[Nervousness from Bruce Wayne +33, + Shock 41...]
After David finished speaking, an uneasy silence settled over the bank lobby. The tension hung thick in the air, broken only by the muffled breathing of the terrified hostages lying on the floor with their hands clasped over their heads.
"Bruce Wayne?"
Several people exchanged bewildered looks, confusion written plainly across their faces. The name sounded so absurd in the middle of a bank robbery that it felt like someone had cracked a joke at the worst possible moment.
In Gotham, plenty of people might not recognize the mayor's face or remember his name. But Bruce Wayne was different. From the moment citizens were born until the day they were buried, the influence of Wayne Enterprises touched every part of their lives—clothing, housing, transportation, medicine, energy. It was impossible to grow up in Gotham without knowing the name Wayne.
And Bruce Wayne was the heir to that colossal fortune.
But Bruce Wayne had disappeared years ago. Rumors had circulated endlessly about where he'd gone—Europe, Asia, some secret monastery—but no one had ever confirmed anything. So how could he possibly be standing in a bank right now, wearing a red hood and robbing people at gunpoint?
"There's a gang in Gotham called the Red Hood Gang," David said calmly, his tone almost conversational. "Their leader goes by Red Hood. They're not exactly famous, and they're not particularly powerful either."
Even David himself felt a trace of surprise as he spoke. Compared to Gotham's notorious criminals—Bane, the Joker, Scarecrow—the Red Hood Gang was barely a footnote in the city's violent history.
Still, David knew something most people didn't.
In many worlds, the man who would become the Joker had once worn the identity of Red Hood. While fleeing from Batman, he had fallen into a vat of chemical waste and emerged transformed—skin bleached ghost-white, hair turned an unnatural green, and his mind shattered into madness.
Originally, David had only intended to use the emotional notification system to check something simple.
He wanted to see whether the Red Hood standing here today would eventually become the Joker.
Instead, the result had been completely unexpected.
"I was trying to confirm whether the Red Hood was the future Joker," David thought calmly.
'Red Hood No. 5' stared at him with wide eyes. Beneath the mask, a playful smile crept across his lips as he slowly looked David up and down.
"No," David continued inwardly. "Instead of the Joker, I found Batman."
When Red Hood No. 5 received the leader's order to discipline the troublesome hostage, he stepped forward with obvious irritation. Just as he reached David, however, the emotional notification flashed again—this time unmistakably from Bruce Wayne.
"Shut your mouth," Red Hood No. 5 snarled. His voice trembled with anger as he raised his rifle. "If I were that spoiled brat whose body is probably rotting somewhere, why would I still be standing here?"
With that, he swung the butt of the gun toward David's forehead.
"Wait a moment!"
The Red Hood leader suddenly lifted his own weapon and pointed it straight at No. 5.
"Boss?" Red Hood No. 5 froze instantly, raising both hands as he stared at the gun barrel aimed at him. "I don't understand. You said we should teach him a lesson, and that's exactly what I'm doing."
His tone carried genuine confusion.
"Did… did you actually believe the kid's nonsense?"
The other gang members reacted immediately. One after another, they turned their weapons toward No. 5, dark gun barrels now pointing both at him and at David standing behind him.
"I don't know whether you're Bruce Wayne or not," the leader said slowly. "But I know one thing."
His voice turned cold.
"You're definitely not Number Five."
He shook his head as if disappointed.
"Number Five is the laziest lunatic in the whole gang. If he can avoid doing something, he absolutely will. But you—"
His eyes narrowed behind the mask.
"You talk way too much."
The man wearing the No. 5 hood stiffened.
Under the mask, his expression shifted sharply. His original plan had been simple: kick the fearless kid to the floor, knock him unconscious with the rifle butt, and end the problem before anyone paid attention.
But now he realized he had hesitated for too long.
"And there's another thing," the leader continued, his lips curling into a mocking grin. "Number Five is left-handed."
The disguised man instinctively glanced down at the gun in his right hand. For a brief second, an ugly frustration flashed across his eyes.
He had made more than one mistake.
David watched quietly, already certain of the truth. The man standing before him really was Bruce Wayne—though not the fully formed Batman the world would one day know.
This Bruce Wayne had only recently returned to Gotham.
"The current Bruce Wayne has just started his career," David thought calmly. "He hasn't yet become the cold, calculating Batman who never makes mistakes."
His gaze drifted casually across the lobby despite the seven or eight submachine guns pointing in his direction.
Something else had caught his attention.
Where were the bank's security guards?
Near the door of the security room, a figure lay collapsed on the floor. The man's lips were purple, and white foam leaked from the corner of his mouth. Another guard lay sprawled on top of him, showing identical symptoms.
Poison.
They had been poisoned long before the robbery began.
"Now," the Red Hood leader said slowly, leveling his gun. "Take off your hood."
