Batman doesn't look away. His voice is steady, firm. "That man is a ticking time bomb. He's not interested in technology for harmless purposes. He's dangerous and has the means to cause serious damage."
Luthor lets out a short, derisive laugh. "And what makes you so sure of that, huh? He could just be an eccentric scientist. You know how these tech types are—always lurking around, looking for inspiration or stealing ideas."
Batman steps closer, his shadow stretching across Luthor as he lowers his voice. "Trust me, Luthor. I've dealt with my fair share of 'eccentric scientists.' This one has the hallmarks of a menace. He's too calculated, too focused. His movements? Too precise. That's not someone here just to admire technology."
Luthor's amusement falters for the first time. His expression shifts from skepticism to reluctant consideration. He glances at the screen again, rewinding the footage to watch the man move through the crowd. There is a quiet efficiency to him, a careful way he blends in while still positioning himself advantageously.
"Fine," Luthor says at last, "so say he is a threat. You're here to deal with him, right?"
Batman doesn't hesitate. "Yes. That's our job."
Luthor sighs, shaking his head. "And what happens if he gives you some trouble? You're not exactly known for your… gentle touch."
Robin steps in, his tone sharp and unwavering. "We'll handle it. We always do."
Luthor's skepticism returns, his gaze flickering between them. "I have no doubt you'll try. But I've got a lot of money invested in this event. I don't want any property damage or…" He glances briefly at the security feed, his lips pressing into a thin line. "...unnecessary escalation."
Batman's expression tightens, his frustration clear. "Luthor, this isn't about your precious event or your wealth. This is about preventing a potential disaster."
Luthor shakes his head. "You don't understand, Batman. This event is a major showcase. A lot of investors are counting on it. Any… disruption… could ruin everything I've worked for."
Batman clenches his fists. He does understand, but he also knows that Luthor's priorities will always be selfish. The question isn't if Luthor will help—it's how much he'll interfere.
Meanwhile, elsewhere in the convention center, the man they are tracking remains unaware of the eyes watching him. Or rather, he appears to be.
In reality, he knows he is being observed. He always assumes he is.
His movements remain fluid, effortless, as he continues his silent study of the technology on display. Behind him, the cloaked drone hovers, its systems running quietly, waiting for orders.
A soft, artificial voice breaks the silence. [Should I deploy an electromagnetic pulse shockwave, Doctor?]
The man does not look back. He keeps his hands in his pockets, his expression unchanged. "No need…"
His voice is quiet, yet deliberate, as if the decision was made long before the question was even asked. His eyes continue scanning the room, filing away every detail. Not just to replicate. Not just to steal. To refine. To improve.
He watches, taking in the current state of technology in this world. Some of it is crude. Some of it is promising. None of it is beyond his understanding.
"It's proper etiquette not to cause a scene," he muses.
This was something he had considered before arriving in this world. It was a simple truth—whoever takes the first action is always to blame. That is why he remains merely an observer. He does not act. He does not provoke.
If a so-called hero were to accuse him without evidence, he could simply leave. After all, he exists entirely off the grid. No records. No past. No digital footprint. A man from another world.
A man always prepared.
He tilts his head slightly as if listening to something only he can hear.
"I'll continue my stroll," he murmurs.
His pace remains casual, unhurried. Nothing about him suggests urgency, yet every step is deliberate.
"Red Acolyte and the others will remain on standby outside the perimeter if they ever arrive," he continues, almost as if speaking to himself. "Let's not do anything… drastic."
"Affirmative, Doctor," the drone replies, its presence remaining unseen, silent, watchful.
And so, he walks. Not as a threat. Not as an enemy.
But as a shadow waiting for the right moment to emerge.
Batman and Robin keep their gazes locked onto the security feed, their focus unwavering as they track the man's movements through the convention halls.
Batman's jaw tightens as he watches the stranger scan each exhibit with deliberate precision, his every action measured, calculated. There's no doubt now—he's not just some wandering attendee.
Robin leans in, his voice barely above a whisper. "He's definitely casing the joint."
Batman gives a brief, almost imperceptible nod, his gaze never leaving the screen.
Luthor, standing beside them, crosses his arms, irritation creeping into his voice. "He's getting away. Shouldn't you be doing something about it?"
Batman doesn't react to the jab. His focus remains entirely on the man onscreen.
Robin suddenly straightens, his voice edged with urgency. "He's heading toward the... Kryptonite Exhibit?"
Luthor's expression shifts from irritation to surprise at the mention of kryptonite. "Kryptonite? What would he want with that?"
Batman frowns, his gaze sharpening. "That's what we need to find out."
Robin's hands clench into fists. "Kryptonite is dangerous, especially in the wrong hands. If that guy gets his hands on it…"
Luthor doesn't say anything, but his expression hardens. He knows the risk all too well. Kryptonite isn't just rare—it's powerful. In the wrong hands, it could be catastrophic.
