Marvel Book of Magical Events

A short imaginative story, the story of Konrad Curze in Gotham, the original title of The Eighth Legion.

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It rains all the time in Gotham, and the air in the East End is a mixture of rain, sea breeze, and the pungent smell from chemical plants. The neglected sewer system makes the streets here filled with dirty water, needles, and used contraceptives. Bags, plastic food wrappers, cigarette butts and other garbage pile up where the water flow slows down, and the same dirty neon lights and weak light from street-facing windows barely illuminate the streets here. There are very few pedestrians here. Except for some idiots from out of town who don’t understand the market, no one will be walking on the streets of the East End at this time.

Dr. Leslie Tompkins was holding an umbrella and holding a first-aid kit as she hurriedly walked through the flooded streets. The hem of her white robe in the small clinic was dyed translucent black-gray by the splashing dirty water. She almost You can smell the stench of standing water. She looked conspicuous, and every criminal could smell the weakness emanating from her. Dr. Leslie Tompkins doesn't consider herself that kind of redneck. She knows the dangers of the East Side - a place whose name will make the financial rich in Lower Island and the Diamond District frown, and the Gotham City Government even more. Happy to ignore everything that happens in this area - the East Side is the poorest and filthiest place in Gotham, with rampant guns and drugs, never-ending sexual violence and crime and prostitution, and every lighted window may represent An illegal transaction in progress.

Maybe it's a weapon, maybe it's drugs, maybe it's people.

Dr. Leslie Tompkins is not an idiot. Many of the people who come to her clinic are criminals, drug addicts, and homeless people (the boundaries between these three identities are not clear). Many people come to her clinic for help. They are all repeat offenders. She digs out several bullets from patients and delivers several corpses almost every day. Those people were afraid to go to the hospital because a gunshot wound would attract the attention of the Gotham Police Department, and on several occasions she had more than one gun pointed at her head while digging out bullets. The East End is Gotham City’s dumping ground. While all Americans are proud of Gotham's wealth, prosperity and advancement, the East End is still a garbage dump, with the rich and government officials tacitly ignoring everyone here, including the sewer system. In her long memory, the East Side sewer system was last maintained many years ago when her friend Thomas Wayne was still alive.

The heavy medical kit and the whole day's work made her a little tired.

But she didn't let her guard down, even though she had a Beretta Pico pocket pistol in her pocket. She knew that for a woman like her, the deterrent effect of a pistol was far greater than its practicality. In order to prevent the pistol from becoming a criminal's weapon, the pistol was not loaded with bullets. Even though a certain rich man she had watched growing up kept advising her not to do it, or loading bullets when going out for medical treatment, she still didn't think it was necessary. At least there was no need today. She was not going to the most chaotic Bowery today. She had already passed through the boiler district and entered the territory of the Falcone family.

Here, her good name ensures that her life will not be extinguished on the streets.

Hunter, a goon who frequents the clinic (she took two bullets out of him), told her this morning that a friend of his who had just been paroled was so sick that he couldn't get off the couch in his living room. stand up. They had no way to go to the hospital, neither he nor his paroled friend had much money, and the Falcone family didn't want to care about him or his friend--Hunter kept muttering about his friend. The house where her parents had been foreclosed on by the bank, the couch cushions stained with vomit and feces, and then a bunch of boring street gossip—until Dr. Leslie Tompkins agreed to pay a visit after get off work. That damn Hunter stood up from the receptionist's seat and quietly handed her a small bag of drugs. This was all they could afford. Maybe Hunter stole this from his previous family. In the East District, many people would kill for this small package of extremely low-purity drugs.

Dr. Leslie Tompkins angrily threw the drugs into the sewer.

While waiting for the old elevator, Dr. Leslie Tompkins thought about the news she saw on TV this morning. According to statistics from the Gotham Police Department GCPD, 515 murders occurred in Gotham in the past year, which is equivalent to 1.4 murders per day. This is the murder case registered by the Gotham Police Department. This seemed to be an excellent title. The media excitedly promoted the news in a stimulating tone. The glamorous host invited scholars to discuss in the live broadcast room whether the significantly reduced crime rate was related to Gotham's famous vigilantes - some scholars Denying that Gotham City’s reduced crime rate has anything to do with the guy dressing up as a giant bat, and once again claiming that Batman is a serious challenge to Gotham’s rule of law, and that the Gotham Police Department, which cooperates with Batman, is also a trample on justice. Or - she seemed to see poor Gordon standing at the press conference again instead of the mottled wall covered with graffiti. She could imagine Gordon looking at the speech with his glasses up instead of the reporters in the audience who were like bloodthirsty sharks. , which made her feel happy.

