.
Perfect.
He had heard almost everything.
From the moment Dick's identity was questioned…
To the discussion about the mysterious Notice letter…
To the subtle tension in Dick's voice when the subject shifted.
Dean missed only one thing.
He couldn't hear the other person's voice.
Which meant he couldn't identify exactly who Dick had been speaking to.
But that narrowed it down enough.
It had to be someone close to Batman.
Either the elderly butler who always seemed to know more than he let on…
Or Batgirl—the brilliant hacker whose true identity was still a mystery.
Dean lowered his gaze, his expression thoughtful.
So… they've started suspecting that I'm Kaito Kid.
But Dick's reaction told him something important.
The suspicion directed at him was shallow. Tentative. Almost cautious.
Which meant—
The real suspicion belonged to the person on the other end of that call.
"They don't have proof," Dean thought calmly. "Not yet."
If they did, Dick wouldn't be acting this way. He would be tense. Defensive. Confrontational.
Instead, he was relaxed.
Which meant everything was still in the speculation stage.
Dean's lips curved into a faint, almost invisible smile.
But speculation always leads to testing.
And testing…
Means mistakes.
"In the coming days," Dean mused, "they'll try to probe me."
He welcomed it.
---
Meanwhile — Deep Inside Arkham Asylum
Far from the noise of Gotham's streets…
Far from the classroom filled with laughter…
Inside one of Arkham Asylum's most heavily secured wards, two men sat facing each other across a metal table.
The iron door behind them was thick.
The windows were reinforced with high-strength bars.
This was not a place meant for recovery.
It was a cage.
One man was tall and thin, his posture unnervingly straight. His hands lay flat on the table, restrained by heavy handcuffs. He wore an orange patient uniform.
There was no identification number on it.
Instead, crudely drawn over the fabric was a single symbol:
A question mark.
Opposite him sat a short, stocky man with a long, pointed nose. He wore a perfectly tailored tuxedo and leaned casually on an umbrella cane.
In Gotham City, there was only one man who dressed like that.
Oswald Cobblepot.
The Penguin.
The overhead lights flickered on and off, casting shifting shadows across their faces. The ward felt cold—unnaturally so.
Even the two heavily armed "nurses" stationed at the door—dressed in suspiciously form-fitting uniforms—felt a chill run down their spines.
After a long silence, Penguin spoke.
"How is it?" he asked calmly. "Any leads, Nygma?"
The name alone carried weight.
Edward Nygma.
Thirty-five years old.
Brilliant mind.
Severely unstable.
Obsessed with riddles and his own intelligence.
To the world, he was a criminal.
To himself, he was something greater.
The Riddler.
Not long ago, Penguin had requested a "visit" to Arkham.
The staff had strongly objected.
Letting one notorious criminal visit another was madness.
But the paperwork was flawless. Every document was approved. Every signature authentic.
They had no choice.
Penguin was searched thoroughly before entry—no weapons, no gadgets, no personal items. Two guards accompanied him at all times.
And the moment he sat across from Riddler, Penguin asked only one thing.
Help.
Help deciphering Kaito Kid's Notice letters.
Penguin wanted revenge.
He had forced Mrs. Chandler to hold the exhibition not out of passion for art—but as bait.
If he knew when and where Kaito Kid would appear…
He could prepare.
He could trap him.
He could kill him.
The problem was simple.
The Notice letters were too difficult.
Without the right inspiration, even brilliant minds would get stuck. Penguin had tried.
He failed.
But he knew someone who wouldn't.
If he couldn't solve it…
He would let someone else do it for him.
Penguin leaned forward slightly.
"So?" he asked again. "Have you figured it out?"
Riddler's eyes were closed.
A slow smile spread across his face.
"…Interesting," he murmured. "Very interesting."
His expression twisted into something disturbingly joyful.
"I like it."
Penguin frowned slightly. "Who designed this riddle?"
"It has style," Riddler continued, ignoring the question. "Clever structure. Fresh thinking."
Penguin's patience thinned.
"It pleases me that you enjoyed the gift," he said coldly. "So tell me—have you solved it?"
Riddler opened his eyes.
And laughed.
"Heh~"
"When I said it was interesting," he sneered, "I meant it felt new."
"Not difficult."
"In terms of challenge," he continued mockingly, "this doesn't even qualify as a proper riddle."
Penguin's eyes narrowed.
Riddler leaned back, utterly relaxed.
"The time," he said casually, "is midnight—March 10th."
"And the location?"
He tapped the table.
"If it's truly at the Natural History Museum, then the answer is obvious."
"The Jungle Pavilion."
He had solved it instantly.
Penguin broke into a grin.
"As sharp as ever," he said. "I only need the answer. The process doesn't matter."
He stood up slowly.
"It was good seeing you, old friend. But visiting hours are almost over."
He turned to leave.
"Wait."
Riddler's voice stopped him.
"Tell me," he asked, staring straight at Penguin, "who is this person?"
Penguin paused.
"He calls himself Kaito Kid," he replied. "A flashy thief who enjoys showing off."
A faint killing intent flickered in his eyes.
Riddler noticed—but it wasn't aimed at him.
"You don't need to concern yourself with him," Penguin added coldly.
"Because in ten days…"
"You'll never have the chance to meet him again."
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