The man on the screen moves closer to the Kryptonite Exhibit.
"He's almost there," Robin murmurs, tension lacing his words.
Batman turns to Luthor, his voice firm. "Luthor, we need access to that exhibit. Now."
Luthor exhales sharply, his reluctance clear, but he knows Batman won't take no for an answer. With a tight nod, he gestures for them to follow.
They move quickly through the halls, weaving between guests, until they reach the exhibit entrance. The moment they approach, uniformed security guards step in, blocking their path.
"Hold on. This is a private exhibit. Authorized personnel only."
Batman steps forward, his expression unreadable but commanding. "This is an emergency. We need immediate access to that exhibit."
The guards exchange a glance, their hands instinctively shifting toward their sidearms. Their hesitation is evident—they aren't sure whether to listen to Batman or refuse outright.
Before tension can escalate, Luthor steps in, his voice smooth but firm. "It's fine. They're with me."
The guards hesitate for a beat before recognizing Luthor's authority. With a reluctant nod, they step aside, allowing Batman, Robin, and Luthor to pass.
As they enter, the room is bathed in an eerie green glow. Kryptonite specimens of varying sizes are displayed in reinforced glass cases, each one pulsating with a faint, otherworldly radiation. The air is heavy with tension.
At the center of the exhibit, standing before the largest crystal, is the man in black. His posture is relaxed, his hands in his pockets, but there is something unnervingly deliberate about his presence. He isn't admiring the display. He's studying it.
Batman and Robin immediately tense, their bodies coiled for action.
Robin murmurs, "What's he doing?"
Batman doesn't take his eyes off the man. His voice is low, controlled. "I don't know. But whatever it is, it can't be good."
Luthor, still standing beside them, shifts his gaze between the man and the kryptonite. Unlike the heroes, there is no tension in his stance—only curiosity. His expression is unreadable, his mind calculating.
"Hm... interesting," he mutters, his gaze lingering on the largest crystal. The glow reflects in his eyes as he analyzes the faint radiation. "A peculiar object, indeed…"
For a moment, it almost seems like he might care.
But then, with a dismissive wave of his hand, he turns away. "Not my concern."
He strides past the kryptonite without another thought, already shifting his attention elsewhere.
Unseen by anyone else, the cloaked drone remains in position, its silent form hovering near its master.
A soft, mechanical voice hums in his ear. [Any actions needed, Doctor?]
The man doesn't look away from the kryptonite, but his answer is immediate.
"No…" His voice is flat, devoid of concern. "Just leave them be."
Because he knows the truth—the one who strikes first is always condemned.
And right now, there is no need to be condemned.
Batman, still watching the man intently, can't help but feel a growing sense of unease. He had expected some kind of reaction—perhaps fascination, concern, or even fear—but instead, the man dismissed the Kryptonite without a second thought.
Luthor, standing beside him, is visibly perplexed. His expression flickers between disbelief and annoyance as he watches the man walk away from the Kryptonite exhibit as if it were nothing more than an ordinary rock.
"He's just… ignoring it?" Luthor whispers, his voice tinged with exasperation. "Is he insane?"
Robin cocks an eyebrow, crossing his arms as he watches the stranger.
"It's like he doesn't care at all," he mutters.
Batman's jaw tightens, his gaze never leaving the man. His instincts are screaming that something isn't right. There's no way someone would just ignore Kryptonite—especially not someone who had been so meticulous in analyzing everything else in the exhibition hall.
"No," Batman finally says, his voice low and edged with suspicion. "It's not that. He's dismissing it as unimportant. Which means…"
He trails off, his mind racing through the implications.
Luthor lets out a sharp breath, his irritation mounting.
"Not unimportant!" he hisses. "This is the most dangerous substance on Earth! He should be trembling, at least…"
Yet the man continues walking, completely oblivious to the conversation behind him. His attention has already shifted elsewhere.
Robin frowns, tilting his head slightly.
"He's not affected at all by the radiation…"
Of course, he wouldn't be. The man was always that prepared.
Unbeknownst to them, his body was shielded by over four hundred layers of internal defenses, a technological marvel that made radiation exposure a non-factor. Unlike Batman, who was responding to the Kryptonite with wary caution, this man had no reason to react. It wasn't arrogance or recklessness—it was simple, practiced efficiency. A calculated nonchalance.
Luthor glances between the Kryptonite and the man once more, his bafflement deepening.
"How?" he mutters under his breath. "I've never seen anything like this…"
Batman doesn't respond, his thoughts still churning. He had encountered plenty of adversaries who had tried to circumvent Kryptonite's effects—lead shielding, synthetic barriers, even biochemical resistance—but this? This was something different. The man wasn't counteracting Kryptonite. He was ignoring it.
And that made him even more dangerous.
The stranger continues moving through the exhibit, his steps measured, deliberate. His eyes flicker over various displays, never lingering for long—until he stops in front of something new.
A massive, reinforced tank filled with a swirling, almost hypnotic liquid.
