Batman is not an easy person to get along with.
That was something Bruce once heard from Barry Allen—and he agreed.
Back then, Barry had been standing at the entrance of the Hall of Justice, talking with his back turned to Bruce. No matter how Hal Jordan tried to signal him with exaggerated expressions, Barry never realized that the person he was gossiping about was right behind him.
Bruce had long since forgotten how he handled that awkward moment. Most likely, he hadn't handled it at all—just kept a straight face and walked past the two of them.
But this situation couldn't be resolved so easily.
After that second, clearly fake attempt to draw a weapon failed to provoke any retaliation, the older Batman had already concluded one thing.
He couldn't bring himself to attack.
So now, he had decided to play dumb.
"If you don't leave, I'm calling the police!"
Bruce silently expanded the scope of Barry's earlier remark:
In every universe, Batman is difficult to deal with.
He tried to speak again:
"You have to—"
What he wanted to say was that Thomas Wayne had to stop being Batman—that it was a job that would kill him sooner rather than later.
"Get out, Bat. Wayne Casino only welcomes respectable businessmen."
Thomas glanced down at his Bulgari watch, then repeated his dismissal without even lifting his head:
"I already told you—I'm a law-abiding businessman. I don't deal with criminals like you."
In the past, when Batman encountered this kind of passive resistance, he would have resorted to force without hesitation.
But now?
There was nothing he could do but leave.
He couldn't exactly beat Thomas into submission just to stop him from being Batman.
No sane person would think that was a solution.
Still, Thomas wasn't completely unwilling to communicate.
Bruce had already caught the implication behind his words.
He just didn't want to talk to 'Batman'.
So Bruce chose to leave—for now.
He would return under a different identity.
Watching the younger Batman depart, Thomas let out a quiet sigh of relief.
The late Barry Allen had once told him a beautiful story about another world.
Now that story had become reality.
But it was not the version Thomas had imagined.
He wasn't ready.
Gotham wasn't ready.
And perhaps it never would be.
Every parent wants to give their child the best possible life.
But what Thomas had to offer... was only a shattered family and a broken world.
Thinking of that again, he couldn't help but feel that the timeline Barry had described might have been kinder to Bruce.
At least in that version, their love had been frozen in its final moment.
Better that than discovering your parents were cold-blooded, unhinged killers who had left a trail of blood across Gotham City.
"Ring… ring…"
Thomas stood by the window, lost in thought as he gazed over Gotham's nightscape—until the phone rang.
He moved to his desk and picked it up.
"Speak."
"Sir—there's someone here to see you!"
It was his butler, his voice panicked and stumbling:
"He calls himself Matches Malone. He told the front desk he's 'a respectable businessman' here to discuss a deal—but sir, I saw him on the cameras, he… he…!"
"That's enough."
Thomas cut him off.
For the first time all day, a smile appeared on his face.
"Let him in."
Bruce Wayne—
No, not Bruce Wayne.
Matches Malone.
He adjusted his brown glasses and straightened his tie.
Tall, well-dressed, composed—he looked every bit like a legitimate businessman.
'Matches Malone' had been one of Bruce's earliest criminal aliases, used when he first became Batman.
The underworld of Gotham never trusted strangers, so he had borrowed that identity to infiltrate criminal circles when needed.
And now he needed it again.
Standing inside the grand hall of Wayne Casino, Bruce immediately took in its overwhelming luxury.
The chaos from Gotham's recent battle hadn't touched this place at all.
Chips clattered across green felt tables.
Money, alcohol, pleasure—everything flowed freely.
Even by the standards of Bruce Wayne, this place rivaled the finest establishments in Las Vegas.
Only now did Bruce truly realize—
Joey's warning hadn't been casual at all.
The Thomas Wayne of this universe was nothing like the kind, compassionate doctor he remembered—someone who had devoted himself to charity and the well-being of Gotham.
They were entirely different beings.
Thomas calling himself a 'law-abiding businessman' was complete nonsense.
There's no such thing as a clean casino.
Casinos are never just about exchanging money for entertainment—they are deeply tied to loan sharks, vice, and illegal trades.
That wasn't prejudice.
It was reality.
And even as he stood there observing—
Batman had already identified several members of the Maroni crime family just from their coded language and accents.
These mafia members scattered throughout the casino, looking around as if searching for something. Their behavior was highly suspicious.
After informing the front desk of his visit, Bruce found a slightly elevated step so he could barely keep track of their movements.
He didn't know what they had come here for—but he knew they certainly weren't here to buy groceries.
