Cole’s voice pitched up half an octave from sheer excitement and shock.
He pointed a trembling finger at the imposing, pitch-black figure radiating pure cold.
“Whoa!
You’re way taller than in the newspapers!
Seriously!
I mean, I read about you all the time…
Oh, not that I’m a fan or anything, I just skim the headlines whenever I pass a newsstand.
Those papers only ever cover you and barely give me any column space, which is honestly so annoying.”
Cole fumbled around his ragged pajama suit.
“Okay, fine, I confess, I’m actually a huge fan!
Can you give me an autograph?
Right on the suit?
I plan to keep this as a family heirloom!”
Batman didn’t look at him, nor did he turn his head.
His stern eyes fixed on the warehouse entrances, his voice low and gravelly, like stones grinding in the depths of hell.
“They’re here.”
The moment the words left his mouth, the warehouse doors were violently kicked open.
Dozens of Maroni family hitmen carrying automatic rifles poured inside.
Flashlight beams darted across the darkness, instantly locking onto the two figures in the center.
Batman moved.
He vanished.
Cole twitched his mouth.
*Talk about a brooding giant bat with zero sense of humor.*
*None of these people ever speak.
They’re going to give themselves clinical depression sooner or later.*
From Cole’s perspective, the dark figure was like a drop of black ink falling into murky water, dissolving instantly.
Before the first thug could even pull the trigger, a crisp snap of broken ribs echoed through the room.
Then came the second, and the third.
Batman wove through the crowd, his movements clean, efficient, and lethal—a masterclass in choreographed violence.
Every punch and kick was accompanied by the sound of splintering bone and muffled groans.
Cole bounced off the wall, firing web-lines as he shouted, “Wait for me!
I’m on your team!
We’re partners, right?
Even though you’re not wearing red and blue, I can totally get behind the edgy, dark aesthetic!”
Cole nimbly scrambled atop a shipping container.
“Let’s go!
Nice hit!
That left hook was gorgeous!
Dude, what do you call that move?
The Bat-Heart-Extractor?”
While acting as a personal cheerleader, Cole didn’t stay idle.
His wrists flicked rapidly.
With a flick of his left hand, a strand of webbing snagged a thug’s ankle and yanked hard, leaving the guy dangling upside down from a ceiling light fixture like a piece of cured bacon.
With a snap of his right hand, another thug trying to flank Batman’s blind spot caught a face full of white “noodles.” Cole pulled with all his might, pinning the man flat against the wall like a poster.
“Hey!
Don’t move!
You’ve been cited by Gotham Code Enforcement!”
Before long, thugs bound in all sorts of humiliating poses were hanging from the walls and pillars throughout the warehouse.
He was like an unstoppable meat grinder.
Not a single enemy who came within arm’s reach remained standing for more than three seconds.
Right then, a thug lurking in a dark corner flashed a vicious, desperate grin.
He pulled a round object from his jacket and yanked the pin.
A grenade.
Batman was currently locked in close quarters with three die-hard enforcers—Maroni elites using their bodies as shields to buy their comrade time.
“Grenade!
Grenade, grenade, grenade!”
The startled Spider-kid let out a voice-cracking shriek.
Cole didn’t hesitate.
He knew this was his best opportunity.
Not an opportunity to take down an enemy, but to secure the ultimate patron.
He lunged forward.
His target wasn’t the grenade itself, but the thug preparing to throw it.
Mid-flight, Cole’s eyes were completely calm, devoid of any real panic.
Yet his mouth screamed louder than anyone in the room.
The webbing from his right wrist no longer shot out in a single strand; it erupted in a frantic torrent, wrapping around the thug’s grenade-holding hand layer upon layer like plastic wrap.
Cole slammed his entire body into the thug’s chest.
Both crashed hard onto the floor.
Cole rolled with the momentum, using his own shoulder to firmly press down on the massive white cocoon enclosing the grenade.
In that split second, he even had the presence of mind to micro-adjust his angle, ensuring the explosive shockwave would vent outward rather than rupture his internal organs.
*Boom!*
A muffled explosion detonated inside the web cocoon.
The white mass swelled to its absolute limit like an overinflated balloon before letting out a sickening hiss of escaping gas.