The eerie, shimmering substance moves unnaturally, shifting between translucent and opaque in slow, undulating waves. It almost seems alive.
Batman, Robin, and Luthor instinctively take a step closer, their collective focus now fixed on the tank.
Batman's expression sharpens. His mind is already working to decipher what he's looking at.
"What is that…?"
Luthor, momentarily forgetting his irritation, narrows his eyes at the tank, stepping forward with a mix of intrigue and unease.
"I've never seen this before…" he mutters. "And I personally curated every invention of value for this event."
Batman gives him a sidelong glance. That means this was either added at the last minute… or it wasn't meant to be here at all.
Robin shifts his stance, keeping an eye on the stranger as he studies the liquid.
"And he's completely indifferent to the most dangerous substance we know," Batman adds. "Yet this… this caught his attention."
The man stares at the strange liquid, his expression unreadable, but there is a clear shift in his posture. For the first time since entering the exhibit, he seems genuinely interested.
"Odd," he mutters under his breath.
His gaze sweeps the display, searching for an information plaque or a summary clipboard. Nothing. No labels, no descriptions.
"Doesn't seem to be listed…" he notes to himself, a slight frown forming.
That was unusual. Every other exhibit had extensive documentation, showcasing the brilliance behind the technology. Yet here stood an unmarked tank, displaying an unknown substance that—if Luthor's words were to be believed—shouldn't even be here.
Maintaining his composed demeanor, the man scans the room, looking for a staff member. It takes only a moment before he spots one—a young woman in a neatly pressed uniform. Without hesitation, he approaches.
"Excuse me," he says, his tone neutral, controlled. "Is this part of the exhibit?"
The staff member, caught slightly off guard, turns toward him. She offers a polite smile as she steps closer.
"Yes, sir," she replies. "That exhibit is the newest addition to the event. It's called the Lethe Liquid."
She gestures to the tank, her expression brightening slightly as she recites the information.
"It's a cutting-edge, nanobotic-based liquid that can selectively erase or overwrite memories."
The words hang in the air.
Batman's entire body tenses.
Robin's eyes widen slightly.
Luthor… suddenly seems far more interested than before.
The man stared at the swirling liquid, his expression unreadable. The name Lethe Liquid stirred something in his memory—faint, distant recollections of similar concepts from his own world. Substances designed to manipulate memory, to rewrite the past with surgical precision or crude, irreversible devastation. He had encountered them before.
But to erase memories entirely? That was something else. Something far more dangerous.
His gaze sharpened. The faint glow of the liquid reflected in his eyes as he exhaled a slow breath. "Quite horrendous..." he muttered under his breath.
Almost unconsciously, his thoughts began to unravel aloud, cascading into rapid, precise analysis.
"A substance capable of erasing memory would require direct interference with neural pathways," he murmured, his voice low but steady. "That means disrupting synaptic connections, altering neurotransmitter activity, or even forcibly rewriting long-term potentiation. But the brain isn't so easily rewritten. Even if you suppress one memory, the neural structure remains—like footprints in wet cement. A process like this... would be inherently unstable."
He stepped closer, his gaze scanning the liquid as if dissecting it on a molecular level. His fingers flexed briefly before relaxing at his sides.
"If it enters the bloodstream, then it must cross the blood-brain barrier. That suggests highly reactive agents—possibly neurotoxic. If it binds too aggressively, it could trigger widespread neuronal apoptosis, killing brain cells en masse. And if the reaction is uncontrolled..." He inhaled sharply, his eyes narrowing. "Worst case scenario? Ischemic strokes. Catastrophic synaptic failure. Complete cognitive collapse."
The staff member visibly tensed, her polite demeanor faltering as she absorbed his words.
He wasn't finished.
"Long-term effects?" He shook his head slightly. "Demyelination. Progressive neurodegeneration. Permanent dissociative disorders. If any trace elements resemble heavy metals—lead, mercury, or certain alkaloids—then we're looking at systemic toxicity. Seizures. Coma. Eventual brain death."
His voice grew quieter, colder. "Even in a so-called 'successful' case, the risk of irreversible identity fragmentation is inevitable. This isn't just a memory eraser. It's a neural time bomb."
Silence followed.
The staff member swallowed, her lips parting slightly, but no words came.
Batman stood rigid, his jaw set. His mind was already analyzing everything, turning each possibility over in rapid succession. If even half of what the man said was true, then this wasn't just dangerous—it was a potential weapon of mass psychological destruction.
Robin had crossed his arms, his brow furrowed. He had seen dangerous tech before, but the sheer precision of the man's breakdown made the liquid seem far worse than he'd initially thought.
Luthor, however, had a different reaction. He wasn't disturbed—he was intrigued. His eyes flickered with thought, calculations forming as he considered the possibilities. The risks, the rewards. The applications.
The man, still staring at the liquid, finally exhaled.
"Horrendous," he said again, this time with finality.
