"I've been to more than thirty law firms since this morning."
Batman stood beneath a dim streetlamp, his coat collar turned up as rain misted the pavement. His voice was calm, but beneath it lay unmistakable frustration.
"Not a single one is willing to take a case against Kingpin."
He paused, replaying the day in his mind.
"Even the ones who showed interest backed out after a single conversation with their colleagues."
For the first time in a long while, Batman felt truly stuck.
He had faced worse—far worse. He had watched the Justice League collapse under Joker's virus, felt his spine shatter beneath Bane's fists, and clawed his way out of darkness more times than he cared to remember.
Yet none of that felt as difficult as this.
Finding a lawyer.
Lawyers weren't like street criminals or corrupt officials. They understood the web of power beneath the city. They knew who ruled New York's shadows.
Wilson Fisk.
A year ago, Fisk had merely been an expanding threat. Now, he was the underground emperor of Hell's Kitchen, his influence quietly spreading until it touched nearly every corner of the city.
And because they understood that truth, every lawyer refused to fight him.
"Your best option," the burly, bald lawyer from the twenty-fourth firm had said, leaning back in his chair, "is to find some rookie fresh out of law school."
He smirked.
"Of course, odds are you and that rookie lawyer end up chopped into pieces in a trash bin one morning."
Batman's response had been simple.
A single punch.
The man—two heads taller and built like a linebacker—folded instantly, clutching his face and sliding down the wall without a sound. He didn't even dare curse.
That had been the end of Batman's legal search.
"No lawyer," Batman murmured now. "Then it's time for Plan B."
---
As the city moved around him, Batman's thoughts raced.
Dr. Otto. Kingpin. Stark. The Tesseract. Osborn's murder case.
Every thread tangled together, tightening into a noose around New York.
At the same time, Batman kept moving—never staying in one place too long.
Over the course of the day, he purchased dozens of components from different sellers across the city:
Night-vision optics.
Thermal imaging sensors.
Sonar modules.
Gas masks.
Miniature radio receivers.
Ice-skate blades.
Listening devices.
Anything that could be legally acquired—he bought.
Apart from his cape, Batmobile, and heavy weapon systems, Batman rebuilt himself piece by piece using whatever the civilian market allowed.
To transport everything, he rented a pickup truck.
Every stop, he became someone else.
Different clothes.
Different hairstyles.
Different accents.
Sometimes he wore shoe lifts. Other times, he hunched his back deliberately.
It was excessive. But perfection was the only margin Batman trusted.
---
Creak.
Twenty miles from the abandoned shipyard, Batman parked the truck in a deserted alley.
One by one, he sealed the parts into waterproof bags and dropped them into a nearby sewer entrance.
He had already mapped New York's underground thoroughly. From this point, the sewer lines led within two kilometers of his temporary base of operations.
For hours, he worked methodically.
Only when every package was secured and dry did he stop.
As darkness crept across the city, Batman wiped his gloves clean.
"I wonder how Otto is doing," he thought.
If Dr. Otto Octavius truly was responsible for the deaths at Osborn Group, cooperation would be impossible.
Batman didn't tolerate murder—even in the name of progress.
The sewer stench clung to him as he finished, but he refused to endure it longer than necessary. After returning the rental truck, he went back to Peter Parker's apartment, washing away the grime beneath scalding water.
Tonight, he would investigate Osborn Group himself.
---
Meanwhile, deep beneath Brooklyn, tension filled the air.
"Target confirmed. Dr. Otto Octavius."
The whisper echoed through police comms.
"He has four mechanical tentacles attached to his spine. Awaiting orders."
More than fifty SWAT officers from Manhattan and Brooklyn had formed a silent encirclement around a makeshift sewer laboratory.
From their vantage point, they could see him clearly.
Dr. Otto stood hunched over his equipment, hair wild, eyes burning with obsession. Around him, machinery hummed and sparked, powered by cables forcibly tapped into the city's grid.
Behind him, four metal tentacles, each nearly three meters long, moved with terrifying precision.
They operated instruments, adjusted controls, and stabilized equipment—all at once.
He was no longer just a man.
He was a system.
"Send one officer to negotiate," George Stacy ordered from a command vehicle aboveground. "Avoid provoking him. Focus on de-escalation."
A pause.
"We don't fully understand the tentacles' functions yet. Strength confirmed. Other capabilities unknown."
Another pause.
"Dr. Otto is a world-class nuclear physicist. Do not use lethal force unless absolutely necessary. Priority is incapacitation."
---
Captain Fick inhaled slowly.
He removed his rifle, leaving only a pistol secured at his lower back. Hands raised, he stepped into the open.
"Dr. Octavius," Fick called out. "My daughter grew up reading your papers. You're her hero."
Dr. Otto turned sharply.
"Who are you?!"
In the same instant, all four tentacles disengaged from their tasks and snapped toward Fick.
Metal claws opened and closed with a chilling rhythm.
Even a veteran like Fick felt his throat tighten.
"I'm Captain Fick," he said carefully. "We've prepared a new laboratory for you on the surface. Cleaner. Safer. Better resources."
Dr. Otto shook his head, glancing back at his reactor.
"No. I'm close. I've found the flaw. Success is within reach."
"Changing locations will only waste time," he continued.
Fick tried again.
"The new lab will save you time, Doctor. It'll accelerate your work."
"No," Otto snapped. "You need to believe me. Nuclear fusion will change the world."
Sparks danced along exposed wires.
Fick gestured toward them. "Doctor, this is dangerous—"
"You don't understand!" Otto shouted.
A tentacle lashed forward, stopping inches from Fick's face.
"No energy source is safer than fusion! I'm not destroying Brooklyn. I'm saving the world!"
Black rifle barrels rose silently from the shadows.
"Don't shoot," Otto said, raising his hands. "My tentacles are controlled. There's a chip protecting my brain. I'm not a monster."
Fick's jaw tightened.
Seeing negotiation fail, he whispered into his comm.
"Tentacles conduct power—likely insulated."
A pause.
"We need to incapacitate Dr. Otto and disable the neural chip."
Another pause.
"Taser teams one through four—prepare to fire."
Deep underground, electricity waited to decide the future.
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