For Batman—rather, for Bruce Wayne—the greatest pain in his life will always be the death of his parents.
That night in the alley when they were tragically murdered during his childhood left an unhealable scar. A moment of childish willfulness, wanting them to accompany him to a Zorro movie, became the fatal turning point. It cost him the people he cherished most and etched an indelible shadow into his heart. That moment became the whip that drives Batman endlessly in his crusade against crime.
A truly strong person isn't defined by brute strength or terrifying powers, but by unwavering determination, indomitable beliefs, and relentless resolve. Strength is about standing tall even after a thousand failures—biting your lip, getting up, and pressing forward.
And in Jack's eyes, Batman is the embodiment of that kind of strength.
Jack once wondered why Batman, for all his brilliance and effort, couldn't make Gotham City better. It puzzled him—until he read every comic from beginning to end and finally understood.
Gotham wasn't meant to be saved.
It wasn't Bruce's fault. Gotham had to remain broken because that was how the comics were written. The city is a stage, and the writers—the puppet masters—needed it to remain dark. Every time Batman tries to fix it, they script another accident, another tragedy, another setback to foil his progress. Then they script him rising again, heroically, for the thousandth time.
The fans enjoy the fall and the rise. It's all part of the process.
Eventually, some writers pushed it too far. They created the Batman Who Laughs—a twisted version of Bruce born from the same endless torment. Because not every version of Bruce Wayne can endure this brand of suffering forever.
But back to Jack.
Would he try to change Gotham City?
Not at all.
Superman may be powerful, but he's not omnipotent—and besides, Gotham is Batman's turf. Jack has no intention of participating in this theater of grim, self-righteous drama.
Imagine your next-door neighbor has a cesspool. Every day, a guy named Batman dives into it, trying to clean it out. Then one day, you decide to help, but you know nothing about cesspool cleaning. You're more likely to fall in and come out covered in stink than actually help.
Jack's goal is much simpler, much more personal.
He came to Gotham for one reason: to uncover his identity.
Who is he? Whose role has he inherited?
It's the age-old trio of philosophical questions: Who am I? Where am I? Where am I going?
Batman listened as Jack spoke, but didn't interrupt. Nor did he show anger.
A master psychologist never shows emotion outwardly. And certainly not when standing before a complete unknown.
Jack—this mysterious being—clearly knew Batman's true identity. Yet Batman knew nothing about him.
That silence? It was calculated. Psychological interrogation via pressure.
But Jack didn't bite. He held Batman's gaze, meeting silence with silence.
Then—
"Alright, alright, you two weirdos, stop wasting everyone's time!"
Commissioner Gordon finally broke the tension, stepping in between them. He rubbed his nose in frustration and said, "I need your help, Batman."
"Things have been... unusually restless lately."
He gestured toward a corner, beckoning Batman to follow.
"You don't need to hide anything from me," Jack said casually. "If I wanted to, I could hear your cells vibrating."
Batman narrowed his eyes, mentally adding enhanced hearing to the growing list of Jack's abilities. He gave Gordon a glance, silently urging him to go on.
Gordon, clearly uncomfortable, rubbed his brow. "We found a scene. My men think you should see it."
Batman nodded and stepped toward the edge of the rooftop.
And then he vanished into the night with a flap of his cape—like a living shadow.
Gordon sighed. "Well, at least he didn't vanish without a word this time."
He turned to Jack. "And you, Mr. Mystery, what exactly do you plan to do?"
Jack didn't answer. Instead, he looked upward.
Then—Boom!
He launched into the air like a streak of red lightning piercing the clouds. The sudden updraft blasted dust into Gordon's face.
The old man wiped his face furiously and muttered, "I hate capes. Black or red, they're all the same."
So, how do you find the dirtiest, most chaotic parts of Gotham City?
Simple: walk into the filthiest, cheapest neighborhoods. There, you'll find the city's underbelly—gangs hiding in low-rent buildings, living in concrete shells barely holding together.
The good news? Rent's cheap.
The bad news? You'll inherit the ghosts of past tenants—sometimes quite literally. And one day, when despair finally crushes your spirit, you might loop a rope over a beam and join the collection of "soul rings" left behind.
"Hey! What the hell did I say?"
"Set up the awning already! This rain's gonna wash away the evidence!"
Deputy Commissioner Harvey Bullock bellowed from the second floor, rain pounding around him. Stout, grizzled, and perennially exhausted, Harvey was Commissioner Gordon's most trusted right-hand man—not to be confused with Harvey Dent.
"Harvey," came a voice from the shadows.
The dim light flickered, revealing pointed bat ears emerging from the darkness.
"You made it."
Before Harvey could turn around, a thunderous crack shook the air, like the sky had been torn in half. A red-caped figure descended, landing with such force that water exploded in all directions.
The officers jumped in surprise. Harvey instinctively reached for the pistol at his side, staring at this new arrival with narrowed eyes.
"Is this your opponent?" Harvey asked Batman. "Or is he your new Robin? Though I don't recall Robin ever being taller than you."
Batman ignored him, leaping from the second floor and heading toward the rental building.
Inside, the stench hit immediately—blood and decay. A foul, clinging rot that had soaked into the very walls.
Clothes lay in heaps. Broken furniture. Crushed beer cans everywhere—mostly a cheap brand called Skywalker, a dollar a can.
Batman crouched near the body pinned to the wall.
It was gruesome.
The man wore only shorts. Throwing knives covered his body from head to toe like metallic thorns. His eyes had been gouged out and replaced with pale, glass marbles.
Dried blood had formed dark crusts around each wound.
Jack ducked into the room behind him and took in the scene with an unsettling smile.
"Your city is... fascinating," he muttered.
Batman didn't look up, but replied, "You know something."
Jack knelt beside the body. "I know a lot."
Harvey grunted in protest but said nothing. Jack reached out and pulled a blade from the corpse—a vintage throwing knife with an owl insignia carved at the end.
He held it up, twirling it with ease before showing the engraved symbol to Batman.
"They're saying hello to you," Jack said softly.
"Batman."
To Be Continued...
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