Despite the fact that they were in the middle of a bank robbery—and the police could arrive at any moment—he seemed completely unhurried.
"Let's see who you really are," he continued with obvious amusement. "Are you the famous orphan from the Wayne family… or just some cop who thinks he can take down a gang alone?"
He chuckled darkly.
"If you really are Bruce Wayne, you won't have to worry about anything in your next life."
Several armed men burst into cruel laughter.
"We're not that idiot Joe Chill," one of them sneered. "The guy who killed the richest couple in Gotham for a cheap string of pearls."
The harsh laughter echoed through the hall.
David noticed the trembling hand of 'Red Hood No. 5.' Veins bulged along the back of the man's hand as he clenched his fist.
Joe Chill.
A pathetic street thug looked down upon by other criminals. Yet he had become infamous across Gotham for a single act—murdering Thomas and Martha Wayne and leaving their young son standing alone in the alley.
Under the pressure of several guns, Red Hood No. 5 slowly removed his mask.
A middle-aged man's face appeared, framed by a thick black beard. His expression looked irritated and misunderstood, as if offended by the accusation.
"Number Five?"
Several gang members froze in confusion.
In that exact instant, Red Hood No. 5 flicked his wrist. A tiny remote control slipped from his sleeve, and he pressed the button with lightning speed.
BOOM!
The bank's heavy reinforced glass doors exploded outward in a deafening blast. The shockwave surged through the lobby, hurling shards of glass across the room and knocking several Red Hood members off their feet.
Almost simultaneously, a smoke bomb clattered across the floor and erupted in thick gray clouds.
Red Hood No. 5 spun around and slammed into David, dragging him down as he leapt behind the bank counter to avoid the gunfire that would inevitably follow.
But Bruce Wayne had barely turned when he suddenly charged forward like a wild beast.
His shoulder slammed into something that felt like a bronze statue weighing several hundred kilograms. The impact forced a muffled groan from his throat as he staggered backward in disbelief.
Bruce looked up, stunned.
He had anticipated the possibility that this young man might know some fighting techniques. But no amount of technique could change a person's body weight. Bruce himself had mastered more than a hundred martial arts styles—how could his surprise attack fail to move the boy even slightly?
David didn't bother hiding.
He glanced casually at the wrinkled skin visible on the man's neck beneath the fake beard and chuckled quietly.
Then, with a single effortless motion, he grabbed Bruce Wayne and tossed him behind the solid wooden counter.
The newly returned Batman was still inexperienced, but one habit had already formed—he always prepared a backup plan.
"Shooting positions! Kill him!" someone shouted.
Seven or eight submachine guns roared to life at once. Bullets poured from their chambers in a metallic storm, easily tearing through the thick wooden counter while Bruce Wayne lay flat on the ground with his arms protecting his head.
The hail of yellow-jacketed bullets slammed into David's body one after another.
Each projectile struck him, lost all momentum instantly, and dropped harmlessly onto the floor with a soft metallic clatter.
"Cease fire!"
After hundreds of rounds had been emptied, the Red Hood leader barked the command.
Smoke drifted slowly through the lobby.
Inside that haze stood a tall, slender silhouette. The figure hadn't moved even a single step.
Several gang members stared nervously, waiting for the body that should have been riddled with holes to collapse.
But inside the smoke—
A faint purple glow appeared.
"What?"
One of the gunmen frowned, squinting into the haze while gripping his weapon tighter.
Chi!
A beam of violet light suddenly shot out from the smoke.
A searing pain exploded in his chest.
He looked down in disbelief.
A perfectly round hole, as thick as a thumb, had burned straight through his heart.
Thud.
His corpse collapsed onto the floor, bright red blood spreading rapidly across the marble tiles.
"Kill him!" someone screamed.
Panicked gunfire erupted again, aimed blindly at the shadow inside the smoke.
Behind the shattered counter, Bruce Wayne cautiously lifted his head. His eyes widened with pure astonishment.
Not far in front of him stood the young man in a trench coat.
David raised one arm casually, extending two fingers as if they were the barrel of a pistol.
The gesture looked strangely familiar to Bruce.
It reminded him of childhood games played on the lawns of Wayne Manor, when he imagined himself as a cowboy fighting outlaws in silent films. Back then, pretending your finger was a gun had been nothing more than innocent play.
But now—
The man's fingertips were firing something very real.
Not bullets.
Purple lasers.
Time itself seemed to slow.
From Bruce's side of the lobby, the scene looked almost absurd. The tall young man stood calmly amid gunfire, lazily pointing his fingers as though he were playing a casual game.
Yet every time he made that motion—
Death followed.
Lasers sliced through the air, piercing the hearts of fleeing gangsters. One after another, bodies collapsed across the bank floor as the criminals tried desperately to escape.
[Shock from Bruce Wayne +43...]
"How did this guy… do it?"
....
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