Over the next five days, Lucas’s life settled into an extraordinarily mundane routine.
Every morning at seven, he woke up and went to the bakery on the corner to buy a coffee and a croissant.
Upon returning, he handled small chores: sweeping the house, sorting through his parents’ old belongings, and reorganizing the bookshelf.
In the afternoons, he went out for a walk—without a specific destination, just strolling along the streets of Forest Hills, sometimes walking down to the subway station and back, committing the storefront signs and intersection layouts to memory.
On the afternoon of the fifth day, he stood before his second-floor window, looking out at the street.
It was about time.
He was already familiar with the daytime flow of the area: what time the school buses passed by, which roads backed up during the evening rush hour, and how many kids played in the community park on weekends.
But daytime information was only half of the picture.
The other half belonged to the night.
On the fifth night, he didn’t turn on the lights.
After finishing dinner, he sat in the living room waiting for night to fully fall, waiting for the street outside to go completely quiet.
Just past eleven o’clock, he stood up, walked into the bedroom, and shut the door.
Retrieving the Batsuit from the System space had become as natural as breathing.
The black synthetic fibers felt cool against his skin.
The weight of the cape hanging between his shoulder blades was evenly distributed, so light it was almost imperceptible.
Every Batarang locked securely into place on his utility belt, and the grapnel gun rested snugly against his outer thigh without impeding his motion.
He made a final adjustment to the wrists of his gauntlets, ensuring all equipment was in place.
The process was far smoother now than it had been in Afghanistan.
He didn’t use the door.
Slipping out through the second-floor window, he planted his foot on the narrow ledge, grabbed the roof drainpipe, and reached the rooftop in under three seconds.
The sound of the wind grew louder in his ears.
Across the street, lights were still on at the Parkers’—a white desk lamp illuminated Peter’s window, while Ben and May’s bedroom had already gone dark.
Lucas retracted his gaze and moved through the shadows of the roof, slipping along the ridgeline toward the east.
He didn’t intend to do anything on this first night—just observe.
Queens at night was far quieter than Manhattan.
The detached single-family homes lined the streets in neat silhouettes under the lamplight, their front lawns and low picket fences casting crisscrossing shadows in the moonlight.
An occasional car passed by, its headlights sweeping across the pavement before disappearing.
A cat crouched on a low fence post, its ears twitching as it spotted the shadow moving across the rooftops, though it didn’t stir.
He moved slowly, pausing at every intersection to observe for a few seconds.
Batman’s heightened senses operated automatically in the dark: footsteps, the distant low hum of the highway, the rustling frequency of an old oak tree’s leaves in the wind—all information was automatically categorized and flagged by his mind, though he took no action.
He was merely mapping out the terrain of the area.
After walking for about forty minutes, he stopped on the roof of Midtown High School.
The northern sports field was bordered by a chain-link fence, beyond which ran a service road connected to the main thoroughfare.
Street trees lined both sides, with wide gaps between streetlamps leaving several patches of road in dim shadows.
About two kilometers further east, the elevated subway tracks were visible, low vibrations rippling through the air whenever a train rattled past.
He sat on the concrete ledge at the roof’s edge, his cape draped behind him, unspread.
The night breeze blew in from the east, carrying a hint of moisture.
The System panel illuminated at the edge of his vision.
[Host has completed the initial nighttime reconnaissance.
Current coverage area: Forest Hills and surrounding area, approximately two square kilometers.]
[Recommendation: Before officially launching night patrols, further observe the distribution of criminal activity and target zones.
Current status: Information Gathering Phase.]
[Character Completion: 28% → 29%.]
Lucas closed the panel, sat for a while longer, then stood up from the rooftop and retraced his steps.
He used the exact same route to re-enter his house—window flip, footing, closing the window—the entire process taking less than fifteen seconds. This story is hosted at g.com.
After stowing the suit back into the System space, he stood in the darkness listening for a few seconds: no unusual noises downstairs, no movement outside the window.
Across the street, all the lights at the Parkers’ house were out.
He checked his phone as he lay down.
No messages.
Tony was likely still dealing with company affairs, and Rhodes hadn’t made contact either.
The next morning, while buying coffee at the bakery, he flipped through the community weekly newspaper.
Folded to page three, a small section reported on two local crimes: a nighttime robbery at a convenience store near Jackson Heights, where the perpetrators were still at large; and an armed threat at a gas station east of Forest Hills, where the suspect had been arrested.
Lucas folded the paper, put it back in place, paid for his coffee, and walked out.
On the afternoon of the sixth day, he sat on a bench in the community park for a while.
A group of kids played on the slide across from him while a few parents chatted on nearby benches.
Peter was there too—crouched on the grass at the edge of the park, intently focused on something, looking like he was observing insects or tracks on the ground.
Lucas didn’t walk over.
Sitting on the bench, he skimmed a book he had just borrowed from the library, occasionally looking up to glance around.
A moment later, Peter stood up and headed in his direction, clutching a dried leaf in his hand.
