As the host and organizer of the evening party, Bruce's twenty-minute absence had already drawn quite a bit of attention—especially since he had been rummaging through things the whole time.
"Do you need something, Master Bruce?"
Alfred stepped in front of him.
"Your friends are waiting for you."
To the butler, something felt off. At this point in the evening, Bruce would normally have already downed several glasses of wine and be getting ready to stir up trouble with the other rich young heirs of Gotham.
This unusual behavior put Alfred on guard. Having been dragged into enough of Bruce's messes before, he couldn't help but stay alert—just in case the young master was about to cause another scene.
"It's nothing, Alfred."
After searching for so long and finding nothing, Batman had no choice but to change tactics. Seeing Alfred now, he began considering his second option.
"Can you get in touch with Martha? I called her, but she didn't pick up."
"As I mentioned earlier, Madam is currently presiding over an important meeting."
At the mention of Martha, Alfred frowned slightly.
"Managing the entire Wayne family fortune is no easy task. Not like some people, who only need to drink and enjoy themselves all day."
Alfred had never understood why Mrs. Martha indulged Bruce so much.
As a child, Bruce had been so well-behaved and sensible. Yet now he had grown into someone so lacking in responsibility.
The saying 'overindulgence spoils a child' couldn't be more accurate.
In Martha's eyes, it seemed Bruce was meant to drive luxury cars, sip fine drinks, throw lavish parties, and sleep his way through life—wasting each day in pleasure.
That kind of indulgence had turned him into a man in his thirties who still behaved like a carefree child.
He had neither Thomas's professional skill nor any intention of taking over the Wayne family business.
Faced with Alfred's criticism, Bruce had nothing to say. He knew that was just how Alfred was.
After Bruce lost his parents, Alfred had always been like a second father to him.
And if he had gone astray, Alfred would never just stand by and do nothing.
Though in this world, it seemed his efforts hadn't accomplished much.
This realization sparked another thought in Bruce's mind—
Was this version of himself living a little too comfortably?
Both parents alive. Vast wealth. A circle of indulgent friends. Nights filled with endless pleasure...
Martha wasn't insane. Alfred was still alive. Selina hadn't been crippled by the Joker...
The brutal fate that forged Batman had never befallen him.
There was no need to worry about how to deal with dangerous villains like Penguin, Two-Face, Hush, or the Joker.
Every morning, when he woke up, the only concern this version of Bruce Wayne had… was how to spend the Wayne fortune.
If the power of the Helmet of Fate had created all of this, then it was almost too kind to him.
So kind that even Batman found himself tempted.
Why not—
No.
A warning bell rang loudly in his mind.
This was not a life Batman could live.
He knew himself too well. Everything here was too perfect—too perfect for someone like Batman.
He had a vague sense that this beautiful reality was like a shimmering soap bubble in the sunlight—dazzling, but destined to burst at any moment.
Ignoring the mixed looks of confusion and disdain around him, Bruce broke into a run toward the garage once more, preparing to drive to Wayne Tower.
Tonight, he had to find Martha.
Of the four of them present earlier, she was the one wearing the helmet. If the three of them didn't understand what had happened, then she must.
The gray Lamborghini's headlights flared to life, its engine roaring through the entire Wayne Manor.
To the crowd's surprise—yet somehow not entirely unexpected—the host of the party grabbed the keys from the valet and drove off from the manor grounds.
"Ladies and gentlemen, my sincerest apologies. Master Bruce has some urgent business and must step away for a moment."
Watching the sports car disappear, Alfred quickly smoothed things over, turning to the guests:
"Master Tommy, it's time for you to head home!"
"Mr. Dent, I deeply apologize for the poor hospitality extended to you and Miss Gilda..."
"Commissioner Gordon, please don't take offense—no, no, I assure you on my honor, he did not drink a single drop before getting behind the wheel!"
Everyone present—except Tommy, who had been asked to leave—took no offense and expressed understanding to Alfred.