Dr. Leslie Tompkins walked through the dim apartment hallway and rang the doorbell.

No one answered the door, and the whole apartment was filled with deathly silence. There was no subtle hum of electrical appliances, nor the painful groans of human beings due to illness. It was as if some huge thing she couldn't see squeezed into the world, excluding all air and sound. She pressed the doorbell again with uneasiness. Suddenly, an extremely familiar smell came from the air pouring out from under the door. The smell of death, a mixture of blood, excrement and pain. That's the worst smell in the world.

Dr. Leslie Tompkins gently put down the medical kit, and used tired muscles to hold the Beretta Pico pistol in her pocket. Even though it was an empty gun, it now gave her a sense of security. She opened the door gently and nervously called the owner's name. She tried turning on the light, but she heard nothing but the crackle of the switch and her own heartbeat, which was getting faster and faster.

"Hunter, where are you?"

no respond.

The stench of stale blood and excrement in the air pushed her outside. Dr. Leslie Tompkins took a few steps back, took a deep breath, and mustered up the courage to go in again. The dim light from the street lights couldn't illuminate the room at all. She turned on a flashlight the size of her palm. The beam of light seemed unable to penetrate the darkness in the house. The darkness in the house squeezed her body and mind like a solid body. She stepped carefully over food packages and Chinese restaurant cartons, following the blood on the floor. The thick, wet blood almost made her slip. She hurriedly held onto something that might have been the sofa and staggered forward a few steps. She didn't stop until she bumped into something wet and shaky.

The rich smell of blood forcefully squeezed into her nasal cavity, and the semi-coagulated blood slowly soaked into her doctor's robe like paint. She slowly moved the light beam and saw something hanging in the center of the room. At that moment, her heartbeat filled with fear hit her eardrums. She couldn't think of anything but looked at the corpse.

It was not that she had never seen corpses before, but she still felt fear.

The corpse with its chest cut open was hung from an electric fan on the ceiling. Its cloudy eyes widened in horror, almost jumping out of their sockets. Her arrival was like a bomb, and all the flies lying on the internal organs sucking body fluids flew up from the body like an explosion, striking fiercely at her skin that was not covered by clothing. As a general practitioner, she instantly identified what was wrapped around the corpse's neck, coming from the corpse's abdominal cavity - the severe vomiting sensation made her bend over, and then she saw something lying on the floor. Things on the ground. It was a piece of leather, as if it had just been peeled off. She ran out of the room like crazy. She didn't even remember how she ran into the street and yelled, or who called the police. It was not until officers from the Gotham Police Department's Special Crimes Division arrived that she was wrapped in a thermal blanket and placed in the ambulance for questioning.

"No, I don't remember."

"Dr. Tompkins, do you know what enemies Hunter has?" The police officer in charge of the inquiry still had a look of horror on his face. After an electrician was called in to fix the fuse, almost every police officer who entered the scene ran out as fast as he could in his life. Even the experienced police officers had to smoke one cigarette after another to prevent themselves from vomiting. . Inside the house they found the source of the piece of leather - Hunter, with the skin completely flayed off his back - and even more horrifyingly, his head was not in the house. "This is obviously not something a gang vendetta can do, is it?"

"I don't know." The doctor grasped the edge of the thermal blanket in horror, as if to shrink himself.

"Be kind, she is just a doctor, and she has a good reputation here."

"Officer Bullock, but..."

Harvey Bullock held a cigarette in his mouth and waved impatiently. The rain falling from the brim of his hat wetted his cigarette, which made him even more irritated. "Gotham has no shortage of psycho killers, young man. When will Gordon come?"

"I'm already here, Harvey." James Gordon held an umbrella and stood next to the ambulance. "Are you okay, Leslie?"

"Not bad. I've seen a lot of corpses, haven't I?" The doctor forced a smile, "Is he here?"

James Gordon pointed to the top of his head. "He was surveying the scene." He looked at the somewhat at a loss police officer on the side, "Your inference is correct, this is indeed not a gang vendetta. Property, weapons, drugs, nothing is missing in the house, and there are not even many signs of fighting. This was Falcone family territory, and the Falcone loft was just a few hundred meters away. Unless someone wanted to start a gang war, no one would kill Harvey, the Falcone family, or the victim's neighbor here. Did you see or hear anything?"

