Chapter 750: The Theatre Murder (Mid)

When Bruce gradually regained consciousness, it was already dark; he felt as if he had dreamed a dream, and when he woke, he had completely forgotten what it was about.

Bruce felt ravenously hungry, but there was no food readily available to satisfy him; he stood up, swayed twice, and collapsed back onto the floor.

Sitting for too long in an incorrect posture had put excessive pressure on his pelvis, impairing blood circulation in his back and legs—in short, his legs were numb.

When Bruce fell, his elbow struck the edge of the step; he cried out in pain and glared at his arm.

"Damn it, bad luck, right?"

He said it, but then he froze—he realized there was no one else here, no one to perform for; so he clenched his lips and stood up again.

This time, dizziness struck him; prolonged fasting had triggered mild hypoglycemic symptoms, but fortunately, his body was naturally strong, so the dizziness passed quickly and he returned to normal.

Bruce walked slowly outward, found the car he had driven over, got into the driver's seat, and exhaled deeply—but just as he was about to start the engine, he realized it wouldn't turn over.

After several failed attempts, Bruce had no choice but to get out and inspect the engine; when he opened the hood, he froze.

Because the entire engine was gone.

Bruce slammed the hood shut with force, looked around, and found no trace of a thief; this was all too common in Gotham—though the thief had at least left him the shell, which was almost considerate.

This sedan was not the Batmobile; it had undergone none of the complex modifications and had no spare engine, so it was now completely immobile.

Bruce looked around and found a public phone booth on a nearby street; he stepped inside and called Shiler: "Professor, could you please go to Wayne Manor and bring Aisha to your estate?"

"Yes, Alfred is sick and temporarily unable to care for her; I'm sorry to trouble you during this time. Thank you, Professor."

After hanging up, Bruce lowered his head and sighed; as he turned to leave the phone booth, it began to rain again.

This was the western edge of Gotham, still part of the wealthy district, where every household owned a private car and most had their own drivers; hardly anyone took taxis here, so taxis were rarely seen.

Bruce now had two choices: return to the phone booth and call for a cab, or walk back to the manor.

The manor was not far away, so Bruce decided to walk; after all, even if he returned home, it would be empty—why rush?

Or rather, he harbored a reluctant resistance, hoping the journey home would be longer, so he wouldn't have to face the hollow, silent grand hall.

Stepping out of the alley and onto the street, Bruce glanced left and right, oriented himself, and walked toward one end of the road.

Gotham's night rain was cold, but Bruce paid it no mind; he walked slowly along the street, and soon, a familiar building appeared in his view.

It was the Gotham Grand Theatre, the landmark of the West District; the last time Bruce had come here, he had come as Batman, to witness the execution of the Owl Court.

Now there were no owls—and no Batman.

Bruce stood at the rear of the Gotham Grand Theatre, not at the front entrance; there were few cars or pedestrians here, but from this angle, the theatre glowed brilliantly, its windowlight illuminating half the street.

This was unusual, because the theatre was far too old; for years, no reputable troupe had been willing to perform here.

Looking up at the light streaming from the windows, Bruce remembered what Alfred had told him: the Angelica Troupe was coming to perform here; he had heard of this troupe—it was one of the most famous on the East Coast.

Bruce recalled that, while in Metropolis, he had once seen actor listings posted outside a theatre; the lead actor of this troupe was named Alex Smith, a strikingly handsome young performer.

He frequently played the Ma Lei lead in Shakespearean dramas, especially in the youthful, dashing roles; East Coast women called him "The Dream of Metropolis."

In contrast, the troupe's leading actress, known as the Pearl of the East Coast, was Vicki Sandra.

Rumors circulated that they were a couple, but they both denied it; because they often portrayed lovers on stage, tabloids seized on this, following them relentlessly, snapping photos in hopes of uncovering deeper ties.

As these details played out in Bruce's mind, he realized it had become instinct: he absorbed every detail he heard or saw, then instantly reviewed them in full whenever encountering anything related, ensuring he missed nothing important.

But what good was it? Bruce thought. Batman was already a thing of the past; now, if he put on the Batsuit, he'd become a hunted pariah.

Even if he wanted to help someone now, victims would scream and flee from him as if he were a ghost, refusing to cooperate.

Bruce lowered his head, preparing to walk on—but then he heard, from a room inside the theatre near his position, the sound of a vase shattering.

Bruce instinctively turned toward the room; warm light spilled from within, and the silhouette blocking it became sharply clear.

