Chapter 113

At dawn, sunlight streamed into Wayne Manor’s bedroom; Bruce sat up on the bed, and Alfred stood outside the door. Bruce asked him, “What time is it?”

“Nine o’clock, Young Master.”

Bruce was startled. He walked to the window, pulled back the curtain, and saw that the outside world was indeed bright. It was the first time since returning to Gotham that he had woken so late.

Alfred, the butler, looked delighted. When Bruce came downstairs for breakfast, Alfred stood beside him with a smiling face.

“Alfred, what’s wrong? Why do you look so happy?”

“Because lately, Young Master, you seem happy.”

Bruce froze. Was he happy? He touched his face and tried to recall his recent behavior.

Thanks to Schiller’s brilliantly inventive internship program for Gotham University students, Bruce had been swamped. By day, he patrolled traffic with other students; by night, he shuttled gang members between hospitals and prisons—moving those who couldn’t fit here to there, and those who couldn’t fit there to here.

He suddenly realized: lately, he spent far more time as Bruce than as Batman.

In the past, within Wayne Manor, he never concealed his true nature—he rarely smiled, was quiet, and though close to Alfred, rarely showed emotional fluctuations.

But lately, having spent so much time as Bruce, his behavior had grown more like the flamboyant playboy he pretended to be. He no longer scowled all day and occasionally even joked with Alfred.

This stirred a warning in him. Since returning to Gotham, he had never naturally slept until nine. This was his mind relaxing its vigilance.

Psychologically, this was normal. People become who they believe themselves to be. Bruce was only eighteen, just starting university. When he immersed himself in playing a cheerful, sociable billionaire, he could no longer clearly distinguish the boundaries between his fabricated identity and his true self.

After another exhausting day, Bruce returned to his bedroom bathroom, turned on the faucet, and splashed cold water on his face.

The curtains stirred gently in the evening breeze; cold light hung above him, casting a pool of darkness beneath his feet.

Bruce braced his hands on the sink, staring into the mirror. The man reflected had blue eyes, but overhead lighting cast shadows beneath his brow ridges.

“Who am I?” he asked.

“Who am I?”

“Who am I…”

His voice echoed through the empty room, rebounding off the walls and returning to his ears—as if another version of himself were asking the same question. He felt he almost heard an answer, yet heard nothing at all.

Reflections and echoes could not give him answers. Bruce knew this well.

He reached out to wipe the fog from the glass, wanting to see his eyes clearly—but in the end, he did not. He let his entire face and eyes remain shrouded in the mist, then stood upright, looking down at his reflection.

“I am Batman.”

“I am Batman…”

His lips slowly curved downward. He wore no mask, yet shadows climbed his face, as if a black mask had been drawn over it once more.

The shadows over his blue eyes deepened until only his low voice echoed through the empty manor: “I am… Batman…”

Bruce stepped out of the bathroom. In the pitch-black bedroom, he did not turn on the light. He walked to the door, opened it, then passed through the dark hallway. When he reached the stairs, he saw Alfred below, polishing the old telephone with a felt cloth.

Since returning, Bruce had invented a new mobile communication device—the cell phone—and had never used the telephone again. That rotary-dial relic was far too ancient, and whenever its bell rang, the manor felt even emptier.

But Alfred cherished that telephone. Bruce had never seen a speck of dust on it. Today was no different—except that Bruce heard Alfred humming. It was a jazz tune, steeped in the spirit of a bygone era, like the cheerful, lively hearts of immigrants who first discovered this golden coast.

Bruce watched Alfred’s back, closed his eyes in pain, clenched his grip on the railing, and the old wooden handrail creaked softly. Alfred turned, saw Bruce standing on the stairs, and before he could speak, Bruce fled back to his bedroom like a hunted man.

As he slammed the bedroom door shut, he gasped for breath—as if walking that distance had been more exhausting than running several kilometers.

He felt violent emotions churning inside him, as if something relentlessly stimulated his brain’s emotional centers.

Long ago, since that dark night’s gunshot, Bruce had not felt such intense emotion. Half his emotional world had been severed—joy, happiness, awe—all gone for years.

But seeing Alfred so happy, Bruce could not describe his own feelings. This question had haunted him for a long time.

Unable to sleep, Bruce tossed and turned. An inexplicable impulse gripped him. He had no other choice—he put on the Batsuit and left Wayne Manor.

For the first time, Batman wore the suit not to hunt criminals, but to escape emotions he refused to accept.

After leaving Wayne Manor, he drifted aimlessly above Gotham. Bruce had never before so desperately wished to encounter a criminal—catch him, lock him up, send him to prison… no, today he should be sent to the psychiatric ward.

Thinking of this, Batman grimaced and pressed his hand to his forehead. What was he thinking? Wake up! You’re not Bruce! Forget about those hospitals and prisons and their endless back-and-forth!

But Batman could not control himself. The moment he imagined tomorrow’s prison population exceeding capacity by 28% and hospital bed occupancy falling below 15%, the pressure felt more terrifying than anything else.

But damn it—this city, where stepping outside meant stumbling upon three robberies, had gone half an hour without a single criminal.

The streets around the downtown rotary glowed brilliantly; four avenues extending from the rotary each stretched over a kilometer with night markets, lit up all night.