Poor Tom never even had the chance to react.
His vision went black in an instant, and before a scream could escape his throat, his consciousness slipped away completely.
Dean caught him smoothly.
With practiced efficiency, he hoisted the unconscious intern onto his shoulder as if he weighed nothing at all. In his other hand, Dean already held a compact grappling hook gun.
Without hesitation, he aimed upward and pulled the trigger.
With a sharp whirr, the hook shot toward the rooftop of Gotham International Hotel. The cable tightened instantly, and Dean was yanked upward, carrying Tom with him as both figures vanished into the shadows above.
---
The Rooftop
Dean had scouted the hotel countless times over the past week.
The rooftop was exactly as he remembered—empty, silent, and completely isolated.
There were no stairways leading inside. No elevators. Nothing that connected directly to the interior of the hotel.
The only possible entrance point was a series of ventilation shafts leading to the presidential suite on the twenty-fifth floor. Unfortunately, that suite had a private elevator, one that required a special access card to activate.
That route was unusable.
Still, the rooftop had its value.
Almost no one ever came here.
Which made it the perfect place to hide an unconscious person.
Dean gently laid Tom flat in the center of the rooftop.
"You'd better sleep a little longer," he muttered calmly.
He took a small pill from his pocket and placed it inside Tom's mouth, instructing him softly—even though he knew Tom couldn't hear him—to keep it there.
The pill dissolved quickly.
It wasn't particularly strong, just enough to keep Tom unconscious for another five or six hours. When he woke up, he'd be groggy—but otherwise unharmed.
Dean had no interest in unnecessary cruelty.
Next, he began working swiftly.
He stripped off Tom's outer jacket and trousers, replacing his own clothes piece by piece. Then, from a protective case, he took out a thin, flesh-colored facial mask and pressed it onto his face.
The material adhered seamlessly, reshaping itself down to the finest details.
This wasn't something Dean had prepared on a whim.
During his reconnaissance, he had noticed a pattern.
Every single time trash was taken out of the kitchen, it was Tom.
Young. Overworked. An intern.
Someone no one paid attention to.
So Dean had prepared Tom's mask days in advance.
And even if it hadn't been Tom tonight, it wouldn't have mattered much.
Dean always carried two or three blank, semi-finished masks—tools that could be rapidly molded to imitate almost anyone. Flexibility was essential.
Once dressed, Dean adjusted his posture, loosened his shoulders, and cleared his throat.
"Cough… cough…"
Then he spoke.
"I really need a good rest… I really need a good rest…"
The first sentence sounded almost like Dean.
The second did not.
In just two short phrases, his tone, rhythm, and inflection shifted completely—until it was indistinguishable from Tom's voice.
Satisfied, Dean grabbed the trash can Tom had carried out earlier.
Then he descended.
---
Back Inside the Hotel
Using Tom's employee card, Dean casually unlocked the back door and walked inside.
No alarms.
No hesitation.
Just another exhausted intern returning to work.
---
The Front Entrance
At the same time, at the main entrance of Gotham International Hotel, a black Rolls-Royce Phantom rolled to a smooth stop before the red carpet.
The rear door opened first.
Dick Grayson stepped out, dressed in an elegant formal suit tailored perfectly to his frame. He looked every bit the young heir of one of Gotham's most prestigious families.
From the driver's seat emerged Alfred Pennyworth, composed and dignified as ever.
A valet immediately approached, bowed respectfully, and took over the vehicle, driving it toward the parking area.
At the same time, a hotel attendant stepped forward, checked their invitations, and bowed deeply.
"Mr. Grayson, Mr. Pennyworth—welcome to the auction."
"Please follow me."
Together, Dick and Alfred entered the hotel lobby.
And immediately, they saw it.
A long line of GCPD officers, standing shoulder to shoulder, conducting strict security checks on every guest.
At the center of it all stood a familiar figure.
Nearly fifty years old.
Pot-bellied.
Wearing a greasy cowboy hat.
Harvey Bullock.
Commissioner Gordon's longtime deputy.
"Officer Bullock," Dick said politely as they approached. "What's with all the security?"
Bullock's eyes lit up when he saw them.
"Well, if it isn't Alfred Pennyworth—and little Grayson!" he said loudly. "If you're here, does that mean Bruce Wayne finally decided to show his face?"
He laughed and gave Dick a friendly—but firm—pat on the shoulder.
"It's been what, two years since I last saw you? Look at you—shot up like a weed. How's life in Wayne Manor? Bruce treating you right?"
Dick smiled.
"Very well, sir. Alfred and Bruce treat me like family. I couldn't ask for more."
Bullock nodded approvingly.
"That's good to hear."
Alfred stepped in smoothly.
"Master Wayne has other obligations tonight," he explained. "So I'm accompanying Master Richard in his stead."
Bullock snorted.
"Probably off on a romantic evening with some beautiful woman," he muttered.
Then Alfred gestured lightly toward the line of officers.
"This is because of Kaito Kid, I assume?"
Bullock's expression hardened slightly.
"Correct. Intelligence suggests Kaito Kid has exceptional disguise abilities—possibly even shapeshifting similar to Clayface."
He leaned closer.
"That means anyone you see could be him."
Without warning, Bullock suddenly reached out—
And pinched Dick's cheek hard.
"Just like this."
"Ow! Wh—what are you doing~~~!" Dick yelped, his face instantly reddening.
Bullock released him casually.
"If it's a mask or fake skin, you'll feel it. If it's Clayface-style shapeshifting, pressure exposes it too."
Dick rubbed his cheek, clearly unhappy.
Bullock then turned to Alfred—but this time, his grip was much gentler.
Every guest entering the hotel underwent the same process.
Female guests were inspected by female officers if they preferred.
"My apologies," Bullock said with a grin that didn't quite match his words. "Standard procedure."
Dick glanced around.
"Where's Commissioner Gordon?"
"He's coordinating security inside the auction hall," Bullock replied. "I'm just holding the door."
Alfred nodded politely.
"Then we won't interfere with your duties."
With that, the two passed security and entered the elevator, heading toward the auction floor on the eighteenth level.
---
Meanwhile…
Deep within the hotel's service corridors, an exhausted intern pushed a trash can forward, his steps unsteady, his posture slouched.
No one gave him a second glance.
No one suspected a thing.
Because Kaito Kid was already inside.
---------------------------------------------
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