Two days had passed, and Bruce had seen enough to understand the full scope of Mark's operation. The casual cruelty, the mind games, the way he turned the children against each other through manufactured scarcity and false promises. Yesterday, Mark had orchestrated a situation where one of the younger boys—maybe twelve—had been caught "stealing" extra food. The beating that followed was methodical, designed to send a message to the others while Mark maintained pusible deniability that the boy had brought it on himself.

  Bruce had watched it, holding back his anger even as something cold and furious built in his chest.

  Each morning, Mark would return from the ATM with exactly five hundred dolrs, his mood improving with each successful withdrawal. Today was different. Today, Mark had handed Bruce a battered cell phone.

  "Time to make that call, Mr. Rich Man," Mark said, settling back into his chair. "I want to hear you set up that big transfer we talked about."

  Bruce took the phone, acutely aware that Mark was listening to every word. He dialed a random number and waited for the connection.

  *BC,* he thought, *I need you to py the part of my banker. Mark's listening.*

  *Of course, Mr. Wayne. Linking to phone.*

  "Wayne Holdings, Private Banking Division," BC's voice came through the phone speaker, perfectly moduted to sound like a professional banker with just the right amount of deference.

  "Yes, this is Bruce Wayne," Bruce said aloud. "I need to arrange a rge transfer as we discussed."

  "Of course, Mr. Wayne," BC replied smoothly. "We have everything prepared on our end. The million-dolr transfer will be completed within twenty-four hours. I'll also ensure your ATM access is upgraded to accommodate the full withdrawal amount."

  Mark's eyes lit up like a predator scenting blood.

  "Excellent," Bruce continued the act. "Make sure there are no deys. This is time-sensitive."

  "Understood completely, Mr. Wayne. The funds will be avaible at any standard ATM by tomorrow morning. Is there anything else you need?"

  "That will be all." Bruce ended the call and handed the phone back to Mark.

  "One million dolrs," Mark repeated slowly, savoring the words like fine wine. "Tomorrow morning."

  *BC,* Bruce thought, *make sure he actually gets it. All of it.*

  *Already arranged, Mr. Wayne. The digital infrastructure in this world is remarkably easy to manipute.*

  ---

  The next morning arrived with the kind of gray, oppressive sky that seemed permanently fixed over this version of Gotham. Mark had left early, practically vibrating with anticipation, while Roman strutted around the hideout trying to maintain order in his absence.

  When Mark returned three hours ter, his expression was triumphant. In his hands was a duffel bag that clearly contained far more than five hundred dolrs.

  "Well, well, well," Mark said, dropping the bag on the counter with a satisfying thud. "Looks like Mr. Rich Man wasn't lying after all." He unzipped the bag partially, revealing stacks of cash. "One million dolrs, just like he promised."

  The children gathered around, wide-eyed at more money than most of them had ever seen in their lives.

  Mark's demeanor shifted as he rezipped the bag. The predatory grin faded, repced by something colder. More calcuting.

  "Which means, Mr. Wayne," he said, turning to face Bruce, "you're not useful to me anymore."

  The change in atmosphere was immediate. Even Roman straightened up, sensing the shift in his leader's mood.

  Mark's gaze found Selina, who had been quietly observing from her usual spot near the movie posters. "Kitten," he called softly. "Come here."

  Selina hesitated for just a moment before walking over, her steps measured and careful.

  "I have a job for you," Mark continued, his voice taking on that mockingly gentle tone that Bruce had learned to recognize as particurly dangerous. "Mr. Wayne here has served his purpose. It's time for him to... move on."

  He reached into his jacket and pulled out a gun.

  "Kill him," Mark said, pressing the weapon into Selina's small hands. "Prove you're really one of the Alley Cats."

  ---

  Bruce calmly sat in the chair Roman had positioned in the center of the room, allowing the younger gang members to tie his hands to the arms. As the rope tightened around his wrists, Bruce took in the faces around him. Mark's expression was one of pure anticipation, his eyes bright with an excitement that bordered on sexual arousal. This was entertainment for him—the ultimate power trip.