"Nothing. Hunter and his friends don't have to work today." Harvey Bullock lit another new cigarette, "But there is a rumor. Since the big meteor fell into Gotham Bay a year ago There are rumors like this out there in the East End, but many people think it’s a joke.”

"Did you pull me here from the bed just to let me get wet in the rain?"

"Don't be angry, old guy." Harvey Bullock was still unhurried, "There are rumors that there is a vigilante in the East District, just like that guy, but the new vigilante is not so gentle. "A concussion or a broken arm is not gentle in my opinion, but compared to the new guy, our friend in the circus is a great guy."

"go on."

"No one had ever seen the new guy. At first the deceased looked normal, either had his throat slit or was shot dead. The Falcone family didn't want the Special Crimes Unit to get involved, they wanted to find the guy themselves Vigilante, but now they have given up. They can't find that person, everyone who tried to chase them is dead, and the vigilante's methods are also escalating." Harvey Bullock took a deep breath. He tried to cover up his fear with cynicism and cold jokes, but with little success. The scene he just saw in the room still stimulated him, and he only felt a dull pain behind his eyes. "The 'Roman' asked his subordinates to send a message that the Falcone family found several heads in their restaurant this morning. Those were the heads of the killers he sent to chase them."

Silence enveloped the small place, and they could hear nothing but the rain and the heartbeat. Dr. Leslie Tompkins looked at Harvey Bullock with a pale face, as if waiting for the detective to finish. "Our new vigilante has a great sense of humor. He has at least seen The Godfather or is a fan of Marlon Brando." Harvey Bullock laughed dryly, "Now we can confirm that this thing is the new vigilante. That's right. Serial killers always mark their identities, and we find signature behavior at crime scenes."

"I'm here for you."

The hoarse, dull voice sounded from behind Harvey Bullock, and the detective almost jumped. He turned around and looked back angrily, giving up a position. But the owner of the voice had no intention of joining the conversation circle. Rain slid off the bullet-proof material shaped like armor and the jet-black cloak. Under the mask, there was a stubble on the chin that had just emerged. It wasn't until he came here that Dr. Leslie Tompkins was relieved - she had always believed that the reason why the boy ran around in such rainy nights was entirely because she had done too badly in the past - Newcomers always seem to have just one mood. He glanced at everyone present with a stern look. The young police officer in charge of the inquiry smiled awkwardly and ran back under the eaves of the apartment in the rain.

"The Wandering Ghost, that's what they call him."

"Him? Do you have any clues?" James Gordon asked quickly.

"The killer has no intention of hiding information. I have obtained some basic data." Batman said calmly. Clearly, he had no idea of ​​sharing the clue. "The Falcone family has been tracking this killer for a long time, but they have found nothing. Murders like this are not just happening in the East End, but many of them are covered up by local gangs who don't want to attract attention."

"what's your plan?"

"I'm tracking him. He was injured. I found smoke reaction on the back of the victim's hand, but no warheads were found in the room." Batman took a few steps back and walked into the shadows. "I will find him, soon."

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Who is the murderer?

He put his hands on the steering wheel, pondering the question.

He knew more than the Gotham Police Department. After the hidden camera installed in the East District was connected to the surveillance system, he once captured a blurry pale figure. That figure matched his profile of the murderer - he would never tell Leslie Dr. Tompkins, several cameras were pointed at her small clinic called "Thomas Wayne Memorial Clinic" - judging from the evidence left at the crime scene, the murderer's hand size and height All indicated that it was a ten-year-old child, but he did not think that a ten-year-old child could quietly subdue two armed adults, even if one of them was suffering from dysentery. The only thing he was sure of now was that the murderer was injured.

The voice prompts inside the Batmobile interrupted his thoughts.

"Enter hologram, area two."

"Enter the hologram, area one. Cave wall."

"Alfred, I'm in the core area. The Batmobile says there's a hologram here, but I don't see anything."

Wayne Manor butler Alfred Pennyworth appears in front of the Batmobile. "Because I just uploaded it and haven't had time to sync it to your device yet. What now?"

"It's very clear." Bruce Wayne jumped out of the car, "Synchronize as soon as possible, I will leave soon."

