The smell of food slowly spread in a small radius; the old butler's cooking was as good as ever, as if it brought a trace of warmth into the dark, damp Bat Cave.
Joker clutched his hair, elbows on the table, laughing nonstop, as if he'd just heard another hilarious joke from Batman.
"Here we go again, here we go again, this kind of justice that's as fake as a plastic smile. I ripped open your wounds, killed your fiancée, and you still let me move into your house, treat me to dinner. You're just too nice. Thank Martha for me, for giving birth to such a good little boy like you, hahahahaha..."
Batman was still sitting in the darkness, his head slightly tilted, cheek resting on his arm on the chair's armrest: "..."
"Honestly, if people didn't know you like I do, they'd definitely think you're the world's number-one hypocrite. Your no-killing principle, your cold-blooded indifference, it all looks like an act. But I know this is you. Being alive is sometimes more painful than being dead, and the Darkness is the final resting place, isn't it?"
Talking as he went, Joker picked up the knife and fork with a cheerful grin, stabbed into the fried egg and played with it, then leaned his whole face over the plate and licked the half-cooked yolk with his tongue.
After that he shook his head, twisted his mouth to the side, and spat on the floor.
The old butler's dishes were very good, but they just didn't have the flavor of Bat, so he didn't like them.
Batman had no reaction at all to him wasting food, as if he hadn't seen it, so Joker put on a wronged expression and squirmed in the chair a few times, then suddenly looked like he'd just thought of something.
"Bat, you actually want me dead, don't you? But you can't let me die by your hand or by the Laughing Bat's. How about I go find Deathstroke?"
"No. If you're done eating, go back to your own room."
Joker rolled his eyes. "No way. That room doesn't even have cable TV. How much did you spend to build it? Did your procurement broker steal your money?"
"...."
"Forget it. You don't really want me safe, and you don't want yourself safe either, I get it, hehehe..." Joker picked up the napkin and wiped his mouth, smiled at the old butler, then suddenly pulled a pistol from his chest and aimed it at him.
Batman sprang up, trying to block the trajectory with his body for Ah Fu, and Joker had already pulled the trigger.
"Bang!"
The gunshot rang out. Batman felt no impact of being hit, but he didn't believe Joker could miss at this distance.
Then he saw Joker topple off the chair onto the floor, blood gushing from his chest, bubbles foaming at the wound, making a sound like a torn bellows.
That gun, when the trigger was pulled, would fire the bullet in reverse.
"Prank gun. When?"
Batman rushed over and scooped Joker up. He had seen Arkham Guard Bob leaving the city through Brother Eye and guessed he was the inside man in the breakout.
And when Joker entered the Bat Cave the metal detector went off, so Batman had already guessed Joker was carrying another gun.
But Joker shouldn't have had the time to modify the guard's firearm. If he had floated all the way from the bridge down the underground river to the Bat Cave, he should've had no chance to tamper with the gun at all.
Blood gushed from Joker's mouth. His heart had been shot, but his Self-healing Ability could buy him a little time.
Seeing that same perplexed look on Batman's face again, he smiled with delight.
Of course he knew Batman was monitoring this city. Otherwise, how could Joker possibly have let Bob go? Wasn't it just to put on a show for Batman?
If he'd killed Bob back then, how could he have misled Batman, made him think Joker was carrying the guard's gun?
He'd gotten his Prank Gun back in Arkham and had kept it tucked in his chest. Asking Bob for his gun afterward was just a Blinding Technique. If Batman or the Bat Clan intercepted Bob, they'd also learn that he'd handed his service pistol to Joker.
Even if no one stopped him, Batman's surveillance system would definitely capture someone leaving Gotham in the middle of the night. Once he confirmed Bob's identity, he could infer the 'Truth.'
The Justice League had always been chasing the Truth, but to Joker it was boring as hell.
Because all of it was a scam.
Only when Old Bob left and was seen by Batman did his mission truly complete, hehehe.... Only then, when Joker suddenly drew a gun and pointed it at Alfred, would Batman rush in to shield the butler from the bullet instead of going straight for his Weapon.
Thus the suicide succeeded, and Batman got tricked again, giving Joker double the pleasure.
"Haha—cough, cough... Only like this can you beat the Laughing Bat. Remember, it was me... who made you..."
Joker forced out the last sentence in broken fragments. His head lolled to the side and he fell silent forever.
An invisible wisp of green smoke, like it had a Life of its own, rose from Joker's mouth and clung to the nearest Batman, seeping in through the surface of his pitch-black suit and into his body.
Batman held Joker's frail body; the warmth of blood and the chill of river water mingled together.
Yet he had never felt this happy before. A storm of emotions slammed against his mind: a relieved lightness, a helpless terror, and a resistance toward what was about to happen.
But that still wasn't the main thing.
The pleasure boiling up inside made his face twitch uncontrollably, as if something were trying to burst out of his throat and tear free of his body. He summoned every ounce of his Willpower to fight the sensation, yet joy alone was impossible to suppress.