The man's gaze lingered on the staff member for a brief moment before drifting back to the swirling liquid in the tank. His expression remained impassive, but there was a weight to his words as he spoke again.
"That said," he murmured, his voice neutral yet firm, "is it wise for this... Lethe Liquid to still be on display?" His gaze swept the area once more, searching for any kind of information board or warning label. His eyes narrowed slightly. "I didn't see any documentation. Perhaps this hasn't been properly approved by your host? He should have known this was out here."
The staff member, still visibly unsettled by his breakdown of the substance, straightened her posture. A flicker of realization crossed her face, followed by growing concern.
"Yes, you're right," she admitted, shaking her head. "The Lethe Liquid is still under development and approval process. It's not supposed to be on display."
That single statement sent a ripple of tension through the air.
Batman and Robin exchanged a glance—silent but knowing. The man's knowledge, his instinctive concern, his immediate grasp of the situation... it all painted a picture that neither of them liked. He wasn't just an observer with passing interest. He knew things. More than he should.
Luthor, however, had a different expression. He was watching the man carefully, analyzing him much in the same way the man had analyzed the Lethe Liquid. There was no fear in his gaze, nor suspicion. Only calculation.
The man gave a quiet hum, his fingers adjusting his glasses with a smooth, practiced motion. His gaze flickered around the exhibit once more before settling back on the staff member.
"Well," he said simply, "best at least check on this before more people... see this unfinished product."
His words were carefully chosen, his tone even. He wasn't accusing—merely advising. Yet the weight behind them made the staff member shift uncomfortably.
"Yes, of course," she said quickly, her face betraying a hint of embarrassment. "I'll go inform my team to have it removed immediately."
She hesitated, then looked at him more closely, as if seeing him for the first time. There was something about the way he carried himself—his calm demeanor, the quiet confidence, the sheer precision of his speech.
"Thank you... for pointing it out," she said at last. Then, after a moment, she added, "May I ask your name?"
A brief pause.
His identity was of little concern—there was no trace of him in this world, no digital footprint, no official records. And yet, revealing too much was never wise. With a slight tilt of his head, he adjusted his glasses again, his expression unreadable.
"Just a scientist," he said evenly. "But you can call me Doctor Lune."
The name rolled off his tongue effortlessly, as natural as a breath.
The staff member nodded slowly, as if committing it to memory.
"Doctor Lune," she repeated, tasting the name. Her expression shifted—curious, thoughtful. "Well, it's nice to meet you, Doctor. Thanks again for bringing this to my attention."
She offered a polite, if somewhat hesitant, nod before turning on her heel and briskly making her way towards the exit, already pulling out a communication device to notify her team.
As she disappeared into the crowd, a new kind of silence settled in the air.
Doctor Lune turned slightly, already prepared to move on—only to find Batman, Robin, and Luthor stepping closer, their gazes locked onto him.
Their attention was no longer on the Lethe Liquid. It was on him.
Of course, the name was bullshit. A quick fabrication. Being prepared meant more than knowing—it meant adapting.
Doctor Lune shifted his weight slightly, adjusting his glasses in a fluid, measured motion. His expression remained impassive, unreadable, even as he felt Batman's scrutiny intensify.
The Dark Knight's eyes were sharp—unwavering. There was caution there, but something else lurked beneath it. Curiosity.
"You seem to know a lot about the Lethe Liquid," Batman stated. His voice was low, steady, every syllable measured.
Robin stood beside him, arms crossed, his gaze no less questioning. The subtle clench of his fist at his side betrayed his thoughts—ready to act, if necessary.
Luthor, however, was watching differently. There was no hostility in his eyes, nor suspicion. Only calculation. Measuring. Weighing.
Doctor Lune exhaled slowly through his nose. He turned, meeting Batman's gaze directly. There was no hesitation, no uncertainty.
"The right question," he said, his tone flat, "isn't how I know about the Lethe Liquid."
He adjusted his glasses again, the faintest glint of light catching the lenses. "Rather, it should be about its structure and composition. Assuming otherwise is simply an accusation."
Batman didn't flinch. His posture didn't shift. His eyes, however, sharpened. "And if I was accusing you?"
The words hung in the air, weighty, deliberate.
Robin stiffened slightly, his fingers flexing, then curling into a tighter fist. The tension in his stance was barely contained, but present.
Luthor, still silent, let the moment play out, his intrigue evident.
Doctor Lune, unfazed, rolled his shoulders slightly—an almost dismissive motion. Regardless of the underlying tension, his response was the same.
He spoke, calm yet precise.
"Lethe Liquid," he began, his tone devoid of theatrics or emphasis—just cold, clinical fact. "If it truly has memory-erasing properties, then it would require a biochemical mechanism capable of disrupting or erasing neural pathways."
His hand moved as he spoke, a subtle yet fluid motion, like a professor guiding a lecture. "Memory storage isn't as simple as deleting a file. It's an intricate process involving synaptic plasticity, neurotransmitter regulation, and complex protein synthesis."
