This universe's Gotham City was even more chaotic than the one Batman knew from his own world.
Even though the older Batman of this universe was ruthless—killing without hesitation and ending the criminal careers of nearly every supervillain in the most literal sense—it still made no difference.
Poison Ivy, Mr. Freeze, Scarecrow, Hush, Riddler…
One after another, these would-be agents of chaos had died by the old Bat's gun or blade.
And yet, the city's descent into madness had not been reversed.
Perhaps it was because he had never eliminated the true source of Gotham's corruption…
"So what you're saying is—unchecked exploitation by powerful elites leads to inequality, which breeds a growing underclass of criminals, and that's the root cause?"
Flying alongside him, Joey offered his own take.
Batman, gliding toward Wayne Tower with his cape spread, shot him a deeply unimpressed look.
"You know exactly who I mean."
"Yeah, yeah—I know. You're talking about the Joker."
Of course Joey knew.
He just couldn't resist taking a jab at Batman.
In a normal city, his earlier argument might have held some truth—crime is often a matter of governance.
But Gotham was not a normal place.
This city of fools was more like a cursed nightmare.
Batman, in Gotham, wasn't just a vigilante in a crime-ridden city—he was more like a seasoned investigator wandering through a cosmic horror scenario.
His sanity seemed permanently locked in place—never breaking—perhaps because he had already gone mad, the moment he chose to become the Bat.
"Why didn't he kill the Joker?"
That was what puzzled Batman.
The underground king of Gotham—successor to Carmine Falcone and Sal Maroni—the true ruler of its criminal world:
The Joker.
As long as he existed, crime would endlessly regenerate.
So the real question was—why had the old Bat spared him?
Batman didn't believe for a second that he couldn't have done it.
Even he himself had had dozens of chances to kill the Joker.
"The entire Earth is about to become a battlefield for an interstellar war—and you still want to waste your time being here with me?"
Batman had already caught sight of Wayne Tower in the distance and moved to dismiss Joey:
"Go do what you're supposed to do. I can handle this."
After killing the Superman of his own universe, the idea of the 'World's Finest' was long gone.
To him, this Superman was nothing more than a useful ally.
"Of course you can handle it."
Joey had no intention of sticking around for Batman's detective work anyway.
For Batman, Gotham was a puzzle—a process of peeling away layers to uncover the truth, a test of both mind and body.
For someone like Joey, with super senses, it was more like reading a detective comic where the culprit had already been revealed on the first page.
He had only followed along to give one warning:
"Bruce, from my own experience—avoiding an obvious truth will only make the outcome more painful."
Batman watched as Superman shot off into the sky with a sonic boom.
Then he guided his glide, landing atop Wayne Tower.
Within moments, he bypassed the outer security and infiltrated Thomas Wayne's office—silently appearing behind him.
Because he was the world's greatest master of stealth.
The older Batman—Thomas Wayne—had finished a bottle of whiskey not long ago.
Now he slumped against an expensive leather sofa, snoring heavily.
Despite his well-trained physique, his face was visibly worn and exhausted.
Just as Joey had said, he was not in good condition.
After failing every attempt and effort, he had now completely fallen back into his old way of life.
Drinking and dozing during the day.
Hunting and killing at night.
Like a true bat-shaped monster.
Batman had been too occupied with rebuilding the Watchtower and arranging his comrades' funerals to pay attention to any of this.
Now, he stood behind the back of the sofa, blending into the shadows of the room, silently watching the sleeping Thomas Wayne.
The man's breathing was uneven. His heartbeat irregular. Beneath his seemingly strong body lay something already riddled with damage...
Just like Bruce himself.
Joey had been right.
Given Thomas's condition, his age, and his habits, continuing like this would inevitably lead to death by heart failure.
Batman didn't know how long he stood there, staring at the graying hair at Thomas's temples.
He only knew that, at first, he had come with a simple resolve:
To stop this old Bat from continuing down a path of self-destruction.
And yet, he had made no plan.
No preparation.
He had simply come—recklessly.
The sunlight slanted lower, shining through the floor-to-ceiling windows onto Thomas.
As warmth spread across him, the older man began to murmur in his sleep:
"Bruce…"
For a brief moment, the world's finest master of stealth nearly revealed himself because of that single word.
Batman almost responded—instinctively.
In his sleep, after uttering that name, Thomas's expression shifted.
His once peaceful posture grew restless. His brow tightened.
It was as if an unrelenting nightmare had seized him again.
And it had.
He was dreaming of that night, that gunshot.
As a father, he had failed to protect his son.
As a doctor, he had failed to save him from that fatal wound.
It takes only a single bullet to destroy a man's entire world.
Seeing that Thomas was trapped in the nightmare, Bruce chose not to hesitate any longer.
He stepped out from the shadows without a sound and gently placed a hand on his shoulder.
The old Bat's eyes snapped open the instant Bruce reached out.
Fully awake in a heartbeat.
The realization that someone had stood silently behind him while he slept—without him noticing—sent a chill through him.
His body reacted instantly.
He grabbed the unfamiliar hand on his shoulder, pivoted, and threw the intruder over his back—smashing him straight through a crystal coffee table worth tens of thousands of dollars.
Thomas reached into his coat, pulling out a Glock with practiced ease, raising it to fire.
But the intruder moved faster.
The dark figure rolled and lunged out of his line of fire.
In the middle of the motion, he flicked his wrist—throwing a batarang that struck and disarmed Thomas.
The Glock was knocked from his hand.
Clutching his aching palm, Thomas caught sight of the shape of that projectile and immediately understood who his opponent was.
His custom-made Neapolitan suit had torn in two places during the clash.
But that didn't matter.
It was only his daytime attire.
Because the figure before him wore something far more familiar, something that mirrored his own identity in the night.
Dressed in his suit, Thomas stared at the younger Batman in front of him.
Without hesitation, he reached into his coat again—clearly intending to draw something.
This time, the other Batman didn't stop him.
Thomas let out a cold snort.
But what he pulled out wasn't another gun—
it was a pack of cigarettes.
He lit one, took a deep drag, then exhaled slowly before speaking:
"I'm a legitimate businessman."
"This office isn't for freaks in bat costumes."
"Get out."