A woman in formal attire staggered to the window, slammed it twice, then slowly collapsed.

Bruce's eyes widened; without hesitation, he sprinted toward the window, crouched beneath the wall, and saw bloodstains where the woman had struck—their presence meant she was in dire condition.

The room was on the third floor, on the eastern side of the theatre; Bruce immediately searched for access to the third floor—but the theatre had only one entrance, no rear door; the only way to reach the room immediately was to climb.

Bruce found a drainpipe in the corner, scaled it in seconds, then leapt from the easternmost balcony onto the room's balcony.

He yanked hard on the closed window, producing a loud noise; as he peered inside, he saw a shadow flee at the sound.

But his eyes had not yet adjusted to the room's bright light; he could not make out the figure's features, not even its gender—only its frantic movement and a series of faint, almost imperceptible footsteps.

With a bang, he wrenched the window open, vaulted over the sill, and rushed inside—he saw a woman in formal attire lying motionless in the center of the room.

Blood spread across her chest, staining most of her gown red; Bruce didn't pause—he rushed to her side and pressed his fingers to the artery at her neck.

But sadly, the woman was already dead.

The door burst open with a crash; a group rushed in; the leader shouted: "What happened? What was all that noise?!"

Suddenly, a scream pierced the air; Bruce looked up, and in the bright glow, he saw a familiar face—Miss Goth; she screamed: "No! Miss Vicki! What happened to you?!"

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She rushed forward in panic but recoiled several steps from the overpowering stench of blood.

From the crowd, a gentleman stepped forward and helped Miss Goth up; he turned to Bruce and said sternly: "Who are you? How did you get here? What did you do to Miss Vicki?"

"Oh my God! Mr. Wayne!" Another scream rang out; Mrs. Goth emerged from the crowd, grabbed Mr. Vitt by the arm, and said: "Mr. Vitt, you may not recognize him—he's Bruce Wayne!"

"Mr. Wayne, what are you doing over there? Come here quickly—that body might be… I mean… these bloodstains could be unclean; please come over!" Mrs. Goth waved urgently at Bruce.

Bruce stood up and looked at the group: nine people total. Mr. Vitt stood in the center; Miss Goth and her mother stood to the right, alongside another fat man.

On the left stood a young man resembling Mr. Vitt, beside whom stood the manager of the Angelica Troupe.

Further back, a tall man pushed through the crowd, rushed to Vicki's side, and cried: "No! Vicki! What happened? Call a doctor! Quick!"

"Alex, calm down!" An older actor rushed forward and held Alex steady.

Bruce saw that the man called Alex was indeed strikingly handsome; he wore long hair and still wore his stage armor, which clinked as he knelt.

Two others were present: one held a makeup brush—likely the troupe's makeup artist; the other carried a notebook—probably the prop master.

Dozens surrounded the room; soon, police arrived.

When Gordon saw Bruce, he pressed his hand to his forehead, pulled his trench coat's hem back, brushed his cheek, and asked Bruce: "Why are you here?"

Bruce stood still, staring down at the corpse, saying nothing.

But Mrs. Goth stepped forward and told Gordon: "Mr. Wayne may have come out of curiosity; after all, every mailbox in our estate district received the Angelica Troupe's program…"

"On the East Coast theatre circuit, audiences are allowed to visit backstage before performances; I believe Mr. Wayne came for the same reason we did."

Mrs. Goth offered a long defense for Bruce, but Mr. Vitt raised objections: "When we burst in, he was already here—he was the first to touch the body; he's highly suspicious…"

Mrs. Goth frantically signaled to Vitt, but he ignored her; Miss Goth wept beside him; Alex knelt, wailing; others stared in disbelief.

Gordon's head throbbed; he ordered everyone out of the room, divided them into groups, and assigned each to separate rooms to await interrogation.

He first called Bruce out and asked: "What the hell is going on? Didn't I tell you to lie low these days? Or you'll actually get wanted… Wait—you're not wearing the suit?"

Gordon realized then: this wasn't Batman—it was Bruce Wayne. But how had Bruce Wayne ended up at a murder scene?

This situation was far beyond his expectations; Gordon knew one truth: if either Batman or Shiler appeared at a murder scene, the case would be trouble.

Gordon rubbed his temples, weary, and looked at Bruce: "Alright. What did you see? Who killed the troupe's leading lady?"

Bruce shook his head. "I don't know."