"I can handle it in a second." The real Wayne Manor butler came out and turned off the holographic projection, "Also, Master Wayne. Ms. Rivers called you twice. She sounded like A little...well, tired."

"Charlotte." Bruce Wayne didn't look back and walked straight to the center of the Batcave. He needed to see that footage. "Give her a precious gift for me, with 'my sincerest apologies' written on it."

"Start from the hot spring weekend you and your friends had last month?"

"Does this make her more sad?"

"My sadness detector has been malfunctioning lately, but I bet these make her just as sad. But considering Ms. Rivers is probably used to being left alone..."

"I trust you have better judgment."

"Excellent judgment requires you to decide where to use it. Problems must be solved one by one, Master Bruce." Alfred walked up and looked at the files displayed on several large screens. The photos taken at the scene made him take a deep breath. That figure had appeared near Dr. Leslie Tompkins' Thomas Wayne Memorial Clinic today. When the victim Hunter appeared, the figure disappeared. "Are you still tracking him?"

"There are so many counterintuitive details, Alfred. I have tracked all the crimes this killer may have committed, except for the first few cases that may have been covered up as gang vendettas. I can almost see his psychological activities. Most of them It started with three months, then one month, and finally one week. He became more and more skilled, and his methods escalated. Alfred, every person he killed was burdened with murder, including those who had just been paroled. Criminals. He's creating terror to scare criminals."

"Maybe he's copying you, Master Bruce."

"This joke is not funny. I won't use such means." Bruce Wayne, who took off his mask, sat on the seat and frowned. Alfred brought a cup of hot coffee in time, as if he didn't hear Bruce. Wayne's announcement about his impending departure. No sugar or milk is added, and the caffeine content is enough to support a person's activities at night. Bruce Wayne raised his glass and drank it with a calm expression, as if his tongue did not play the role of providing taste. "I don't understand how a ten-year-old would have had the motive to commit a crime, nor would he have the ability to carry out these actions."

"Humans may not be able to do it, but there are more than just humans in this world. Do you remember the airborne capsule that crashed on the farm in Kansas? The offshore salvage operation has produced results. With the help of the friend who can talk to fish, the deep dive The spacecraft has detected the coordinates and taken photos. As far as I know, this is not a type of spacecraft known to mankind. Maybe you should ask that friend for help, or at least ask. Maybe there is one in Gotham. Aliens with little education are crawling all over the place.”

Bruce Wayne looked at the photo that had just been called up on the screen, "No, this spacecraft has nothing to do with the Kryptonians."

"Why?"

"Kryptonians don't use Roman numerals VIII," he said, pointing to the image of the spacecraft on the screen. It was a huge container that did not look like a man-made spacecraft, but was made using some kind of material technology that he did not understand. Even if it passed through the atmosphere, it did not cause serious damage to the container. He began to wonder if there was a technology group on Earth that could create such a thing, perhaps only after the container was salvaged ashore for analysis.

Alfred shrugged. "That's really good news. What are you going to do?"

"I'm going back to the site, and this time I'm bringing more equipment."

"What I'm asking is, what are you going to do after you find him, Master Bruce." said the Wayne Manor butler. "Are you going to send him to Blackgate Prison or Arkham Asylum?"

The question grabbed him by the throat.

"If he fits the theory, then he needs education. He seems very determined to me."

"He is not suitable, I will have a better candidate." Bruce Wayne interrupted the butler coldly. He climbed into the Batmobile, "I'll make the decision."

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This is an ugly knife.

The knife was stuck in the throat of a girl who was lying naked in a water-filled alley with signs of violence all over her body. He knew she would die soon, that the blood rushing into her lungs would suffocate her. He didn't know why he knew that, but he could still tell. She was dying, just two minutes later, just as he had seen her in his dream. So he pulled out the knife from her throat and thrust it into the ear of the man who was still lying on top of her. The man's body suddenly tensed, trembled, and finally died. Just as he expected, this was a symptom of damage to the nerve center. He looked at the girl's gradually losing life eyes looking at him. After thinking for a while, he pushed the man away. He didn't understand why the man was doing this, and instinct told him to stop it, so he did.

He squatted next to the girl and looked at her naked body.