He glanced at the now-distant tank, as if dissecting the substance all over again in his mind. "One possibility," he continued, turning back to them, "is that the liquid contains a neurolytic agent—something that interferes with long-term potentiation in the hippocampus."
His fingers briefly tapped the side of his head, right where the hippocampus sat beneath layers of bone and tissue. "That region is responsible for memory consolidation. If this substance targets synaptic receptors—NMDA, AMPA—it could effectively block recall, or even erase stored information altogether."
He let the words settle for a moment before continuing, his gaze flickering between his three observers. "But such an effect wouldn't be without risks."
He exhaled softly, his hands lowering. "Memory loss isn't a controlled process. Wiping selective memories without causing cognitive impairment?" He shook his head slightly. "Almost impossible."
His tone didn't change, but there was something heavier about it now—something inevitable. "A substance like this could lead to widespread neurological damage. Disorientation. Even complete personality dissolution."
He let the silence stretch. Then, a quiet finality settled into his voice.
"Worst case?" His eyes darkened slightly. "Total synaptic failure. Brain death."
Another pause. His gaze, which had been neutral before, became just the slightest bit colder.
"Truly," he murmured, almost to himself, "whoever created the Lethe Liquid is either reckless…"
His eyes flickered toward the now-empty exhibit space. "…Or utterly indifferent to its consequences."
Silence.
A heavy, contemplative silence.
Batman, Robin, and Luthor were all still. Considering. Calculating.
Each of them processing his words in different ways.
Batman's jaw tightened slightly, though his expression remained unreadable.
Robin, despite himself, looked unsettled. He had heard the science before—had read about such concepts in his studies. But hearing it spoken aloud, in such stark, unforgiving terms, made it feel far too real.
Luthor…
Luthor was smiling.
Not fully. Just the barest trace of amusement at the corner of his mouth. His eyes, however, were razor-sharp.
Doctor Lune finally exhaled, his shoulders easing just slightly.
"But of course," he added, his tone returning to its earlier neutrality, "these are just theoretical observations."
A slight shrug.
"Nothing more."
The silence stretched for another few moments before it was finally broken.
Batman, his voice deep, measured, and deliberate, spoke first. "Your knowledge of the Lethe Liquid is… impressive."
His eyes hadn't left Doctor Lune for even a second. "But that doesn't explain your presence here at the convention. Or your interest in it."
Doctor Lune tilted his head slightly, as if considering the question. Then, with a slow blink, he met Batman's gaze once more.
"And does your question before," he asked, his voice as unreadable as ever, "play a part in that?"
His gaze remained calm. Stoic.
"No."
A pause.
Then, a slight flicker of something in his eye—just enough to carry the faintest trace of amusement.
"Detective."
Batman's jaw tightens at the Doctor's response. He isn't used to people evading his questions so easily, let alone with such nonchalance. Robin watches closely, his curiosity growing, while Luthor remains silent, his expression unreadable.
Batman takes a step closer, his gaze sharp and unwavering. "I have my reasons for asking," he says, his voice cool and steady. "And I think you have your own reasons for being here. Care to share?"
The Doctor meets his stare with calm indifference, his posture relaxed, as if this entire conversation is nothing more than an academic discussion. "I have the right to remain silent." He glances briefly at Luthor, who shifts uncomfortably under the weight of the moment. "Isn't that right?"
Luthor hesitates, caught off guard. "Uh… yes, that's correct, but—"
Batman cuts in, his tone sharp. "Rights aren't infinite, Doctor. And your silence doesn't make you innocent."
The Doctor exhales quietly, his gaze unwavering. "But I still have those rights. You, however? I don't think simple vigilantism makes much of a difference."
Batman doesn't react, but Robin stiffens slightly at the remark. The Doctor lets the words settle before continuing, his tone even, his words measured. "As for why I'm here? The same reason anyone else is. People observe, study, and admire another's work. Some seek to understand and innovate. Others simply want to steal. It makes no difference—this pattern repeats across the world, happening somewhere at this very moment."
With a deliberate movement, he adjusts his glasses. "Just as you have your reasons for asking, I have my reasons for silence. Call it paranoia, suspicion, even morality. It can be good, it can be evil. But under the gaze of a vigilante, does it really matter?"
A faint, almost amused detachment lingers in his voice as he adds, "So go ahead. Make me talk."
He knows how this works. The first to strike is always the first to be condemned. And that truth never changes.
The room falls eerily still. Batman says nothing, his expression unreadable, but his mind is working behind those cold, calculating eyes. Robin and Luthor watch in silence, their attention locked on him, waiting to see how he'll respond.
Finally, after a long moment, Batman steps forward, stopping a few feet away. His stance is firm, his gaze unwavering. "You said you have the right to remain silent," he says, his voice quiet but edged with authority. "But I have the right to the truth. And one way or another—"
He steps closer, mere inches now between them.