After all, everyone knew that Bruce Wayne was a frivolous playboy. In their eyes, he had done far more outrageous things than this.
Him slipping away from his own party tonight wasn't considered particularly inappropriate.
In fact, without his presence, the atmosphere of the party might even improve.
After making his rounds, the old butler made his way over to Joey. At the moment, Joey was enthusiastically explaining to Diana how the scars on his face had come to be:
"That shell exploded right in front of the car—it flipped the entire jeep upside down! The shrapnel didn't just graze my face, some got into my body too! I've got several scars on my chest cuz of it… Luckily, I was incredibly fortunate, and Bruce's father, Dr. Thomas, performed something close to a miracle…"
Seeing this, Alfred couldn't help but sigh. If only Master Bruce's mouth could be half as articulate as Master Joey's.
Chatting with a lady like this and still being reserved?
If not for his age, Alfred would have stepped in on the spot to personally instruct him on the proper way to boast.
"That does sound quite remarkable."
Diana chuckled softly, placing her hand lightly on Joey's chest.
"Then later, I'll have to take a closer look at those scars."
Well—Alfred realized that perhaps the younger generation simply required a different approach. At least, it seemed to work quite well on this particular young lady.
Noticing Alfred approaching, Joey coughed and stepped back, trying to move away from Diana's hand, which was still resting on his chest.
"Bruce left again without saying goodbye?"
"I'm very sorry, Master Joey. You know how he is."
Alfred looked at Joey as if he were the classic 'someone else's perfect child'—a war correspondent who had survived the battlefield and even won a Pulitzer Prize.
If only Bruce had half of Joey's accomplishments, Alfred wouldn't have to worry so much.
Alfred's gaze swept over Joey, who looked a bit dazed, then over his companion—a woman who seemed mysterious and somewhat formidable to others—and finally to the half-empty bottle in her hand. Instantly, he understood.
"The guest rooms are prepared on the second floor at the back of the manor—one of the rooms Master Bruce often uses. If you've had too much to drink, you may rest there…"
Guided by a servant, Diana led Joey deeper into the manor, toward the guest rooms.
In this reality—where the Wayne family had not been destroyed and continued to thrive—the manor was well-maintained and lively, unlike the gloomy, abandoned versions seen in other worlds. Every corner here gleamed with luxury and warmth.
After arranging breakfast with a servant for the next morning, Diana locked the door behind them and turned to look at Joey, who was sitting on the edge of the bed, rubbing his temples.
Without Kryptonian physiology to neutralize toxins, the alcohol was more than enough to leave him dazed.
"Come here."
Diana grabbed Joey by the tie and pulled him closer, slipping off his suit jacket.
"Let me see the scars you're talking about."
"No, wait... Diana."
Still a bit hazy, Joey caught her hands as she began unbuttoning his shirt. Her fingers were slender, warm to the touch—like a piece of art.
There was only one small flaw. Though Joey had no memory of it now, the faint calluses on her palms made him instinctively uneasy.
"Don't you think we're moving a little too fast?"
Diana stepped back from his resistance, walked over, and drew the curtains shut. She casually opened an expensive black walnut wardrobe nearby to take a look inside.
What she found was… rather unexpected.
A set of items that looked like a cross between a whip and rope, along with other objects whose uses were… difficult to describe.
Bruce Wayne truely lived up to his reputation.
"Joey, want to try a little game? Something a little more... forceful?"
"No—no, Diana, I'm serious!"
Joey felt his instincts screaming at him to run, yet something held him back just enough that he didn't even notice what Diana had taken out. He kept trying to refuse:
"I really think I'll have to decline tonight—"
"Hmm."
Diana tightened the rope in her hand and, with a firm push, pressed the slightly dazed Joey back onto the bed.
Looking down at him, her gaze carried a dangerous, bold glint.
"It's better if you refuse… otherwise, it wouldn't count as a 'forceful little game,' would it?"