As he came closer, the stench of his rotting blood squeezed her last shelter. The dim light coming from the street was enough for him to see all the details, including all the traces of violence on the girl. He had an innate understanding of human biology, and he looked at her out of curiosity and no other pleasure. Warm rain fell from the eaves high up, hitting his head and dripping down his long black hair. At the same time, it was slowly washing away the blood on the girl's body. The pale wounds were exposed to the air. He could see to the pink muscle tissue beneath the curled skin wound. She was shaking, the excessive blood loss had robbed her of all strength, and she could no longer cough up the blood in her lungs. She was hunched over, her eyes fixed on his face. The girl looked at his dark pupils, her vision gradually blurred but a smile appeared on her face, as if she had seen something extremely beautiful that could make her forget her pain.

It was obvious that she recognized him, even though she had never seen the wandering spirit before.

She was dead, just as he had seen her before walking into the alley. He looked away boredly, not feeling any pity deep in his heart. She was dead, just a piece of rotting flesh. He pulled out the knife and picked up the head placed aside. The original owner of this head was named Hunter. The wandering soul regretted this. Time was too tight and he could not inflict more terrible wounds on the body of the owner of this head.

He knew he needed the knife, just like he knew how to remove the bullet.

The bullet embedded in the back will not affect subsequent actions. The gunshot wound has healed. The miraculously closed skin and muscles wrap the bullet in the wound, but the inflammatory reaction caused by the fragments of fabric in the wound makes the wound slightly hot. It was his body's ongoing fight against infection—the thing he was wearing was more like a cape than clothes. This is him stripping the clothes off the corpse of the first thug he encountered. He didn't feel cold, nor was he trying to cover his body, but just to prevent his pale skin from being too conspicuous in the dark night - if he had to face higher-intensity actions, this bullet would cause obstacles in the movement. Being shot is not uncommon for Wandering Soul, and every action faces risks. Although he knows the operating principles of firearms and the impact of the bullet's flight speed and the rotation of the planet under his feet on the bullet's flight trajectory, He can taste the ingredients of firing powder and propellant from the air, but in every action he faces not only one enemy, but also not only one gun. Sometimes he had to express his admiration for the tenacity of human life. He wondered why someone could still shoot after being dragged out of the intestines.

He must remove the bullet from his body so that he can kill better.

Now, he must find a quiet place.

The wandering soul lets his thoughts float and rise into the air, and many illusions are like mirror fragments carried by the waves, lapping on the beach of possibility. There were too many, these were distractions, and he could only find one that could become reality. Just as he knew he could easily understand the nature of things that others could not, he knew he could see many possibilities for the future. His body trembled unnaturally, and the pain from the bullets on his back shot up along his spine. Wandering Soul knew that he had to leave here as soon as possible. He would be discovered soon and the people who had been tracking him would arrive soon. He saw a short-haired man with glasses and a face full of wrinkles from overwork. He was wearing a dark blue jacket with four huge letters printed on it; another man clung to him like the deepest shadow. The wall, the lips exposed under the mask shaped like a bat, were tightly pursed, and others seemed unable to see him.

The shadowy man made him a little uneasy.

This city was cursed. The moment the wandering soul crawled out from the bottom of the sea, he knew that the vicious air and poisonous water in this city were full of crime. Corruption and darkness penetrated deep into every piece of soil. Crime is happening wherever there is light, and every murder in the darkness feeds the evil called the city. But the man in the shadow has immersed himself in the sins of this city and cannot extricate himself.

At first he simply killed criminals.

But it was no use, they hunted him like crazy and he started killing people. As the number of corpses increased, he found that the thugs began to feel fear. They would not hesitate to inflict violence on their own kind, but when the violence he inflicted crossed a certain limit, the thugs began to fear. Later, Wandering Soul realized that there was someone in this city who was doing almost the same thing as him. He learned from abandoned propaganda sheets (newspapers), conversations among rioters, and video transmission equipment in residents' homes that this man really existed and was not some street legend - using only a few of the planet's criteria Tian has completely mastered three languages ​​- Wandering Soul grinned and smiled towards the place where the nightmare man will stand in the future.

Wandering Soul knew that the man could see it.

He still had some time left, enough time to carve marks into the thug's body with his dirty fingernails sharpened on the wall. This mark represents him and represents fear. When other thugs see this mark, they will know that he has been here. That man needs to know he's been here, and he wants to instill fear into the minds of every thug who intends to commit a crime.

I'm here for you.