The laughter of his family in his memories grew louder, and Batman felt whole—whole as a human being.
Alfred hurried up behind Batman, grabbed his shoulders, and asked anxiously, "Young master, why are you... laughing?!"
..............
The heavy rain over the city was still pouring down in sheets, and Wayne Tower, which seemed to pierce straight into the heavens, was no exception. Its exterior, washed a pale whitish hue, made it look even more like a monument.
Wayne Tower had been built by the Batman of the Main World during the Night of the Owls. Some Batmen in other worlds had it, some did not—it depended on how much Darkness they had lived through.
Right now, outside the elevator that led straight to the top floor of Wayne Tower, a blind guard was on the night shift.
He hadn't always been blind. He had lost his sight when his eyes were burned out by gas during a Scarecrow assault on Wayne Group.
For a security guard, going blind usually meant being out of a job—but not at Wayne Group. Bruce Wayne was a world-renowned philanthropist; he wouldn't let a loyal employee who had been blinded in a work accident end up unemployed.
After Wayne Tower was completed, Bruce transferred Bill here. The environment here was far better than back at Wayne Tower's previous building.
Now his job was simply to drag a chair over to the elevator doors every day and sit there. It was an easy gig.
After all, there were a full thirty strong young guards stationed at the main entrance of Wayne Tower. Without several years of Special Forces service on their records, they weren't even qualified to apply to Wayne Group. And above the elevator, there were another thirty guards just like them, working in two shifts, all of them armed to the teeth.
So every night, all Bill had to do was come sit by the elevator, occasionally listen to the radio to pass the time.
He lived alone and had nowhere to go besides Wayne Tower. His family had all died long ago. Now, Wayne Group was his home.
But tonight it was rain and floods again, and there weren't any stations worth listening to. So Bill simply held his white cane in both hands and sat there, listening to the sounds in the vast hall.
After losing his sight, his hearing had grown significantly sharper. This was probably what people meant by that old saying: when God closes a door, He opens a window?
He heard a set of footsteps—somehow familiar, yet at the same time a little strange.
Bill shakily pushed himself up on his cane, turning his head to adjust the direction so he could catch the sound more clearly. "Hello, hello? Who are you? The other guards should've told you already, this area is off-limits to anyone except..."
"I've already 'said hello' to the other guards. Good evening, Bill, it's good to see you!" A familiar voice, tinged with a smile, sounded, and the person was getting closer and closer.
Bill relaxed, and a smile appeared on his weathered face as well. "Good evening, Mr. Wayne, I'm glad to hear your voice too."
"The weather's awful today. It took quite a bit of effort to get here, whew~"
Mr. Wayne exaggerated a panting sound. Bill could almost see the warmth on the young man's face. He was still the same as ever, always liked joking with his employees.
"Yeah, I may not be able to hear how hard the rain is pounding on the doors, but every joint in my body is telling me just how damp it is today."
Mr. Wayne seemed to share the feeling and sighed. "I'm not that young anymore either. Lately I keep feeling the muscles in my face getting stiff. Even smiling doesn't feel so natural anymore."
Old Bill reached out to feel for the elevator button, replying with a chuckle, "That's Earth's Gravity for you. Our eye bags, the corners of our mouths, all the flesh on our faces—it's all sagging down. So, are you going up today?"
"Of course. As always, Bill, as always."
Mr. Wayne placed his hand on the DNA scanner beside the elevator. The device immediately announced its confirmation: "Verification complete, welcome back, Mr. Bruce Wayne."
The faint rustle of someone putting on gloves sounded in the air, but Bill didn't find it strange. Rich big bosses all liked wearing leather gloves.
Then he heard Mr. Wayne ask him, "How have you been lately? How are your grandkids out of town? Are you in good health?"
Bill pressed the elevator button. The sound of steel cables and the moving car came from beside him. Grateful yet a little embarrassed, he answered, "They're... all doing fine. The new pacemaker works great too. I really can't thank you enough, Mr. Wayne, not just for the surgery, but for everything."
From not far away came the soft flap of a trench coat and the faint scrape of metal. And when Mr. Wayne replied, his voice seemed to shift from side to side, as if he were bending down to look for something:
"Don't thank me. You were injured in the Scarecrow attack. This is the least I can do."
"No, it's not that. I know what other bosses would do in your place. I have to say..." Just then, the elevator arrived. Its doors slid open with a crisp ding, and Bill heard light, brisk footsteps enter the car. He quickly smiled and held the automatic door for him. "You really are a great philanthropist."
"Hehehehe... Thank you for the compliment. It means a lot to me!"
The elevator doors closed, and the familiar hum of machinery returned. But what struck Bill as odd was that, just after the doors shut, he seemed to hear, for a brief instant, the sound of a blade being sharpened inside the elevator?
Must've been his imagination...