His steps quickened when he noticed Lucas on the bench, and he sat down on the far end of the seat.
“Hey, Lucas,” he greeted.
“Hey.”
Peter flipped the dried leaf over to inspect the back before placing it on his knee.
“What book are you reading?”
“Criminal Psychology.” Lucas tilted the cover toward him.
Peter glanced at the cover, a surprised expression flickering across his face.
“Did you study this in the military?”
“Just reading it on my own.”
Peter nodded and fell silent for a few seconds.
He seemed to be mulling over how to start the conversation, his fingers rubbing the edge of the leaf back and forth before he spoke.
“I have a science project to build a small circuit control system.
I soldered a board, but one of the solder joints popped off.
Uncle Ben told me to resolder it myself, but my hands aren’t steady enough, and I’m worried I’ll ruin the board.”
“Bring it over, let me take a look.”
Peter’s eyes lit up.
“Really?”
“It’s not that difficult,” Lucas said, turning a page in his book.
“Just bring it over.”
Peter jumped up.
“Then I’ll bring it over after school tomorrow!
Thanks, Lucas!”
He ran back toward the grass.
Lucas remained on the bench, continuing to turn pages.
Only after finishing the page did he raise his head to glance at Peter’s receding back.
That night, he officially launched his first strike.
He didn’t travel far.
That service road in Jackson Heights—during his daytime reconnaissance, he had noticed several idling panel vans coming and going at night, lacking distinct markings or set schedules, but always stopping outside the same auto repair shop.
He arrived near the area at eleven-thirty p.m., remaining on the roof to observe for about forty minutes without touching down. New chapters come out on g.com first.
At twelve-eleven a.m., a white panel van pulled up to the repair shop’s side door, its engine left idling.
Two men emerged from the side door, each carrying two black woven bags, placing them into the back of the van before quickly returning inside.
They repeated this four times.
The contours and weight distribution of the woven bags didn’t resemble normal cargo—sharply defined and rigid, clearly housing metal products.
Lucas dropped down from the roof, hugging the shadow of the wall as he approached the van.
He didn’t move against the two men.
Instead, while they returned inside for more cargo, he slipped around to the side of the van and used the tip of his grapnel gun to hook open the top of one woven bag, creating a small slit.
Inside were disassembled firearm components—oiled, wrapped barrels and receivers arranged neatly.
He took photos, restored the seal, and retreated into the shadows.
Following the van’s direction, he proceeded west for about two kilometers, stopping in an industrial area bordering Queens and Manhattan.
Just past one a.m., the same white panel van parked on a loading platform beside the freight rail tracks, its rear doors opening.
Someone was moving the woven bags from the van into a shipping container.
Lucas counted three men, moving with the same practiced, silent efficiency as the previous two.
He shifted to a closer vantage point, landing atop the cab of a disused crane, observing from thirty meters away through night-vision lenses.
The transfer took about twelve minutes.
Once finished, one man closed the container door and snapped a padlock shut.
Another picked up his phone to make a call, speaking in a low voice that Lucas couldn’t make out, though he noted down the shipping container’s identification number.
Three minutes later, he withdrew from his observation point and returned the way he came.
It was past two a.m.
when he arrived home.
Sitting in the living room, Lucas zoomed in on the photos on his phone, confirming the industrial area’s location—bordering Queens and Manhattan, right along the freight lines heading toward Hell’s Kitchen.
The supply chain was clear: pickups at Jackson Heights → transfer in the industrial zone → final destination in Manhattan’s West Side.
He set his phone down and leaned back into his chair.
The System panel illuminated in the dark:
[Host has completed the first official night patrol.
Identified one cross-district criminal logistics chain.
The destination of this chain is located in Hell’s Kitchen.]
[Character Completion: 29% → 30%.]
[Completion reached 30%.
Reward issued: Advanced Combat Techniques Pack.]
Lucas paused, his fingers freezing.
The System interface expanded before his eyes, lines of silent text surfacing:
[Pack Contents: Klurkor Kryptonian Martial Arts, Advanced Stealth Combat, Pressure Point Striking, Advanced Combat Consciousness.]
[Fusing—]
An invisible stream of information surged into his brain, far deeper than his first temporary skill fusion.
It wasn’t merely knowledge stuffed into memory, but something far more profound—instructions rewritten directly into his muscles and reflexes.
The alignment of his fingers, wrists, elbows, and shoulder blades restructured within his awareness, allowing him to perceive the exact physical limits of every joint during movement.
He looked down at his hands.
The palm lines were clear, the knuckles unchanged, yet he could feel that those fingers were now capable of feats previously impossible: striking from precise angles to dislocate a shoulder in a single blow, gauging the opponent’s next movement the instant his skin touched theirs, and a vague, instinctive sense predicting where the enemy would move next.
He stood up and executed a few movements in the living room.
Speed unchanged, force unchanged, yet every strike, kick, angle, and transition was completely transformed—each hit seamlessly setting up the starting point for the next.
If before…