Alfred let out a quiet sigh, his expression carrying a trace of nostalgia.
"Alas… if Master Bruce were here, he would surely make the same decision as you."
He did not continue trying to persuade Dick. Instead, Alfred smoothly shifted roles—no longer merely Wayne Manor's butler, but once again the trusted strategist and logistical backbone of the Bat-Family.
"Should we notify Commissioner Gordon?" Alfred asked calmly. "If Kaito Kid has infiltrated the auction house, the police could conduct another round of screening on everyone present."
"No," Dick replied instantly, his tone firm. "We don't have proof."
He lowered his voice.
"Kaito Kid putting my identity on that card was deliberate. It's his way of telling me something very clear—this game is meant for me alone."
Dick shook his head slightly.
"If I go to Gordon and say Kaito Kid is already inside without evidence, the police will only start questioning me instead. And the only thing we have is that card."
He paused, his jaw tightening.
"And the name on the card wasn't Dick Grayson. It was Robin."
That alone made it dangerous.
"If the police start asking how a criminal knows Robin's identity, my secret won't last five minutes. I can't show up in costume either. The moment I do, they'll demand to know where the card came from—and then they'll demand identity verification."
Dick had already imagined the outcome.
It would be a disaster.
Alfred frowned slightly. "Then how do you plan to find him? There are nearly a thousand guests tonight."
"It doesn't matter," Dick said calmly.
He scanned the room, his eyes sharp, calculating.
"Batman and I have never relied on the police as backup. We are the backup. I can handle this."
He narrowed his eyes.
"And I have a rough idea of what Kaito Kid is planning."
There was a glint of anticipation in his gaze.
"I'm actually curious what kind of surprise he's prepared."
Alfred studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Then what is our next move?"
Dick relaxed slightly and smiled.
"We do what we came here to do."
He gestured toward the table.
"Dinner."
---
Behind the Scenes
Some time later, in the public restroom behind the venue.
A man calmly removed his waiter's uniform and replaced it with another set of identical clothing.
Yes—the waiter who had earlier served Alfred and Dick was Dean, wearing a disguise.
As for how he entered the auction house, it all began in the kitchen.
Earlier that evening, Dean had quietly knocked out a kitchen intern named Tom, dragging him into a storage room and securing him safely. No alarms. No witnesses.
Disguised as Tom, Dean seamlessly integrated himself into the kitchen staff.
He worked tirelessly.
Whenever a task appeared—scrubbing floors, moving crates, hauling supplies—he volunteered. If someone didn't want to do it, he took it instead.
He was diligent. Exhaustingly so.
To the veteran kitchen staff, this behavior made perfect sense.
Tom was new. New hires always tried too hard.
Before long, "Tom" collapsed on the kitchen floor, completely drained. He looked barely capable of lifting a finger.
The senior chefs exchanged glances.
One of them—who had earlier ordered Tom around repeatedly—felt guilty. Even when the trash bins overflowed, he couldn't bring himself to ask again.
They didn't suspect a thing.
Why would they?
Every kitchen employee had already passed police verification earlier that day. In their minds, anyone inside was already cleared.
Surveillance cameras covered the back entrance. As long as no one visibly left the monitored areas, nothing seemed wrong.
And more importantly—everyone was too busy to think deeply.
This was thought inertia at work.
Once someone was labeled "safe," they stopped being questioned.
That was exactly why Dean had chosen this identity.
Re-checking every person repeatedly was impossible. Eventually, frustration would wear everyone down—both the inspectors and the staff.
In the eyes of the kitchen team, Tom's body had reached its limit.
And tonight was not the night for accidents.
With so many powerful guests in the building, even a minor incident would cause chaos.
So the exhausted "Tom" was reassigned.
Instead of kitchen labor, he was sent to the restaurant floor—tasked with taking orders and delivering plates.
A simple plate-bearer.
The hotel itself had multiple kitchens—one on each floor. But the first-floor kitchen was the largest, responsible for processing and pre-preparing ingredients.
Finished dishes were finalized on upper floors after being transported via staff elevators.
Following orders, Dean pushed a large cart of ingredients to the eighteenth-floor kitchen.
That was where his real mission began.
Not long after, he spotted Dick Grayson and Alfred Pennyworth.
The collision with Vicki Vale?
The falling tray?
All intentional.
The goal was simple—deliver the card.
Once it was done, Dean vanished.
He immediately changed disguises.
He knew exactly how Dick would think.
Suspicion would fall on the waiter and on Vicki Vale. If Dean stayed in that outfit, exposure was inevitable.
A missing waiter wouldn't raise alarms right away. The restaurant was crowded. Staff rotated constantly.
By the time anyone noticed, the auction would already be well underway.
And unless Dick publicly announced that Kaito Kid might be disguised as a waiter—which he couldn't do without exposing himself—Dean was safe.
That was the weakness of secret identities.
Dean checked his watch and smiled faintly.
"The auction is about to begin."
He glanced behind him.
In the restroom stall lay a heavyset man, bound and unconscious.
Dean tilted his head slightly.
"Mr. Grayle Tartard Ethan… thank you for your cooperation."
---
The Auction Begins
Soon after, the auction officially started.
The massive curtain separating the entertainment hall from the auction chamber slowly rose.
Nearly a thousand elite guests moved forward, filling the tiered seating rows.
There were no nameplates.
Yet no one sat randomly.
They knew.
Which row they belonged in.
Which side.
Who they were allowed to sit beside.
Status determined everything.
Some front-row seats remained empty, but no one dared occupy them without permission.
Those who belonged in the back stayed there—even if better seats were available.
This unspoken hierarchy was law.
Then Dick and Alfred arrived.
Without hesitation, they took their places at the very center of the first row.
No objections.
No whispers.
Because they represented Gotham's uncrowned ruler.
Wayne.
And as the lights dimmed and the auctioneer stepped forward, unseen eyes watched carefully.
The game had begun.
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