Bruce walked out of the bookstore mid-argument with Kathoom.
“You still can’t explain why Homelander and this ‘Superman’ you mentioned have such similar abilities!”
One was from Earth, the other an alien.
“It’s called convergent evolution!”
Kathoom had his own explanation ready. “Like bats and pterosaurs—completely different creatures, but with similar wings!”
“Whatever you say.”
Bruce wasn’t interested in continuing the debate.
Whether Superman existed or not didn’t matter.
Even if he was fictional, the persona Kathoom had described was enough for Bruce to construct a mental illusion.
“Still, I can’t shake the feeling that something’s off about the heroes in this world.”
Bruce shifted the conversation. “Heroes shouldn’t be so exposed to everyone—”
As he spoke, the two turned a corner.
Halfway through his sentence, Bruce froze as a sudden explosion of blood erupted in the distance. Someone had been obliterated by a high-speed impact.
Bruce stopped dead in his tracks.
The event happened so abruptly that he was completely unprepared.
He wasn’t alone in his shock. In the midst of the bloody remains stood a man, motionless.
In his trembling hands, he held what was left of his girlfriend’s arms—still warm.
But just her arms. Nothing else.
His face was spattered with blood and gore, his expression frozen in confusion and despair.
A moment ago, she had been standing right in front of him. Now, she was gone.
The man turned his head in a daze toward the culprit—a blood-soaked Black man carrying a backpack.
It was a superhero, one of the Seven: A-Train.
He had just pulverized the man’s girlfriend in his high-speed dash.
A-Train ripped off his goggles, stammering in panic, “I couldn’t stop! I couldn’t stop!”
Then, with lightning speed, he vanished down the street.
Was that supposed to be an apology?
Bruce stood at a distance, watching the entire scene unfold.
“Uh…” Kathoom was equally at a loss for words.
Even knowing such an infamous scene would occur eventually, who could have predicted they’d stumble upon it around a corner?
Damn it, A-Train! Your timing couldn’t have been worse!
What’s the rush? It’s not like a farmer with a whip is chasing you!
And now, a certain little bat might be triggered.
Bruce had witnessed his fair share of gore. Back in the Loganverse, he’d seen an entire building massacred.
But this… this was different.
Sure enough, Bruce turned mechanically to face Kathoom.
His gaze was icy as he enunciated each word: “Is this… what heroes in this world are like?”
Bruce recognized the culprit. It was undeniably A-Train, one of the Seven.
He had killed someone without a second thought, without so much as a pause or sincere apology.
He just ran, not even looking back.
“Probably. He’s too fast—I didn’t catch all the details,” Kathoom replied.
Bruce abruptly looked up, his eyes locking on a massive billboard in the distance.
It was an advertisement featuring the Seven.
A-Train was smiling brightly, his pearly white teeth on full display.
He looked harmless.
But in the blink of an eye, Bruce’s mind replaced the image. The clean-cut A-Train morphed into the blood-soaked figure from moments ago.
The cheerful grin only made the juxtaposition more grotesque.
If A-Train was like this, what about the others?
Especially Homelander, draped in the American flag and standing at the center of the group.
“Are they all like this?” Bruce asked, his eyes still fixed on the billboard.
“Pretty much standard procedure,” Kathoom replied.
“I knew it.”
Bruce’s voice turned cold. “This is the inevitable result of superhumans coexisting with ordinary people!”
Superhumans were inherently superior to regular humans.
The strongest among them could kill an ordinary person with the slightest gesture.
Even if they didn’t intend to.
After all, it’s hard to step on an ant without crushing it.
“Bruce, let’s not dwell on that for now.”
Kathoom extended a wing, pointing in a direction. “If I’m not mistaken, isn’t that a camera?”
Bruce followed his gaze, and his heart sank.
They had been caught on film as witnesses.
—
At Vought Tower, a freshly cleaned-up A-Train had returned.
The high-speed run earlier had left him slightly short of breath.
Thankfully, it wasn’t too severe. Acting nonchalant, A-Train knocked on an office door.
“Come in,” came the voice from inside.
A-Train entered to find a plain-looking woman with glasses at her desk.
This was Ashley, secretary and assistant to Vought’s VP, Madelyn Stillwell. She managed all matters related to the Seven.
Seeing A-Train, Ashley immediately stood up with a warm smile.
“A-Train, what brings you here today?”
She added, “You must be swamped with PR appearances.”
A-Train wasn’t in the mood for small talk. “I just killed someone. Handle it like usual.”
Ashley’s expression didn’t change. She kept smiling.
“Of course, no problem.”
She asked, “What happened, exactly?”
A-Train recounted the incident.
“That woman got herself killed standing too close to the curb. How is that my fault?” he grumbled. “Ashley, you understand how frustrating this is for me, right? My whole day’s ruined.”
“I understand completely. Don’t worry; we’ll take care of it.”
Ashley returned to her desk, typing as she spoke.
“I’ve already pulled the surveillance footage and erased all other copies.”
“I’ve also identified everyone present at the scene. Let me see…”
“Oh, the woman you hit was named Robin. No background to speak of. She had a boyfriend, Hughie, who works at a record store. A nobody—easy to handle.”
