Chapter 284

The night in Gotham, the cylindrical beams of car headlights gradually swept across the streets before shining straight down the avenue as a sports car slowly pulled up to the entrance of a circus encampment in Gotham's western suburbs.

The couple who stepped out appeared to be young parents: the tall father walked ahead holding his daughter, while the mother followed behind, clutching tickets and a bag. On the surface, they seemed a perfectly harmonious family—until the father's daughter let out a scream.

"Waaah!!!"

"Stop screaming," Bruce shoved his hand over Alice's mouth, his voice weary. Selina stepped forward, looping her arm through his. "You should stop covering her mouth—what if she bites you again?"

Bruce sighed and removed his hand. Alice squirmed violently in his arms, trying to jump free, but he held her fast with his other arm.

Why this family had ended up at the circus entrance began with these past few unusually "harmonious" moments of parent-child bonding.

Theoretically, if Bruce wanted to learn something, nothing in this world was beyond his grasp—including parenting theory. But ironically, every parenting theory in existence remained purely theoretical; in practice, they weren't just marginally helpful—they were utterly useless.

No parenting theory in this world teaches you how to handle a primordial cosmic chaos entity hatched from a fragment of a soul borrowed from a dream—and so, after ten minutes of intense study, Bruce realized he would have to invent an entirely new discipline.

But as the old saying goes, practice yields true knowledge—and this applied equally to parenting. After three days with Alice, Bruce had indeed uncovered a pattern.

Whether due to the nature of chaos entities or simply universal child traits, Alice was fascinated by anything that moved or made noise.

This should have fallen squarely within Bruce's domain—he could've built a robot or a toy car to entertain her. But he soon realized Alice didn't like moving objects—she liked moving people.

Bruce discovered this pattern thanks to Selina.

Desperate for help, Selina had been staying at Wayne Manor these past few days. Old Alfred was delighted—but Selina herself was quietly miserable.

Though childcare was exhausting, she endured it for Bruce's sake. But her innate artistic instincts had nowhere to express themselves, so she set up a horizontal bar on the manor's lawn and spent her free time swinging on it, honing her acrobatic skills.

Bruce then noticed that whenever Alice watched Selina perform on the bar, she became unnaturally quiet—even silent for full minutes.

Bruce and Selina seized upon this discovery: during the day, Selina swung and performed acrobatics—tumbling, wall-running, fire-jumping, unicycling—to amuse Alice; at night, Batman would drive his Batmobile through Gotham's streets with Alice inside.

Why the Batmobile? Because Alice only liked vehicles that roared loudly. Other sports cars lacked sufficient power—she screamed the moment she sat in them. Only when the Batmobile hit top speed did she quiet down.

Their routine was simple: by day, Selina performed acrobatics—aerialist stunts, wall-running, fire hoops, unicycling. Had Catwoman been even slightly less skilled, she wouldn't have lasted three days.

By night, the Batmobile's engine roared through every alley and boulevard of Gotham. For these past few days, Gotham's criminals had completely lain low—anyone who heard that terrifying engine growl all night long felt their heart pound.

But this arrangement ended on the third night—because someone stole the Batmobile's tires.

Yes, you read that right: the Batmobile, worth tens of millions of dollars, had its tires pried off.

The incident occurred at dusk, just as Bruce was about to take Alice out. The night before, he had parked the Batmobile a bit farther away—but he had never worried about security. Aside from its appearance, the Batmobile was practically a different species from ordinary cars.

Gotham had plenty of car thieves—but if they had the skill to break into the Batmobile, why bother stealing cars in Gotham? They could've become engineers at any major automaker.

Yet fate is capricious: misfortune always clusters. And indeed, there existed a genius thief who abandoned his post as chief engineer to pry tires off the Batmobile in Gotham.

Bruce carried Alice up to the Batmobile and stared at the vehicle now missing three wheels. He stood speechless.

He had spare tires, of course—but the problem lay in the Batmobile's absurdly complex technology. Even changing a tire required Bruce to do it himself. But now he held Alice, unable to spare even a minute, let alone drag the vehicle to the Batcave for repairs.

Without the Batmobile, Alice refused to sleep. Without her sleeping, neither Selina nor Bruce could sleep. Without their rest, they grew more exhausted, leaving them too drained to soothe Alice—and thus a vicious cycle began.

Until, one morning, they spotted an advertisement in Alfred's newspaper: the circus that had shut down during the Ice-Bound Gotham incident had reopened.

Bruce and Selina reasoned: if Alice loved watching Selina's acrobatics, a circus would surpass it. If they could lull Alice to sleep, Bruce could finally repair the Batmobile.