"I. Will. Get. It."
The Doctor tilts his head slightly, his expression unchanged. "Are you done blabbering?" His voice remains flat, indifferent. "Show me."
Batman's eyes narrow. Robin and Luthor exchange brief glances, both sensing the shift in tension.
"You think this is a game?" Batman's voice drops lower, carrying a clear warning.
"I don't play games."
He closes the gap even further, his hand resting on his utility belt—a silent reminder of his capabilities.
The air in the room is thick with tension, an invisible force pressing down on everyone present. The soft hum of machinery in the background is the only sound, a faint reminder that time is still moving, even as the confrontation before them seems frozen in place.
Robin tenses, his sharp eyes darting between the two men. His hands clench at his sides, every instinct screaming that a fight is imminent. Batman doesn't usually let people get under his skin, but the Doctor is different. There's something about his absolute lack of concern, his sheer indifference, that makes it feel as though he's not just resisting intimidation—he's mocking the very idea of it.
Luthor, sitting just beyond the reach of the confrontation, leans forward ever so slightly, his keen gaze never leaving the scene. His expression is a curious mix of amusement and expectation, a man watching a carefully orchestrated game unfold before him. He doesn't interfere, doesn't speak. He just waits, like a spectator in an arena, anticipating the first strike.
The Doctor remains perfectly still. There's no tension in his shoulders, no flicker of unease in his eyes. He stands there, utterly composed, staring up at Batman as if he's merely listening to a particularly dull lecture.
Batman, however, is anything but indifferent. His hand, still resting near his belt, curls slightly, his fingers tightening with barely restrained frustration. His entire body is coiled, his patience stretched thin. The way the Doctor refuses to react, refuses to even acknowledge the weight of the moment, is testing him in ways few ever have.
"Speak," Batman commands. His voice is like steel—sharp, cold, and unyielding.
The Doctor doesn't flinch. He doesn't blink. He simply tilts his head slightly and exhales in what might be mild amusement. "Try me."
The room feels like it holds its breath. Even Robin and Luthor—so vastly different in temperament—show flickers of anticipation on their faces. They have never seen Batman challenged like this before, not like this.
Batman's hand clenches into a tight fist at his side. His piercing gaze remains locked onto the Doctor, his voice dropping into a low growl. "Don't make the mistake of underestimating me, Doctor."
The Doctor lets a small pause hang between them before responding, his tone as flat and unaffected as ever. "I didn't." He cocks his head ever so slightly. "I'm just wondering… when you'll be done with your pathetic excuse of intimidation."
Batman's jaw tightens, his muscles visibly tensing. The words are meant to push him, to test his control, and it's working. He takes another deliberate step forward, the space between them nearly vanishing. The Doctor still doesn't move.
Behind them, Robin watches with wide eyes, shifting uncomfortably. He's seen Batman angry before, but this is something else. He's not just irritated—he's simmering, something deeper boiling beneath the surface. Robin wants to say something, to step in, but he knows better. Batman never tolerates interference when he's locked in like this.
Luthor, meanwhile, is thoroughly enjoying himself. His smirk has grown, his eyes gleaming with intrigue. He's never seen the Bat like this, teetering on the edge of action. And he likes it.
Batman leans in just enough that the Doctor can feel his breath, his voice dropping to something dangerous. "You're looking for a reaction, Doctor. You're trying to goad me into doing something that justifies your suspicion."
The Doctor meets his gaze with the same calm, detached stare. "Good." There's no amusement in his tone, no challenge—just plain, clinical observation. "Because I'm not even trying to make you react. You either strike me, or I strike you. I was simply waiting to see if you were done, because right now, all you're doing is blabbering nonsense."
Batman's eyes narrow. He's been in thousands of interrogations, faced criminals, warlords, terrorists—but few have ever stood before him with such complete, unwavering detachment. The Doctor isn't provoking for sport, nor is he taunting out of arrogance. He is simply stating what he believes to be the truth, without fear or concern.
Robin shifts on his feet, ready to intervene if necessary. His fingers twitch, ready to grab a batarang at a moment's notice. Luthor, in stark contrast, leans forward even more, utterly absorbed.
Batman's hand flexes. For the first time in a long while, he wants to hit someone—not out of strategy, not to subdue, but simply to shatter the impenetrable calm on the Doctor's face.
The Doctor doesn't move. His demeanor is unwavering, his stance professional, his expression unreadable. He simply waits.
Then, finally, he speaks again, his tone as flat and disinterested as ever. "Are you done?"
The words land like a challenge, but the Doctor's expression remains indifferent, as if Batman's reaction—his fury, his intimidation—was irrelevant from the start.
The room is thick with unspoken tension. Robin is frozen, waiting for Batman's next move. Luthor's smirk widens, sensing the uncharacteristic struggle within Gotham's Dark Knight.
And Batman, standing inches from the Doctor, remains silent.
