If William pressed his right knee down just one more centimeter, this future Dark Knight would have bid Gotham a permanent farewell due to a crushed windpipe.
Bruce didn’t just sit there waiting for death; his waist muscles tensed instantly as he attempted to use his staggering core strength to force a violent rolling counterattack.
But it was all in vain.
William’s center of gravity was pinned down too firmly, and his exertion techniques were unnervingly proficient.
Bruce discovered in despair that all his counterattack routes—whether it was his left hand trying to grab William’s ankle or his knee preparing to thrust upward—had been locked down in advance by the other man from an incredibly bizarre angle that defied human mechanics.
“Cough—”
A sense of suffocation surged from his throat, Bruce’s vision began to darken, and the veins in his neck bulged high with congestion.
Yet those eyes of his, which wanted to see through everything, stared fixedly at William’s face above him, which was marked by heavy dark circles.
Why?
That was Bruce’s question.
Tonight was his first operation; he hadn’t returned to Gotham in many years, so logically, no one should have known his whereabouts.
How did this back-alley doctor, hidden in The Slums and reeking of blood, see through his identity at a single glance?
William looked at the Beast beneath him that was still trying to struggle, the corner of his mouth curling into a mocking arc.
“Can’t figure it out?” William’s voice wasn’t loud, but it was exceptionally clear in the empty Underground Room.
“Do you think your pitch-black getup is very stealthy?”
He freed his left hand and pointed to the pile of shredded rags soaking in bloody Water nearby.
“Wayne Enterprises Military Department, a third-generation Kevlar bulletproof fiber prototype discarded three years ago due to high costs and terrible breathability; it never even hit the market.”
“Someone who can get their hands on this and turn it into a bodysuit to wander around in—besides high-level insiders, there’s only that wealthy young master with absolute clearance.”
William paused, looking at Bruce as if he were an idiot.
“Then let’s factor in your physique.
Six-foot-two, nearly two hundred pounds, pure combat muscle groups.
Gotham has plenty of gang thugs with this build, but they can’t afford this grade of fiber.
Even less so would they have the leisure to not rob or deal drugs in the middle of the night, but instead run to an alley in the East End to take bullets from the Maroni Family.”
“Add to that your hands—calloused, yet with the perfect bone structure of a young master—and—” William sneered, his knee loosening slightly to allow Bruce to inhale a breath of air.
“Master Wayne, who just finished ten years of global travel and made a high-profile return to Gotham the day before yesterday…
is this problem really that hard?”
Bruce’s brain buzzed from the impact of these words.
Logic so meticulous it was abnormal, and an insight so sharp it was lethal.
The disguise he took pride in was practically like streaking in the Emperor’s New Clothes in front of this man.
His first street operation, which he thought was flawless, was full of holes like a joke in the eyes of others.
“Who exactly are you?
The Gotham I know doesn’t have people like you!” Bruce squeezed the words through his teeth, his voice as raspy as sandpaper.
“I am your savior.”
William abruptly pulled back his knee and stood up.
Freed from the pressure, Bruce began to cough violently, greedily gulping down air that smelled heavily of disinfectant.
William ignored him, turning to walk toward the wreckage of the messy operating table.
He rummaged through a pile of broken glass and scattered hemostats, pulled out a crumpled receipt, and fished a ballpoint pen with chipped paint from the pocket of his white coat.
“Swish, swish, swish.”
The pen tip flew across the low-quality paper.
William walked back to Bruce and unceremoniously slapped the paper onto Bruce’s bare, sweat-drenched pectoral muscles.
“One million U.S.
dollars.
Cash, or a transfer to an anonymous account?”
Bruce was stunned.
He looked down at the scrap of paper on his chest that read “Medical Emergency Fee and Hush Money: 1,000,000 USD,” then looked up at William.
That’s it?
Just a moment ago, he had the aura of a killer and displayed overwhelming combat skills, and now he’s suddenly turned into a butcher haggling in a wet market?
Just how much do you look down on our Wayne Enterprises?
Bruce pushed himself up with both hands and slowly sat up.
He wanted to ask William many questions, the biggest being what William had used to make him whole again in an instant.
This completely overturned all the medical knowledge he had accumulated over a decade of global travel!
Even the Lazarus Pit Water of the League of Assassins couldn’t heal a dying person’s penetrating wound to this extent in just a few dozen minutes!