So they bought tickets and arrived the very next day the circus reopened.

Previously, this circus in Gotham's western suburbs had been popular, boasting rich animal acts and several skilled acrobats capable of performing high-difficulty stunts.

But after Gotham's ground damage forced a prolonged shutdown, the circus's business declined. Now, reopening, the circus owner warmly welcomed the Waynes.

Not only because they arrived early, but because Wayne was wealthy—if he enjoyed the show, he might invest, potentially expanding the circus to a much larger scale.

The owner had intended to seat the family in the center of the front row—but Bruce declined. First, the lighting there was too glaring, and the fire rings too close, making it uncomfortably hot. Second, Alice's appearance differed from ordinary children; the center seats drew too many spectators, increasing the risk of exposure.

Bruce and Selina chose a corner seat in the far right of the front row—close to the circus's restrooms and exits, allowing swift escape if needed.

Audience members trickled in, a few at a time. Today's turnout was slightly higher than the first day, but seats remained half-empty. The owner stood by the backstage door, his expression grim, clearly displeased.

He heard noise from backstage, turned, and lowered his voice in a sharp shout: "What are you doing? Why are you making so much noise? Didn't I warn you? Wayne is coming today—behave yourselves, you idiots!"

Then, as if venting, he grumbled: "It's all your fault! Demanding wages—why can't you be like lions and elephants? Just feed them, and they'll work for you!"

"You've seen how poorly business is. This week, I'm paying you only one-third of your usual wages."

The acrobats backstage erupted in fury. One tall man stepped forward: "Hey, Henry! You can't do this! We've worked for you a long time—we brought you plenty of ticket sales. We perform dangerous, high-risk acts—we risk our lives for money. You can't just—"

"Grayson, keep quiet! Do you still think your Grayson family's reputation still shines on the East Coast?"

"Don't forget—your father, old Grayson, died in a major performance, crushed into pulp. That's why your noble family ended up performing in my little circus!"

"Don't expect more. Listen: your wife's always sick, always taking leave—she's a burden. Giving you full pay is already more than I owe you…"

The tall man named Grayson's veins bulged with rage. His companions pulled him back, whispering reassurances. Finally, he clenched his fist but said nothing, retreating into the group.

The circus owner sneered triumphantly: "Don't think I don't know—your little brat wants to join this business too. But be careful—he better not end up crushed into pulp like his grandfather…"

Hearing someone curse his son, Grayson could no longer contain himself. He shoved aside those holding him, strode forward, and punched the circus owner square in the face. Then he jabbed a finger at his nose: "You said it yourself—Wayne is sitting out there. You still need me for this show."

"If I walk out now, are you going to send your lions and elephants to charm Wayne for money?"

The circus owner wiped blood from his nose, his face and neck flushed red. He glared at Grayson: "You'd better perform flawlessly. If anything goes wrong, you and your whole family are out!"

Grayson snorted and turned away.

In the audience, Bruce and Selina waited for the show to begin. Suddenly, two bell chimes rang. A half-grown boy approached, carrying a basket. "Would you like pancakes or bread? Fried onions and cheese slices—fifteen cents each…"

Selina leaned forward to inspect the basket—its contents smelled delicious. But Bruce studied the boy's face and said: "You don't seem happy."

The boy's expression remained flat. "If you don't want any, I'll ask someone else."

"Give me a pancake and two cheese slices," Selina said. The boy pulled the food from his basket and handed it to her. When he noticed Bruce had added ten cents as a tip, he panicked and pushed the money back. "One portion is only fifteen cents—you gave too much…"

"You're not used to this job, are you?" Bruce looked into his eyes. "In circuses and theaters, vendors and flower boys receive tips roughly equal to their item's price…"

Selina nodded. "I did this as a child. If you didn't earn enough tips, you got beaten."

The boy sighed. "I'm not a vendor. The circus owner hates my father—he won't let me perform. He only gives me these menial tasks."

"Then what do you do? Are you an acrobat?"

Selina sized up the boy. Though young, his build was balanced—long limbs, visible muscle definition on his arms.

"Of course I'm an acrobat. A member of the famed Grayson aerialist family. My dream is to become a great aerialist like my great-grandfather—but…"

He glanced back toward backstage, as if fearing someone watched him. "Thank you for your kindness—but ten cents is too much. I'll take half. I still have others to ask. Goodbye."

Selina took back the returned money and muttered: "Grayson family? I think I've heard of them. They're not from Gotham, are they? Such a pure child is rare here…"