Although the webbing absorbed most of the blast, the shockwave still hurled Cole backward.
He rolled five or six times across the floor before slamming hard into a pile of scrap metal.
“Cough, cough…”
Cole lay flat on the ground, staying still for several seconds.
He could feel that the suit over his shoulder was completely shredded.
Several small metal fragments were embedded in his flesh.
It hurt.
It really hurt.
Yet he didn’t stand up right away.
Tilting his head slightly, he watched the blood slowly seeping from his shoulder, his mind calculating at lightspeed.
The wound wasn’t deep—just superficial flesh damage that missed the bone and ligaments.
However, he had to make this blood count for something.
He had to find a way to tug at Batman’s heartstrings.
If he couldn’t move Batman, moving Bruce Wayne would work just as well.
Didn’t the guy love adopting Robins left and right?
Look right here!
He was practically begging to be adopted into Wayne Enterprises.
The moment he got adopted, Cole planned to pretend his spider powers had vanished, settle in as a rich trust-fund kid, squander a fortune, and live the easy life.
For the sake of his imagined paradise, Cole made his breathing ragged and shallow, letting the arm bracing him against the ground tremble with high-frequency precision.
“Thank goodness…”
Cole staggered to his feet and stumbled over to the dazed thug, mechanically checking the man’s pulse.
Only after confirming the guy was still alive did he collapse onto his rear as if all strength had left him.
Clutching his bleeding shoulder, crimson fluid steadily seeped through his fingers.
His voice trembled with utter sincerity, carrying a hint of lingering terror:
“You’re not dead…
Oh God, that scared me to death…
How could you just throw grenades around like that…
As he spoke, he observed Batman from the corner of his eye.
A guilt trip of this level might be redundant in Marvel, but in Gotham, before the notoriously paranoid Batman, it was the ultimate foot in the door.
Who wouldn’t want Bruce Wayne for a dad?
Seriously, did anyone *not* want that?
Huh?
Sure, having Iron Man as a father was out of the question, but “My dad is Batman” sounded pretty damn badass too!
With that thought, Cole trembled with even greater conviction, throwing in a full-body shiver for good measure.
Batman finished off the last enemy.
He turned slowly, his dark cape cutting a cold arc through the air.
He stepped over to Cole, looking down at the youth sitting in a pool of blood.
The warehouse was silent save for Cole’s deliberately suppressed, ragged breaths.
Batman’s gaze fell upon the charred, blackened web cocoon.
The angle.
The timing.
The wrapping technique.
His tactical visor replayed that split second over and over in the background.
This was definitely not luck.
In mere fractions of a second during that dive, the youth had executed a complex set of mechanical calculations and used his own body to carry out the optimal solution.
Yet now he sat on the floor, clutching a bleeding shoulder and rambling about “safety regulations” like a terrified child.
Batman remained silent for a long time.
Outside the warehouse, the sirens drew closer and closer.
“You need to treat that wound,” Batman finally spoke, his voice still low, though the bone-chilling frost within it seemed to thaw by a fraction.
Cole looked up, the slightly goofy, stitched black lenses of his mask staring back blankly.
“Oh, this?
It’s fine…
Seriously, it’s nothing.”
Cole struggled to stand, rolling his shoulder slightly.
The movement pulled at the wound, making him suck in a sharp breath of air through his teeth as more blood welled out.
He wiped his face, pretending not to care.
“I’ve…
I’ve had way worse falls before.
Really.
One time I fell from the thirteenth floor and landed right on a dumpster.
An iron one, too…”
He trailed off, waving his hand as if realizing the story was too embarrassing.
“Thanks for asking, though.
Whoa…
Batman is actually concerned about me.”
Cole’s voice suddenly took on a dreamy, giddy excitement.
“This is the best day of my life!
I got blown up and I’m bleeding, but Batman talked to me!
Hey, did you see that webbing earlier?
I call it ‘blast-resistant plastic wrap.’ What do you think of the name?”
Batman stared at him, saying nothing.
In the shadows, the white lenses of his cowl flickered with an unreadable light.
The kid in front of him was putting on an act.
A very clumsy one.
And he actually thought Batman couldn’t tell.