Darkness—this is the eternal backdrop of Gotham. The lead-gray sky hangs like a heavy curtain, perpetually shrouding the city, blurring the line between day and night.
Martin stood by the dock, the salty sea breeze hitting him as waves lapped against the pier, sending a spray onto his coat with a soft slap. From time to time, he glanced at his watch, tracking the movement of its hands, waiting for nightfall.
At seven, Gotham's sky was void of light. Though distant lamps flickered on, their glow barely pierced the gloom.
A sharp car horn pulled Martin's attention. He turned to see twin high beams cutting through the darkness before the car rolled to a slow stop.
"Mr. Martin!"
The old butler, dressed in a black tailcoat, stepped out and handed him a crisp white invitation embossed with elegant British lettering.
Martin, though once a king in his field, had never cared for tedious formalities. He offered only a curt nod.
Alfred remained unfazed. Instead, he handed over a bank card. "One million dollars—your payment for assisting with the museum case. Consider it both gratitude and an investment. I trust you'll uncover something valuable aboard the Penguin's ship."
Martin raised an eyebrow. The Wayne fortune truly knew no bounds. To them, a million dollars was as disposable as loose change. Without hesitation, he pocketed the card, flashing a wry smile. "Don't worry. I'll figure out exactly what kind of scheme these criminals are brewing."
Alfred gave a slight bow before driving away.
Martin rubbed the bank card between his fingers, sensing the urgency behind Alfred's actions. For the Wayne family to openly involve themselves like this, Batman's usual discretion had been cast aside.
A deep horn echoed from the water, breaking the silence of the port. Suddenly, the once-quiet area buzzed with activity. Luxury cars pulled in, their headlights cutting through the darkness, illuminating the dock as if it were broad daylight.
Martin blended into the well-dressed crowd, making his way toward the massive cruise ship—the Final Offer. White steam hissed from its funnels as a long boarding ramp extended, lined with a thick red carpet.
As the first guests stepped aboard, colorful lights illuminated the ship, outlining its grand silhouette and highlighting the artificial fountains and sculptures adorning the deck. These lavish, meaningless displays catered to Gotham's elite—the kind who dressed in tailored suits and extravagant gowns, pretending they were here for more than just indulgence.
Martin, trailing at the end of the line, took in the ship's security as he boarded, mentally mapping out its defenses.
"Mr. Bruce Wayne's invitation?"
He handed over the invitation. The inspector scrutinized the card, then held up a photo of Bruce Wayne. "Is this supposed to be you?"
Martin rolled his eyes. "Do you not have eyes? Of course, that's not me."
The inspector frowned.
"Ever heard of a concept called transferring ownership?" Martin added dryly.
Recognition dawned on the inspector's face. "Ah, you're the detective. My apologies. Please, go right in."
"Lead the way."
A waiter took over, gesturing as he guided Martin through the ship, describing its many extravagant areas. Martin listened carefully, refining his mental layout of the vessel. When they finally reached the lowest level, the waiter boasted, "And here, we have the arena. Sometimes, we even feature superhuman matches—very thrilling."
"Let's go there."
Martin nodded, disinterested in Gotham's corrupt elite using people as entertainment.
The arena was at the very bottom of the ship, meaning he'd have to traverse most of the vessel to reach it.
Descending the winding staircases, he heard the deafening roars of the crowd before even setting foot inside.
"Place your bets!""My money's on the next round!""Kill him—rip him apart!"
The stadium, forged from welded steel plates, vibrated from the sheer intensity of the cheers.
Martin stepped into the audience stands and looked down. A muscular man wielding a massive blade was locked in combat with three wolf-like beasts.
"Woo—tear him apart!"
The spectators screamed in frenzied excitement, their expensive suits and dresses doing little to mask their primal bloodlust. They jumped and shouted, resembling nothing more than clothed animals.
The event organizers knew exactly how to fuel this madness. The moment the fighter showed signs of exhaustion, a handler released a fresh wave of starving wolves, ensuring only one challenger left the arena alive.
The crowd erupted in euphoric anticipation.
Martin grimaced, the stench of sweat, greed, and adrenaline thick in the air. His stomach churned.
"A pack of degenerates. Every last one of them should be lined up and shot."
Unable to stomach the scene any longer, he turned away.
He had once been a fighter himself. He knew exactly how this match would end—and he didn't care to watch another man die in vain.
"Damn Gotham. Damn these bastards."
Through the chaos, he spotted the Penguin's personal secretary standing at a high vantage point. Without hesitation, Martin moved through the crowd toward him.
Tonight, he would uncover exactly what the Penguin was planning.