With Dean's current abilities, dealing with a handful of half-conscious thugs was effortless.
In Gotham, almost every unlit alley hid people like them.
They weren't members of any real gang, nor did they possess any noteworthy skills. They drifted through life in a permanent haze, bullying those weaker than themselves while trembling in fear of anyone stronger. Every month, they collected government subsidies—most of them sourced indirectly from the Wayne Charitable Foundation—and within days, the money vanished into drugs.
Once the cash ran out, they gathered in small packs of three to five, lurking in dark corners, waiting for a lone passerby. Whatever money they managed to steal went straight back into their addiction.
And so the cycle repeated.
Again.
And again.
Their final outcomes were usually predictable: dying from an overdose, starving on the streets, or suffering a mental collapse so severe that they were sent to Arkham Asylum.
A few "lucky" ones were picked up by major gangs as disposable scapegoats, took the fall for minor crimes, and served a few years in Blackgate Penitentiary. When released, they received a small sum of money—just enough to repeat the same mistakes.
Even those sentenced to decades, or even life imprisonment, at least received free food and shelter. They didn't have to worry about freezing to death in winter or starving in an alley. Withdrawal symptoms might make life unbearable, but survival itself was guaranteed.
Ironically, they could have achieved that security by committing a minor crime on their own.
Yet they lacked even that courage.
They were so useless that even small gangs with barely a dozen members didn't bother recruiting them.
And there were far too many people like this in Gotham.
Some might ask: why not give them jobs?
A reasonable suggestion.
But jobs required willingness—and discipline—and sobriety.
Dean didn't pity them. Not even a little.
So he hadn't held back.
By the time he left the alley, the thugs were unconscious, sprawled across the damp pavement, groaning faintly. Dean had already changed both his clothes and his face, blending seamlessly back into the city.
He checked the time.
Eight o'clock in the evening.
Still early.
Dean wasn't in a rush to return home. His thoughts were occupied by one thing alone—Vicki Vale's report.
"Gotham's elite auction… the world's largest and most precious pink diamond…"
The words replayed in his mind.
He was interested. Very interested.
"If I remember correctly," Dean muttered to himself, "the auction is next Saturday, from nine p.m. to twelve thirty. And the pink diamond is the final item."
The location was just as clear in his memory.
The Grand Ballroom, 18th floor, Gotham International Hotel.
"This is the perfect time to scout the place."
Decision made.
Dean hailed a taxi—luck was on his side tonight—and twenty minutes later, the car stopped at the hotel entrance.
The Gotham International Hotel towered over the street, standing twenty-six stories tall and occupying an enormous area. Its exterior was elegant and imposing, exuding wealth and history. Rumor had it that the hotel was built by an old Gotham noble family, though no one could say for certain whether that was true.
Unlike most hotels, this one was practically private.
Its absurdly high room rates had already scared off ninety-nine percent of potential guests.
Even though the auction was still a week away, a red carpet had been rolled out at the main entrance. Uniformed attendants stood at attention, while paparazzi crowded nearby vantage points, cameras ready, waiting for celebrities or powerful figures to arrive early.
Entering through the front door required strict identity verification.
Dean didn't even consider it.
He found a quiet corner nearby and quickly changed into a tight-fitting black suit. A black mask followed, covering most of his face and leaving only his eyes and mouth exposed. In the shadows, he looked like a small, living silhouette.
This was reconnaissance—not an official operation.
Wearing his usual flamboyant phantom thief outfit would have been ridiculous.
Still, Dean frowned slightly.
If someone did spot him dressed like this, he would look unmistakably criminal. It wouldn't be difficult to escape, but unnecessary trouble was still trouble.
"Is there a way to wear black… and not be taken seriously if seen?"
A spark of inspiration struck.
Dean pulled out a yellow paint pen and quickly drew a bat-shaped symbol across his chest.
He admired it briefly.
"…Perfect."
After finishing his preparations, Dean slipped around to the back of the hotel, avoiding cameras with practiced ease. Behind the building sat a row of dumpsters and a small metal door. The smell of food waste made it obvious—this entrance led to the kitchen.
The door was locked. Cameras watched it constantly.
Picking the lock here would take time—and someone could arrive at any moment.
Dean abandoned the idea and continued circling the hotel.
Once.
Twice.
After completing a full loop, he stopped.
"No other entrances," he muttered.
Then he tilted his head upward.
"No path on the ground… let's try above."
Returning to a surveillance blind spot, Dean pulled out his grappling gun and fired it upward. The hook caught, and he ascended smoothly.
Most buildings had rooftop stairwells.
This one didn't.
The rooftop was strangely bare. No access stairs. No door. Not even a ladder.
Dean stared at it in disbelief.
"What kind of lunatic designs a building like this?"
At that moment, he sincerely wanted to shake hands—with force—with whoever had approved the construction plans.
He crouched near the edge of the roof, looking down toward the back entrance.
"Should I just wait until the kitchen throws out trash next time?" he wondered.
Then—
"Hm?"
Something caught his eye.
A few meters below him, built into the outer wall, was a ventilation shaft.
That alone wasn't unusual.
What was unusual… was its size.
It was enormous.
Large enough for a fully grown adult to crawl inside.
Dean stared at it for a long second.
Then he smiled.
A path had revealed itself.
---
Meanwhile, high above, on the twenty-fifth floor of the Gotham International Hotel, sat the most luxurious room in the entire building.
The Presidential Suite.
Its size alone took up nearly the entire floor—large enough to host a thousand-person banquet with ease. Normally, no amount of money could buy access to this place. It was reserved exclusively for VIPs with political status: foreign envoys, national leaders, and high-ranking officials.
Tonight, however, it was occupied by a very different group.
Several men with hardened expressions stood scattered around the room, their posture alert and dangerous.
At the center, lounging comfortably on a leather sofa, sat a blond man in his early thirties. He wore a black leather coat, his hair slicked back neatly, a cigarette dangling lazily from his lips.
He exhaled smoke and grinned.
"Nice place you've got," he said casually. "I like this sofa. Very comfortable."
Across from him sat a middle-aged man with a thick walrus mustache, his back stiff with tension. The name badge on his chest identified him clearly.
Joey Cicero — Hotel Manager, Gotham International Hotel.
"If you like it," Cicero replied nervously, "I can have an identical one delivered to you, Ogilvy."
Ogilvy chuckled, stretching his arms along the sofa.
Cicero swallowed, then forced himself to ask, "The auction doesn't start until next week. Why are you here so early?"
Ogilvy took another drag from his cigarette.
"Orders from above," he said lightly. "I'm just doing what I'm told."
The color drained from Cicero's face.
"…What orders?" he asked carefully. "What did Mr. Penguin instruct?"
The room fell silent.
Smoke curled upward.
And somewhere deep within the hotel's walls, metal creaked softly as a ventilation cover shifted—unnoticed, unheard, and dangerously out of place.
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