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"I'm already off work. An old guy like me needs enough rest. After all, I don't have as much energy as Pennyworth." Dr. Leslie Tompkins blinked tiredly and put down the prescription medicine in her hand. . The most valuable items in this clinic are these prescription drugs. There are many drug addicts who are confused and will try their best to snatch them, so she can only hide these drugs in the cabinet. "It's been a long night, hasn't it?"

"You shouldn't be out practicing medicine."

"Come on, I know what you want." The doctor sighed, "No, I won't do it."

"The killer was injured, possibly in his back. He was going to get help."

"My answer is still the same." Dr. Leslie Tompkins sat in her chair. The hem of the doctor's white robe in the clinic was stained with black-gray dirty water and coagulated blood. "If he asks me for help, I will help. Think about who comes to me, criminals, drug addicts, homeless people, if I give information about their presence to other people - no matter what Gotham PD or you, it doesn't matter to them - they won't come to the clinic, it will kill them. They can't go to the hospital to treat their gunshot wounds, and they don't have the money to pay the hospital bills. What's more, he is still a child and what he needs is education and help."

Bruce Wayne jumped out of the window and responded with silence.

"I'm not a fool, I've seen many murder scenes, and I've also read "A Study in Scarlet", in which Sherlock Holmes infers the murderer's height and physical condition from the scarlet letters on the wall. What a classic story, suitable for reading before bed. If If you don't mind, I think I should take a good rest." Dr. Leslie Tompkins laughed. "Besides, I am very grateful for the prescription medicine you provided. The pharmacy is not willing to give it to me who has had his medical license revoked. To provide medicine, each opioid costs me more than ten times the price.”

"Alfred speculated that the murderer may have come from a man-made spacecraft, the satellite that fell into the sea near Gotham. He may be an artifact, Leslie. He is very dangerous. I don't know how many man-made objects of the same type are there. indivual."

"A loaded gun or a knife is dangerous for anyone, as is the batarang you throw. I've seen people whose arms have been broken and their heads broken by you. The Special Crime Branch has Sometimes I will be invited to perform on-site first aid, because it doesn’t cost much.” Dr. Leslie Tompkins waved her hand angrily, as if to drive away the strongest shadow in the room, “This is the East Side, the East Side. Have your own way of life. I’m not going to give you any information, Bruce, you’ve got the wrong guy.”

"He's at it again. He's nearby." Bruce Wayne showed no emotion. He stood there with a cold expression, "He killed a rapist. I have informed Gordon that he will send someone here soon."

"That's what your admirers did when Grayson wasn't as tall as you. I won't say that Hunter is completely innocent. He committed violent crimes while he was still on parole. I'm not sure about them either. No one was killed. There are a lot of criminals here, and it seems like someone wants to give the criminals the ending they deserve.”

"That murderer was not my impersonator, Leslie."

"You are protecting Gotham in your own way, and he is protecting the East End in his own way. Why are you prejudiced against him? At least from now on, girls don't have to worry about being attacked when they walk on the streets of the East End in the middle of the night, right? I speak for the majority of people. I don't mind helping those people, but I don't think a criminal's life is more noble than an innocent one."

For the first time, Bruce Wayne felt impatient.

"No, it's different."

"Then why don't you tell him what to do?"

Dr. Leslie Tompkins smiled slyly. It wasn't until this moment that Bruce Wayne found himself falling into the doctor's trap. She was very skilled, just as she had accepted Alfred's invitation many years ago to pull a parentless child out of a bad mood in Wayne Manor.

"He may be a product of some perverted high-tech rich man, uneducated and acting only on instinct, like a wild beast roaming the streets. If you want to change him, educate him instead of throwing him to the Gotham police Bureau. Barbara is a good child, but I think James Gordon is not good at home education, and you understand this well. I failed to educate you as your parents should, but I hope you can provide it. Another thing you should have - at least you can tell him that caught criminals can be thrown into the police department. I doubt if he, like other East Enders, has no idea what the Gotham Police Department is if you find him. It's best to bring him over as soon as possible. As you said, he is injured and needs help."

The doctor yawned proudly.

"But I need to remind you that you don't have much experience in advising a kid not to risk his life against crime, Bruce. I believe Gordon and I are just as bad at this. You should seek help from another person. , you know who I mean, nothing will be harmed except your pride."

Bruce Wayne walked out of the clinic with a solemn expression.