Sure enough, it didn't take long before they all received some kind of signal. They began moving together, converging toward the same direction on the casino floor.
Feigning casual wandering, Bruce followed along without drawing attention.
In the end, the Maroni family's men gathered in a restroom tucked away in a corner of the casino.
When Bruce arrived, he caught a glimpse through the crack in the door: the gang members had cornered a casino janitor in one part of the restroom.
One of them ignored the janitor's desperate pleading and stepped forward, slapping him hard across the face.
"Not having money isn't an excuse for not paying back what you owe!"
Even after taking the slap, the janitor could only beg, "Please… just give me a few more days…"
Hearing this, Bruce let out a quiet breath of relief—just a few low-level thugs.
Unlike the monsters that would later emerge in Gotham, the Maroni family he had dealt with in his early days was a more 'traditional' kind of Italian mafia.
Their operations covered a wide range, but they were nowhere near as dangerous or extreme as newer figures like the Penguin or the Joker.
Relatively speaking, the Maroni family was more orderly. Their business mostly involved theft, protection rackets, smuggling, prostitution, and loan sharking. They rarely even touched drug trafficking.
Of course, that didn't mean they had any conscience—it was simply because drug profits were so enormous that they often caused internal conflict, something the mafia avoided at all costs.
The loans they gave out carried about 2% weekly interest—an incredibly high rate—and almost never resulted in bad debt. For them, it was a guaranteed profit.
Debt collection, however, was usually left to low-level lackeys. No high-ranking member would bother with such grunt work.
Clearly, they had loaned money to the janitor, and when he couldn't repay it, they had come to collect… physically.
The beating continued.
Bruce tried to enter the restroom to stop it, but two lookouts at the door blocked his path.
One of them pulled open his suit jacket slightly, revealing a gleaming knife at his waist.
"Don't stick your nose where it doesn't belong, sir. You might be rich—but in Gotham, no one walks away unscathed after crossing the Maroni family."
The threat made Bruce almost laugh.
It even stirred a faint sense of nostalgia.
After everything—fighting alongside the Justice League, facing enemies like Darkseid, General Zod, Vandal Savage, Brainiac—and after everything that had happened recently…
He was once again being threatened by low-level mobsters, just like in his earliest days.
Bruce loosened his tie slightly.
"Let me in. I won't say it twice."
"Get lo—"
Thud!
Before the thug could finish, both of them were struck head-on by heavy punches and sent flying into the restroom.
The gang members inside immediately stopped beating the debtor and rushed toward the door.
The first one who charged out was met by Bruce, who had positioned himself just outside their line of sight. A swift side kick struck the outside of his knee joint.
The man collapsed instantly, rolling across the ground in agony.
As he screamed and tumbled, the others behind him tripped over him in a chain reaction. Before they could recover, Bruce delivered a rapid combination of punches from above.
With a faint sense that this barely counted as a warm-up, Bruce stepped into the restroom and approached the battered casino employee.
"Unless you've gambled yourself into insanity, borrowing money from the mafia is never a smart move."
That said, Bruce knew there had to be a reason.
If the man were simply a compulsive gambler, even the mafia wouldn't lend to him.
As mentioned before, these Italian mobsters were, in their own way, disciplined. They carefully chose their clients.
Hardworking, honest laborers were their ideal targets—people who might suddenly need money due to accidents or emergencies.
Banks wouldn't lend to them. And so they turned to the mafia.
The man who had been beaten was a janitor at the casino. He had curled his thin, frail body tightly on the cold, damp restroom floor, trying to protect himself from further harm.
Fortunately, Bruce had arrived in time.
Otherwise, it wouldn't have been just bruises and footprints on his clothes.
"I'm sorry for causing you trouble, sir. I didn't want to deal with those people either… but my wife is sick, and my son has no one to look after him. I need the money."
With Bruce's help, the janitor struggled to his feet. He brushed his messy, slightly curly brown hair and gave a sheepish smile as he looked up.
"Still… thank you for your help. My name is Jack White."
Only now did Bruce clearly see his face.
It was a face full of warmth and optimism—sunlit, almost gentle.
But to Bruce, it meant something else entirely.
Like an electric shock, before the man could even finish introducing himself, Batman suddenly let go of his hand, stepped back, and assumed a guarded stance.
It was a face he would recognize even if it were reduced to ashes.
"I'm so sorry! Did I dirty your hand?"
Jack looked confused at Bruce's sudden change in attitude. His savior had become serious in an instant, and he thought he had done something wrong.
He asked cautiously:
"Why so serious?"