"Mr. Patrick?"
Wiping the rain from his face, Bruce looked in shock at Peter, who was holding an umbrella for him.
"You said you were going home, Thomas, but it seems the way home is blocked."
"I…"
Bruce lowered his head, "I don't know if that place still belongs to me."
He didn't know if he could still return to Wayne Manor.
"Looking like a loser now, that's not like a real man."
Peter patted his shoulder, "Come on, follow me back to the hotel first."
His super hearing had already picked up the contents of Bruce's conversation with Alfred.
The butler Alfred, calling himself "Thomas Wayne" (Bruce's father's name), and being rich—these elements combined easily led Peter to guess his identity: Bruce Wayne.
Looking down at the dazed and lost young man, Peter found it hard to connect him with the Dark Knight.
"Hotel?"
Bruce looked up at Peter upon hearing this, slightly stunned.
After a moment of hesitation, he finally followed Peter's steps and walked towards the car.
"Sir, do you really believe me?"
Walking beside Peter, Bruce asked with a complex mood.
Peter nodded and replied, "Of course, I believed you at first, Thomas, but you seem to lack confidence in yourself now."
Bruce said with a struggling expression, "Yes, some of my confidence has been destroyed, and sir, I deceived you. My name isn't Thomas; my real name is Bruce Wayne."
"Hmm, besides that, are there any other deceptions?"
"No, none. Everything else is true, including what I said about the twenty thousand U.S. dollars and the bar. I mean, sir, I just didn't want to implicate you, that's why I used a fake name."
Bruce quickly explained to Peter.
Peter nodded, "And now? Why are you telling me your real name now, Bruce?"
Bruce let out a breath, "Now, I feel… I've chosen to trust you, sir."
"I'm honored."
Peter continued walking forward, holding the umbrella, muttering to himself: This kid isn't afraid of implicating him, but rather doesn't trust him.
Sitting in the driver's seat, Peter started the car and drove forward in the pouring rain.
Steering with one hand, he casually took out a "franklin" and handed it to Bruce.
Bruce, not understanding, took the banknote.
"This is the banknote you just gave to those orphans. They can't have banknotes of this denomination."
Peter indicated that he had taken back the whole banknote and given them change instead.
Holding the "franklin," Bruce was silent for a moment before thanking Peter: "Thank you, sir."
He seemed to be talking to himself, yet also confiding in Peter, "I don't understand why there's evil everywhere in the city, whether it's Gotham or Metropolis."
Peter glanced at the other party in surprise; this kid already had questions about "evil."
"Where there is light, there is darkness; this is unavoidable."
Peter casually replied to him.
Bruce nodded, his gaze turning to a church outside the window.
The cross directly above the church stood in the heavy rain, shining brightly as it was washed clean.
He murmured, "Why doesn't Jesus save us and dispel the darkness?"
Peter followed Bruce's gaze and found that his eyes were fixed on the cross on the church.
He slowed the car down a bit, "Jesus might be a bit busy, Bruce. Do you know what some people believe the cross represents?"
Bruce shook his head, "I don't know."
"The horizontal line represents humanity. It refers to the current World, a World filled with material things, flesh, and filth: mud, blood, stones, bones. The vertical line represents Jesus's divine line, in a dominant position. It is perpendicular to the human World and is the axis of the Afterlife and the unknown World."
Just then, the car drove to a traffic light intersection, and Peter stepped on the brake.
"Jesus stood at the crossroads. He chose not the horizontal line representing the human World, but the vertical line representing Jesus."
He raised his eyebrows and asked Bruce, "If it were you, Bruce, how would you choose? The horizontal line, or the vertical line?"
He really wanted to know: one is to suffer and constantly redeem himself and others in the human World; the other is a one-time, Jesus-like sacrifice for liberation.
Which of these two heroic paths would Batman choose?
"Me?"
Hearing Peter ask him to choose, Bruce immediately fell into confusion.
Pinching his fingers, he was caught in a dilemma.
Although the horizontal and vertical lines sounded simple in what they represented, he frowned, still not knowing how to choose.
Watching Bruce's slightly conflicted expression, Peter's lips curved into a smile.
"It's okay, Bruce, this isn't a mandatory choice. The cross is a crossroads, and also a symbol of choice. The hardest thing in life is making choices."
The green light came on, Peter stepped on the accelerator, and the car drove through the intersection.
Bruce's puzzled and confused gaze turned to Peter.
He always felt that Peter's words seemed to be hinting at something.
The next day, early morning.
After Peter woke up, he saw Bruce, fully dressed, squatting in the hallway staring at a vase.
Upon hearing the sound, he turned his head and saw Peter standing behind him.
"Good morning, Mr. Patrick."
"Good morning, Bruce, what are you doing?"
Bruce pointed at the vase and said, "Nothing, I just feel like this vase looks familiar. It should be Chinese porcelain, over five hundred years old."
Peter glanced at the vase, "Roughly. A group of Bandits stole them and then brazenly displayed them here. Bruce, do you have similar porcelain at your home?"
Bruce said somewhat unnaturally, "I have similar ones, sir, but they shouldn't have been stolen. My ancestors acquired them from others."
"I'm glad to hear your ancestors were merchants, Bruce, not Bandits."
As Peter was talking with Bruce, Mark heard the sound and walked into the hallway.
Seeing Bruce, he was a bit surprised.
"Hello, I'm Bruce Wayne."
Bruce, facing Mark, who was much shorter than him, actively extended his hand as a sign of goodwill.
"You're that poor kid who borrowed money?"
Mark didn't shake his hand but scrutinized him.
"I'll pay it back."
"Pay it back? Then pay it back now."
Mark looked at him with contempt, "You might not understand the concept of money. Let me tell you, I earn only seven U.S. dollars a week from weeding, and you casually ask for a hundred U.S. dollars. You're even greedier than me! I'm telling you, you can fool Dad, but you can't fool me!"
Hearing Mark's not-so-kind threat, Peter frowned.
"John?"
"Sorry, Dad."
Mark, who was originally pointing at Bruce with his "Great Desolate Heaven-Imprisoning Finger," immediately changed his expression upon hearing Peter's displeased tone.
Mark, whose expression had transformed into one of harmlessness, innocently said to Peter, "Dad, I'm just afraid you'll be fooled by this poor kid."
Looking at Mark, who switched expressions freely and kept calling him "poor kid," Bruce unhappily turned his head away.
He hated this brat!