He did not tell Dr. Leslie Tompkins that the killer named Wanderer was not as innocent as she thought. He was a killing machine without any emotions. He found a surveillance video at the crime scene. He found that the wandering soul watched the girl die without taking any steps to save her or showing any expression, as if the wandering soul was not a human being but some kind of machine. Only at the moment when the wandering spirit kills the thug can he feel the morbid pleasure from the heart on the wandering spirit's face. Then he noticed that the wandering soul was smiling in a certain direction.

There is nothing there.

It wasn't until he checked all the surveillance videos that Bruce Wayne discovered that the direction the wandering ghost was facing was where he was when he arrived at the crime scene. This discovery made his hair stand on end, and he began to suspect that the wandering soul had other unknown abilities in addition to keen intuition, extraordinary learning ability and abnormal detection skills. It's not surprising, there are always many people in this world who have powers that others cannot. He found that the wandering soul was progressing at an alarming rate, and the wandering soul also discovered his tracking. This is the only chance. If it fails, he doesn't think he can find the wandering soul again in a short time.

No matter what, the tracking doesn't stop.

Only by arresting Wandering Soul can he know which person or organization created a biological weapon like Wandering Soul, and find out how many similar biological weapons there are. In this regard, the only thing he may know is the number of the wandering soul, Roman numeral 8. He suspects that a high-tech criminal he doesn't know is reaching out to Gotham, and that the individual number 8 may be an accidental information leak. Four months of continuous tracking had allowed him to speculate on the wandering spirit's range of activities, and he believed that he would be able to catch him soon. Other criminals in Gotham would not have stayed quiet for so long unless the Haunter was investigating him. Through the Falcone family and the Penguin, except for the two parties involved, the entire Gotham criminals were happy to see it - they Expect him to find the wandering spirit - and Bruce Wayne knows why. The wandering spirit is like a bloodthirsty cub, breaking the unspoken rules of Gotham's underground world without any scruples. The escalating killings will only drive the Falcone family into madness.

The proceeds from the Falcone's weapons sale were packed into a suitcase that was picked up a day later by an East Side family that had nothing to do with the affair. He wasn't sure if this was a Robin Hood act on the part of the wandering spirit, or a pointless coincidence. He didn't know why Wandering Soul didn't use the money. This was another doubt. He had yet to find Wandering Soul's stronghold or any trace of his life. A living thing always needs to rest and eat. He would rather believe that he had missed Wandering Soul's secret stronghold than that Wandering Soul was an exception.

Bruce Wayne left with questions, and there was a lot to do tonight.

He parked the Batmobile in Crime Alley, not far from Dr. Leslie Tompkins' clinic. As he got closer he heard strange metallic scraping sounds and gasping sounds. A night of intense investigation left him on edge. He immediately ducked aside, pulled out a batarang from his belt, and quietly approached the Batmobile. Then he saw a short figure wearing a dark red sweatshirt next to his Batmobile trying to turn the wrench in his hand. The two front wheels of the Batmobile were lying on the side, and the instigator was completely unaware of his arrival.

A boy with a dirty face emerges from behind the Batmobile.

He had paid attention to the child, whom Dr. Leslie Tompkins had cared for. He knew the boy's name, knew that the boy's hopelessly scoundrel father died in prison, and before that, he gave the scoundrel drug dealer a Batbrand. The boy's mother was an addict who once had a good life but now has fallen into ruin. Dr. Leslie Tompkins has provided her with naloxone many times to save her life that she almost lost due to drug overdose. This The boy had stolen Dr. Leslie Tompkins' prescriptions more than once.

Bruce Wayne put away the batarang silently.

"Ahem." He deliberately made some noise, looking at the frightened expression on the boy's face with a mischievous look. He deliberately showed a cold and serious expression. He used this expression to scare away many gangsters and avoid unnecessary fights. "You know full well that's a Batmobile, right?"

"Tsk." The boy quickly stood up and faced him like a fighter. "You know full well you parked in Crime Alley, right?" Bruce Wayne could see the fear beneath the boy's disguise. The boy wanted to run away, but something familiar to him kept the boy standing here, clutching the wrench and swinging it at him. This is a normal boy, not a mechanical and cold murderer. It was a huge relief to him to feel a familiar world and normal people again, although he didn't show it.

He tugged at the boy's collar. The latter's feet were dangling in the air, but he still stared at him with unyielding eyes.

"Let me ask you again," he said, "Are you hungry?"

Dr. Leslie Tompkins was right, the night was indeed long.