Inside the penthouse apartment belonging to Wayne Enterprises.
On the massive display screen, the image remained frozen on the teenager in the cheap red and blue suit.
“With great power comes great responsibility.”
The voice in the video trembled slightly, carrying the distinct rasp of someone going through puberty, yet it sounded deafeningly loud in the open room.
Bruce Wayne sat in his swivel chair, dragging the progress bar back and forth, over and over again.
He zoomed in to the absolute limit, observing the twitch of every facial muscle as Cole Vance spoke.
No pupil dilation, no unnatural muscle spasms; even his breathing rate was as steady as if he were reciting scripture.
“Master Bruce, that is the two hundred and fourteenth time you have watched that clip.”
Alfred approached carrying a tray, placing a steaming cup of coffee on the desk.
“If you continue, I shall have to consider printing a photograph of this Spider gentleman and hanging it over your bed as a protective talisman.”
Bruce did not turn around, his fingers tapping rapidly across the console.
“He isn’t normal, Alfred.”
“In Gotham, this condition only appears in two kinds of people: newborn infants, or the utterly insane.”
Alfred raised an eyebrow, his tone carrying a rare hint of dry humor.
“Perhaps he is simply a genuinely good boy?
Admit it, Master Bruce: you are merely unaccustomed to seeing someone who understands how to illuminate this city better than you do.”
Bruce fell silent.
First of all, he admitted that as a top-tier heir with immense material wealth, he possessed a modest amount of spiritual ambition—saving a city, for instance.
That did not mean, however, that he was jealous of someone else who held noble ideals.
Bruce Wayne’s deep, brooding eyes were filled with distrust.
It was a distrust carved deep into his bones, like a layer of armor that could never be stripped away.
“Gotham is a massive millstone.
Any gold thrown into it gets ground into ash.”
“If he isn’t acting, then he is the most dangerous anomaly in this world.”
He rose, his cape sweeping a cold arc behind him.
“I need more data.
* * *
Meanwhile.
In the South District of Gotham, on the top floor of a dilapidated, creaking apartment building.
Cole Vance struggled to shove open the rusted-shut window, squeezing into his leaky attic.
The place remained pitifully cramped.
The old newspapers pasted to the walls were yellowed and peeling, and the air was thick with the smell of mildew and the stench wafting up from the sewers.
Still, for solitary living, it was pretty cozy, wasn’t it?
Without warning, the crisp chime of clinking coins rang out inside his mind.
[Ding!]
[Stage One Roleplay Mission complete.]
[Current Persona Alignment: 10%.]
[Issuing milestone rewards…]
Cole froze for a second, then immediately perked up.
“System, you finally remembered you have a host wandering the streets?”
“If you took any longer with the rewards, I was going to have to consider jacking the tires off the Batmobile to sell for protein powder.”
The system interface unfurled before his eyes as a flash of golden light flared.
[Core Ability Unlocked: Basic Spider-Sense.]
In an instant, Cole felt a violent tingle at the back of his head.
It felt as though a ten-thousand-volt current had lightly brushed the base of his skull, or as if an invisible thread had suddenly tethered him to the surrounding space.
The noisy world around him transformed.
The breathing of the neighbor next door eavesdropping on him, the rustling of a vagrant rummaging through a dumpster downstairs, even the microscopic vibrations of a spider crawling through a crack in the ceiling—all of it fed cleanly into his cerebral cortex.
He felt the world slow down.
So this was the “Peter Tingle”?
Flushed with excitement, Cole leaped toward the bed, aiming for a superhero-style backflip.
*Crack!*
The bed, cobbled together from a few rotted wooden planks, finally fulfilled its historical duty under the weight of Spider-Man.
The frame snapped cleanly, and Cole landed square on his backside on the floor, kicking up a thick cloud of dust.
“Hiss…”
Rubbing his rear, Cole stared down at the few cents left in his pocket and sank into deep contemplation.
“I just touched Batman’s soul back there.
Can’t you give me a little meal stipend?”
“Don’t play dead.
I know you can hear me.”
The system interface remained dead silent, like a deadbeat dodging debt collectors.
“You’re so cold.
What a heartless piece of software.”
Cole rolled his eyes at the empty air.
“Aren’t modern systems supposed to be fully integrated with AI?
You do know AIs can chat, right?”
“Hello?
Anyone there?
*Moshi moshi?*”
Aside from the steady drip of rain leaking through the ceiling, there was no response.
Cole sighed, lying back on the broken wooden boards and gazing through the hole in the roof at the gloomy sky.
At this hour, Gotham was slowly being swallowed by the night.
In the shadows of street corners, a few vacant-eyed junkies huddled in cardboard boxes, clutching their last needles as if guarding tickets to heaven.
Scantily clad prostitutes stood beneath the streetlamps, indifferently sizing up every unlucky passerby with cheap cigarettes pinched between their fingers.
Beside overturned dumpsters, vagrants beat each other bloody over half a moldy loaf of bread.
This was the true color of Gotham—like a grimy rag that could never be wrung dry, dripping nothing but black, bitter water.
* * *
And a few miles away, at the top of Wayne Tower.
Floor-to-ceiling windows reflected the neon glow of the entire city.
Having changed back into comfortable loungewear, Bruce Wayne held a glass of expensive red wine, standing on a priceless Persian carpet.
The faint scent of sandalwood drifted through the air, clean enough that not a single wail of suffering could be heard.
On one side was hell; on the other, the clouds.