The tension in the room has become suffocating, thick as smoke, clinging to every word, every unspoken thought. The air crackles with the energy of a fight that hasn't started—but feels inevitable.
Batman's hand clenches into a tightly wound fist, his knuckles turning white beneath his gauntlet. The Doctor's absolute indifference, his quiet and unwavering composure, is like a steady drip of water on stone—persistent, unshakable, and maddening.
Robin shifts uncomfortably, his hands twitching at his sides. He's unsure if he should intervene, unsure if Batman even wants him to. He's seen criminals cower, seen them lash out in desperation, but he's never seen someone simply stand there—calm, unmoved, almost bored.
Luthor, however, is reveling in the moment. He leans forward in his seat, elbows resting on his knees, his sharp eyes never leaving the exchange. His smirk is wider now, as if watching an artist at work. He's never seen someone prod Batman so effectively. There's almost a sense of admiration in the way he watches the Doctor work.
Batman takes a slow, deliberate step forward, his imposing figure casting an even longer shadow across the Doctor. His voice is low, nearly a growl. "You're playing with fire, Doctor."
The Doctor remains still, unfazed, his expression as blank as ever. But then, a slight flicker of something—a faint lift of his brow, just enough to show the briefest hint of thought before he replies in that same, quiet monotone.
"Fire? An interesting choice of words, given your… disposition, Detective."
The words, seemingly simple, land like embers on dry kindling. Batman's jaw tightens, the muscle in his cheek twitching. The Doctor's nonchalance, his cool, calculated responses, are gasoline on an already smoldering inferno. Every word is designed not to anger him outright, but to dig—to chip away at his patience, layer by layer.
Robin braces himself. He doesn't understand why Batman is holding back, but the atmosphere in the room has become unbearable. It's like standing in the eye of a storm, waiting for the first gust of wind to signal the inevitable chaos.
Luthor watches, utterly fascinated. His smirk curves higher, his gaze flicking between the two men, drinking in every movement, every breath, every moment of tension.
Batman's voice drops lower, the threat undeniable. "Are you trying to mock me, Doctor?"
The Doctor doesn't hesitate. His expression never changes. His response is flat, matter-of-fact. "Do I even mock you when you're just standing there?"
The room falls silent.
Batman's fingers curl so tightly his gauntlet creaks under the strain. His control is slipping. How is this man so composed? How does he stand in the presence of Gotham's Dark Knight, utterly unshaken, treating him not as a threat—but as an amusement?
Robin's throat tightens. This isn't just an interrogation anymore—this is something else entirely. He's seen Batman furious before, seen him at the edge of his restraint, but this… this is different. The Doctor isn't resisting, isn't fighting back. He's simply absorbing Batman's fury, letting it crash against him like waves against a cliff—unchanging, immovable.
Luthor chuckles under his breath. He's thoroughly entertained now. This is better than he ever could've hoped for. He shifts forward slightly, eyes gleaming with wicked amusement.
Batman takes another step forward, nearly closing the space between them. "You think this is a game, Doctor?" His voice is dark, rough, dangerously close to slipping past control.
The Doctor lets a slow exhale pass through his nose, neither a sigh nor an expression of annoyance. He blinks once, methodically.
"You keep saying this is a game…" he muses, his tone as even as ever. "I'm beginning to feel like you're no different..."
Then, just the slightest pause—
"...Orphan."
The word lands like a gunshot in a silent room.
Robin flinches.
Luthor's smirk vanishes.
And Batman?
Batman stops breathing.
For a moment, the world stands still. The Doctor doesn't move. Doesn't smirk. Doesn't taunt. He simply watches, his gaze unwavering, his posture unchanged.
Robin's fists tighten at his sides. That word—it wasn't just a provocation. It was a scalpel, a precise cut aimed directly at the one wound Batman never allows to be touched.
Luthor, for once, isn't smiling. He expected goading, expected tension—but this? This was something else. Even he wasn't sure if the Doctor had just signed his death warrant.
Batman doesn't move. Doesn't speak. His breath comes slow, measured—but his fists, clenched so tightly at his sides, shake.
The Doctor meets his gaze, his voice still eerily level. "Your move, Detective."
The room suddenly seems to go still. The word orphan, uttered so nonchalantly, by a man so calm, hits a nerve in Batman that even Robin, standing next to him, can see. The way Batman stiffens ever so slightly, the way his fingers flex just a little tighter—it's subtle, but to those who know him well, it's unmistakable.
Robin swallows hard. He knows that word carries weight. It's a reminder of something Batman has spent his entire life overcoming. For someone like the Doctor to use it so effortlessly, as if it were nothing more than a passing remark, is unnerving. The intent behind it is clear.
Luthor, sensing a turning point, leans forward even more, his smirk replaced with a look of intense interest. He had expected tension, expected a battle of wills, but this… this is something far more personal. He watches with sharpened focus, his usual arrogance momentarily replaced with genuine curiosity.