“As always, we’ll say you were battling a supervillain, and she was collateral damage.”
“We’ll arrange for you to appear on TV and give her family a humanitarian compensation check. That should wrap it up.”
A-Train had no objections. This was how they’d always dealt with such situations. He didn’t even need to prepare an apology—the company handled everything.
After finalizing her arrangements, Ashley tapped her keyboard a few more times, uncovering an overlooked detail.
“Wait!” she said. “There was another witness. Looks like a kid.”
Ashley pulled up the relevant data, and Bruce’s profile appeared on her screen.
“Bruce Wayne. Orphan. Grew up in a Vought orphanage?”
“So, he’s one of our rejects.”
“Hmm? Recently reconnected with his biological family and inherited a massive fortune? How many zeros is that?”
Ashley counted the zeros in disbelief, then exclaimed, “Ten billion?!”
“What?!”
A-Train practically bolted out of his seat.
In a flash, he was behind Ashley, staring at the number on the screen.
For a moment, his brain buzzed.
Ten billion, controlled entirely by a single kid?
That kind of money could buy Vought itself!
His whole family was dead, leaving only him?
Fresh out of an orphanage, with no real connections?
This… this couldn’t be real!
“Ten billion…”
A-Train murmured, realizing how much restraint he had. It had taken him a full second to make up his mind.
He memorized the name on the screen.
Bruce Wayne, huh?
That’s too much money for you to handle.
Let Uncle A-Train take care of it!
—
At a roadside motel, Bruce meticulously checked the supplies he had just purchased.
Everything was accounted for. Perfect.
“We need to lie low for now,” Bruce said, his voice calm but resolute. “If I’ve been caught on camera as a witness, my identity will draw attention.”
“An orphan inheriting ten billion dollars? Even God would be tempted.”
“In this world, the name Bruce Wayne is no longer safe.”
“Kathoom, we need to disguise ourselves.”
Bruce was willing to believe in the goodness of humanity—but only willing.
Whether he actually trusted it depended entirely on the world he found himself in.
And in this world? Absolutely not.
If his identity wasn’t secure, then it was time to adopt a new one.
After a moment’s thought, Bruce came up with a name.
“From today forward, I’ll be Clark Kent.”
“Got it!” Kathoom nodded enthusiastically. “And I’ll call myself… Barbatos!”
As Bruce packed up, he glanced at Kathoom and hesitated.
“Kathoom,” he said, “don’t you think having an owl following me around is a bit… conspicuous?”
Hearing this, Kathoom became visibly excited.
“Ha! I’ve been waiting for you to say that! I’ve already prepared a disguise!”
With a flourish, the owl pulled out a black mask from his feathers and slipped it over his head.
The mask was the classic kind worn by bank robbers, modified to fit an owl’s size and shape.
Once it was on, only Kathoom’s eyes and beak were visible.
“How’s this for a disguise? Still recognize me?” he asked smugly.
“Who are you?” Bruce deadpanned. “Where’s Kathoom?”
The owl clenched his wings, mimicking a thumbs-up gesture with his feathers.
“Good teamwork!”
Kathoom laughed. “Relax. This mask is enchanted. As long as I’m wearing it, people will ignore my presence.”
—
Late at Night, an Alleyway
Hughie stumbled drunkenly, tossing his empty bottle to the ground.
He was Robin’s boyfriend, the man who had watched helplessly as A-Train obliterated her right in front of him.
Robin’s death had made the news.
A-Train had held a press conference, where he explained everything to the cameras.
“Honestly, I never expected a woman to suddenly appear in the middle of the road,” A-Train had said.
“I was focused on catching a criminal and didn’t notice her in time. This tragedy wasn’t something I wanted to happen.”
“That said, let’s be clear—she shouldn’t have been standing in the middle of the road!”
What a load of crap!
When Hughie heard those words, he wanted to smash the television right then and there.
Robin had been standing on the curb, not in the middle of the road as A-Train claimed!
He was lying, fabricating the entire story.
Hughie’s rage had reached its boiling point, but as an ordinary man, he had no choice but to suppress it.
What could he do?
Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
A-Train was a superhuman, backed by the colossal Vought Corporation. Hughie had no way to fight them.
Even drinking himself into a stupor had been a challenge—most of the liquor bottles featured A-Train as the brand ambassador.
It had taken him ages to find a different brand endorsed by another hero before he could finally drown his sorrows.
“A-Train! Vought!”
Hughie screamed in the alley, his voice raw with anguish. “I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you all!”
As an ordinary man, his fury was impotent, reduced to empty words shouted into the void.
There was no real hope for vengeance.
But then, something strange happened in the alley.
A rift in space tore open, and a shadowy figure stepped through.
“Hee hee…”
A chilling laugh echoed as the figure emerged. “Did I hear someone talking about killing?”
Hughie sobered up instantly at the sound.
The figure drew closer, and Hughie stumbled backward, trembling.
“W-who are you? Stay back!”
“Who am I?”
The figure stepped out of the shadows, revealing their face.
Pale skin, green hair, and garish makeup painted into a grotesque smile.
But what stunned Hughie most was the figure’s gender.
It was a woman.
“You can call me Joker,” she said, her voice dripping with menace. “Or, if you prefer my real name—”
“Martha.”
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