“What did you inject me with?” Bruce suddenly asked, his eyes filled with extreme wariness and inquiry.
“A monster potion?
Alien technology?
Or some kind of Military biochemical experimental product?”
William was bending over to pick up the scattered scalpels and put them back into the tray; hearing this, he didn’t even turn his head.
“Master Wayne, in my clinic, there are two rules.”
William straightened up and tossed the stainless steel tray onto the table with a sharp “clatter.”
“First, we talk about money, not medical theory.
Second, don’t ask about my sourcing channels.”
He turned around, hands in his pockets, looking down at the richest man in Gotham sitting on the floor, his gaze becoming cold and greedy once more.
“One million to buy your life, plus the secret of the richest man in Gotham almost getting beaten to death while playing role-play—you’re getting a great deal.”
“Now, pay up, or I’ll take photos of you naked and send them to the front-page editorial department of the Gotham Gazette tomorrow morning.
I think they’d be more than happy to spend two million to buy this big news.”
Bruce Silence.
He stared intently into William’s eyes, trying to find even a trace of a flaw or a lie in those bottomless black pupils.
There was none; only a pure desire for U.S.
dollars and a confidence that showed no fear of the Wayne Family’s frantic retaliation.
Bruce knew that now was definitely not the time to probe for secrets.
The combat skills he was so proud of couldn’t last three moves against this man, and his proud disguise had been seen through at a glance; in this cramped Underground Room, he had no leverage.
He took a deep breath, forcibly suppressed the shock in his heart, and coldly recited a string of numbers.
“Swiss Bank, anonymous account, the password is—”
William raised an eyebrow and immediately pulled an old laptop from a drawer in the nearby table, his fingers flying across the keyboard.
Only the “clacking” of the keyboard remained in the Underground Room.
One minute later.
“Ding.”
A crisp notification sound.
Looking at the long string of zeros in the account balance on the screen, the coldness and hostility on William’s face instantly melted away.
“You should have said so earlier!
Master Wayne truly is a straightforward man!
As expected of the wealthiest person in Gotham City.”
William’s attitude did a complete 180-degree turn.
He casually closed the laptop, the smile on his face as bright as a blooming daisy, even carrying a hint of sycophancy.
He walked quickly to a metal cabinet in the corner, pulled the door open, and fished out a cheap but clean set of grey second-hand sportswear along with a pair of old sneakers, handing them eagerly to Bruce.
“Here, here, Master Wayne, the floor is cold, hurry up and put some clothes on.
That outfit of yours is a total loss; just make do with mine for now.”
Bruce looked at the offered clothes expressionlessly; he had never in his life worn an item of clothing costing less than five thousand dollars, let alone this street-stall junk smelling of low-quality laundry detergent.
But he had no choice.
He stood up without a word and quickly put on the sportswear.
The clothes were a bit tight, the taut fabric outlining his exaggerated muscular contours.
Just then, William approached again, holding a chipped mug printed with “I LOVE NY.”
“Freshly made instant coffee, Eltsen.
It can’t compare to the freshly ground coffee in your manor, but it’s not bad for warming the stomach.”
Bruce did not take the coffee.
He just stood there, giving William a deep look with an extremely complex gaze filled with scrutiny and wariness.
This man possessed divine medical skills, combat skills like a killing machine, and logic as meticulous as a demon’s, yet he behaved like a mercenary, petty person who only cared about money.
When did Gotham get such a monster?
Bruce’s gaze swept over the mottled house number on the clinic wall, carving the address firmly into his mind.
“I will be back.”
Bruce dropped those words and turned toward the rusted iron door.
“You’re welcome anytime!
Remember to bring enough money!” William waved from behind, taking a sip of the coffee in his mug.
“Bang.”
The heavy iron door slammed shut, cutting off the heavy rain and howling wind outside.
The smile on William’s face vanished instantly, replaced by his sickly fatigue.
He rubbed his aching neck and looked at the seven-figure balance on the computer screen, letting out a long sigh of relief.
“One million…
that’s enough to live comfortably for a while.”
He turned his head to look at the “Medicine Warehouse” door that was strictly off-limits to anyone.
Behind that door was the blue vortex leading to the Marvel Universe.
“However, being targeted by this paranoid Bat, I’m afraid there won’t be any peace in the days to come.”