Batman's jaw tightens even more. His breathing is steady, controlled, but his eyes burn with an anger that is barely being held back. His body is coiled, rigid, yet rooted to the spot. He doesn't react immediately, doesn't lash out, but the weight of the moment hangs thick in the air.
The Doctor, standing before him, remains unshaken. His expression doesn't shift, his posture never wavers. There's no smugness, no sign of gloating—just that same flat, unwavering demeanor. He had grown tired of the silent standoff, boredom creeping in, and decided to end it in a way that would both pacify and provoke all at once.
His voice breaks the silence, calm and detached as ever.
"Your eyes, your expression… nothing but that of an orphan. I've seen it countless times."
He tilts his head slightly, studying Batman as if he were nothing more than another case study, another subject to be examined and categorized.
"Was it the death of your parents? Tragic, I'm sure."
There's no mockery in his tone, no false sympathy—just a cold observation, clinical and impersonal, as if he were merely stating a fact.
Batman remains where he stands, unmoving. His fists are still clenched at his sides, his breathing slow and steady, but that burning intensity in his gaze hasn't wavered. It's clear that every word spoken is slicing deeper than any physical strike could.
Then, without hesitation, the Doctor reaches out and places a hand on Batman's shoulder. The gesture is deliberate, precise—just enough to establish contact, just enough to push the boundaries further. A second later, he gives a light shove to the side.
It isn't forceful. It isn't an attack. It's nothing more than a simple, casual motion, but in that moment, it carries more weight than any punch ever could.
"Seems like I win, Detective."
The words are spoken without arrogance, without triumph. They're not gloating, not taunting—just an observation.
Batman hadn't struck him. He hadn't reacted with violence. That hesitation, that restraint, was all the confirmation the Doctor needed. The man in the bat costume was holding back, unwilling to act first. And that, in itself, was a victory.
After all, the first to strike is always the first to be condemned.
The best defense required nothing more than intellect, confidence, and an understanding of human nature.
He had never needed to rely on sheer bravado. His cloaked drone still hovered nearby, silent and ever watchful, ready to intervene if necessary. But in the end, it hadn't been needed. He had won without lifting a finger.
Without another word, he turned and walked away. His movements were unhurried, unbothered, slipping seamlessly into the crowd as if he had never been there at all.
Luthor watches him go, still leaning forward, his eyes following the man until he disappears into the mass of people beyond. The smirk he had worn before is gone. He isn't sure what he's just witnessed, but it was something extraordinary. Something he hadn't expected.
Robin stands frozen in place, his eyes wide. His mouth is slightly open, unable to find words for what had just happened. He had expected Batman to have the final word, to regain control of the situation—but instead, the Doctor had walked away untouched, unchallenged, unshaken.
Batman, however, remains where he is. He doesn't turn, doesn't move to follow. His face is a mask, his expression locked into something unreadable. But those who know him well—Robin, and perhaps even Luthor—can see it. The tension in his posture, the rigid way he holds himself, the slight shift in his breathing.
The Doctor's words had cut deeper than any blade.
And they had left a mark that would not heal easily.
Eventually, after what feels like an eternity, Robin breaks the silence. His voice is quiet, almost hesitant, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the tension still lingering in the air.
"What... just happened?"
His eyes flick between Batman and the space where the Doctor had stood only moments ago. He knows what he saw—Batman, his mentor, the man who never loses control, had just been unraveled by nothing more than words. But understanding it? That was something else entirely.
Luthor, finally recovering from the shock of the exchange, lets out a low chuckle. It's quiet at first, but there's an undeniable amusement laced within it, as if he's savoring the moment.
"I think…" he starts, pausing as he leans back in his seat, a hint of admiration creeping into his voice. "I just saw someone best the Batman at his own game."
The weight of his words settles over the room, and for once, neither Robin nor Batman can refute them.
Robin swallows hard. He wants to argue, to deny it, to say that Batman wasn't beaten. But the truth is glaring, undeniable. The Doctor had come in, stood his ground, and walked away untouched. He hadn't thrown a punch, hadn't raised his voice, hadn't even broken a sweat. And yet, somehow, he had won.
Robin had seen Batman outthink, outmaneuver, and outfight some of the greatest minds and warriors in the world. But never—never—had he seen someone unravel him with nothing but words. It wasn't about strength. It wasn't about intimidation. It wasn't even about proving a point. The Doctor had simply been right where he needed to be and let Batman defeat himself.
The worst part, the part that stung the most, wasn't even the calculated way the Doctor had played him.
It was the word. Orphan.
The single, casual word that had cut through every layer of armor Batman had spent a lifetime building.
It echoed in his head, unshakable. A constant reminder of a past he'd never truly left behind.
Robin glances up at Batman, but his mentor remains silent. His face is a mask of cold indifference, his posture stiff and unyielding. To anyone else, he might seem unaffected, just another tense standoff in a long list of encounters. But Robin knows better.
Batman's silence is not victory.
It's the weight of defeat.