"Sir, if you really need help," Harley spoke up, her voice edged with restrained annoyance, "I can assist you."
But the man didn't even glance at her. He looked past her, eyes scanning the hallway, panic creeping across his face.
"I only want Dr. Shawn!" he exclaimed. "No other doctor. If he's willing to come with me—whatever he charges—I'll pay it. No matter the price."
The moment those words left his lips, Harley and Selina's eyes lit up like slot machines hitting a jackpot.
A man desperate enough to say something like "no matter the cost" had to be filthy rich.
But just as quickly as hope bloomed, it withered.
They exchanged a sigh as if air had been let out of a balloon.
Because with Dr. Shawn's temperament… money meant very little.
Time and again, Gotham's upper crust had come knocking, begging for private sessions or discreet interventions. Each time, Shawn had waved them off like annoying flies. He couldn't care less about prestige or wealth.
And yet, when notorious criminals and unhinged lunatics—people with blood-stained hands and rap sheets longer than novels—came through the door, Shawn took personal interest. He would roll up his sleeves and dive into their madness with clinical precision.
Harley and Selina had long suspected that their boss wasn't quite normal. Genius? Absolutely. But normal? Not even close.
Inside the office, Shawn reclined lazily in his chair, arms folded behind his head.
He had heard the whole exchange going on outside. Every anxious plea, every raised voice.
But he made no move to intervene.
Dealing with desperate rich folks was exhausting. And Shawn was far too relaxed to bother.
Then—
Ding!
A familiar chime echoed in his mind, crisp and digital.
"New mission released: Please go to Wayne Manor to sign in!"
"Reward: 1 Lucky Draw + 10,000 System Points."
Shawn blinked.
Wayne Manor?
He sat up.
That was Batman's place, wasn't it?
He frowned, wondering what the system was playing at. It rarely handed out missions unless something significant was about to happen.
Then, it clicked.
If the system wanted him to go there… something must've happened to Bruce Wayne.
Rising from his chair, Shawn stepped out of the office and into the lobby.
Sure enough, there stood a visibly anxious middle-aged man. His suit was tidy, but the worry on his face betrayed the chaos beneath. Harley and Selina stood off to the side, arms crossed and unimpressed.
The moment Harley spotted Shawn, she threw up her hands. "Boss, this guy insists on seeing you. Your call."
The man turned quickly, eyes wide as he saw Shawn.
"You're Dr. Shawn?" he asked, almost disbelieving. "Thank God! Please, you must come with me immediately."
He took a step forward. "Name your price. Whatever you want."
Shawn didn't answer right away. He studied the man's face for a moment, then asked coolly, "Your name?"
That gave the man pause. He looked like he didn't want to answer.
Shawn raised an eyebrow.
"Fine. If you won't say, Selina—show him the door."
Selina was already stepping forward with a grin when the man blurted, "Wait! Please! It's Alfred. Alfred Pennyworth."
Now that name struck a chord.
Selina froze. "Wait a second… Pennyworth? As in the Wayne family's butler?"
Harley turned sharply, surprised. "You're that Alfred?"
Both women instantly shifted their posture. The Wayne name carried a lot of weight in Gotham—maybe even more than Arkham itself.
Shawn, however, remained cool and composed. He had already guessed it. After all, his system never gave out tasks randomly.
If he was being sent to Wayne Manor, it meant Bruce Wayne—Batman—was in trouble.
"Alright," Shawn said, voice even. "What exactly do you need from me?"
"There's someone who needs treatment," Alfred said carefully.
"Who?"
"You'll understand when you arrive."
Shawn narrowed his eyes. "Not interested."
He turned to walk back into the office.
Alfred stepped forward quickly, panic flaring in his voice. "Please! It's Master Bruce. He's seriously injured. I've heard about your reputation—your abilities. No one else can help him."
That stopped Shawn in his tracks.
Bingo.
So he'd guessed right after all.
Without looking back, Shawn reached over to grab a sleek black medical case from the wall.
"Harley. Selina. I'm heading out for a while," he said.
"Don't wander off."
"Boss!" Selina perked up immediately, flashing a grin. "Can I come with you?"
"No."
He didn't even give her a chance to argue. Shawn knew Selina too well—wherever she went, "souvenirs" had a habit of disappearing.
Selina pouted, but didn't press.
Alfred, meanwhile, looked visibly relieved.
As he exhaled, his hand slipped into his coat. A second later, he produced two thick wads of cash—each wrapped in a leather strap. One went to Harley. The other to Selina.
"Ladies," he said politely, "today's events are to remain confidential. I was never here."
Harley's eyes lit up. "Of course! Didn't see a thing!"
Selina winked and pocketed the bundle. "Forget you ever existed."
Hush money. Classic.
Shawn pretended not to notice. It wasn't his problem.
Moments later, he and Alfred climbed into the waiting car.
The vehicle cruised through Gotham's winding streets. The rain had just started, pattering gently on the windshield.
Inside the car, Alfred sat silent for a moment before finally speaking.
"I appreciate you agreeing to come, Dr. Shawn."
"You didn't leave me much choice," Shawn replied. "The system would've made me go eventually."
Alfred blinked. "System?"
"Nothing. Continue."
Alfred nodded, though confusion flickered in his eyes.
"I'll be honest with you," he said after a beat. "Master Bruce has been in worse shape before. But this… this isn't like those times. He was on a mission—tracking someone called Valon—when he walked into a trap."
Shawn's ears perked up.
Valon.
He knew that name. Or rather, he knew the type. Valon was one of those arcane sorcerers twisted by otherworldly rituals—half warlock, half madman. He dealt in shadow magic and was known to summon things that didn't belong in this world.
"He was poisoned," Alfred continued. "Something strange. It's beyond what our doctors can handle. We were told you specialize in the... unconventional."
"I do," Shawn said simply. "But if it's Valon, you should've called me yesterday."
Alfred didn't respond to that.
Instead, he looked out the window as Wayne Manor came into view.
The iron gates opened slowly, revealing the looming silhouette of Wayne Manor. Lightning cracked in the distance, casting eerie shadows on the towering windows.
The car came to a stop in front of the main entrance.
Shawn stepped out, coat flapping in the breeze. The moment his feet hit the stone pavement, he could feel it—something dark clung to the air.
A curse. A presence. This wasn't just a wound. It was a mark.
And Bruce Wayne had been branded.
Alfred led the way inside without speaking. The manor was silent except for the sound of rain and the distant hum of security systems.
They descended into the underground facility—into the Batcave.
And there, on a steel medical table, was Bruce Wayne.
Even behind the oxygen mask, his face looked pale. Dark veins curled up the side of his neck like ink beneath skin.
Shawn stepped forward and set the case down beside the table.
"Alright," he said, pulling on his gloves. "Let's see what Valon left behind."
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