  The children's reactions were more complex. Some of the older ones watched with eager anticipation, their humanity already corroded by months or years of conditioning. Others looked sick, their faces pale as they tried to process what they were witnessing. A few of the youngest simply stared with the hollow expression of sheep, accepting whatever horror came next as inevitable.

  Selina raised the gun with shaking hands, aiming it at Bruce's face. Her green eyes met his, and he could see the war raging behind them—survival instincts battling against whatever remained of her conscience.

  "I can't do it," she whispered, lowering the weapon.

  Mark's face darkened instantly. "Kitten," he said, his voice carrying disappointment. "I had so much belief in you."

  He pulled out another gun and aimed it at Selina's head. "I was pnning on getting you pregnant. Selling the babies. I think you and I would have made pretty little bastards to sell to infertile couples. But you know what? Your corpse can be useful too."

  Mark's finger began to tighten on the trigger—and that's when Bruce moved.

  The rope bindings snapped like tissue paper as Bruce exploded from the chair. His hand shot out, knocking Mark's gun aside just as it fired, the bullet embedding harmlessly in the wall. In the same fluid motion, he grabbed Selina around the waist, hoisting her over his shoulder.

  The room erupted in chaos. Roman shouted orders that no one followed. The younger children scattered like startled birds. Mark lunged forward, reaching for his dropped weapon.

  Bruce didn't give him the chance. He sprinted toward the reinforced door, his shoulder smming into it with enough force to tear it from its hinges. The barrier exploded outward, and then they were outside, disappearing into the dark maze of Gotham's streets with Selina's stunned form draped over his shoulder.

  ---

  The hotel suite was quiet, the soft hum of central air the only sound as steam drifted out from beneath the bathroom door. Selina Kyle stood under the rainfall showerhead, letting the heat soak into her bones. For the first time in months—maybe longer—she felt clean. Really clean. Her muscles no longer clenched in anticipation of pain. Her fingers weren't trembling from cold or hunger. She'd eaten room service until her stomach hurt. It felt surreal.

  Outside the bathroom, Ultimate Bruce Wayne stood at the window, watching the city sprawl out beneath him like a broken chessboard. "BC," he said quietly, "put him through."

  A pause. Then a connection.

  "Batman," came the voice.

  Bruce smiled faintly. "How's your universe treating you?"

  "Clean. Organized. Soft." 47-X's voice carried zero amusement. "You said you had something more interesting."

  Bruce turned from the window, sitting down on one of the two king-size beds. "I think I have a better fit for you in this universe. Gotham might be right up your alley."

  "I'm listening."

  "Transferring all the information I have about this world to you," Bruce said, as images of the Alley Cats, Mark's face, security footage BC had pulled from camera feeds and drones flowed through the connection. A data tag formed around Selina's picture, tagged: TARGET, NOW PROTECTED.

  "This universe doesn't have a Batman," Bruce continued. "It's got orphans running theft rings. Kids with scars and trauma they haven't even learned how to name yet. Mark's got a gang of them. He calls them the Alley Cats. He's grooming them. Selling them. Killing the ones who don't obey. The cops won't touch him. Most don't even know."

  Silence flowed across the Elevation connection. Then: "How bad?"

  Bruce looked toward the bathroom door. He heard the water shut off. "Bad enough I had to stop observing."

  "Which means it's time for someone like me now," 47-X said.

  "Exactly."

  Another silent pause. "I'm in," 47-X said.

  Bruce's shoulders rexed slightly. "Thought you might be."

  BC's voice chimed in. "Would you like me to open a portal, Mr. Wayne?"

  "Yeah," Bruce said. "Let him see the city. Let him feel it."

  A swirling arc of blue energy nced across the far wall. The air shimmered, pulsing with quantum distortion until a doorway opened in space itself. And then he stepped through—Batman 47-X. His eyes were hidden behind his cowl, scanning as he moved forward.

  "Different air quality," he muttered.

  "Welcome to Gotham," Bruce said.

  47-X walked to the window, taking in the skyline. "How long do I have to explore?"

  Bruce gnced toward the bathroom door again. Selina had emerged, wrapped in a towel, hair dripping, her eyes soft but alert as she spotted the stranger near the window.

  "Long enough to get a sense of the city," Bruce said. "She's out of danger—for now. But Mark's not done. And neither are we."

  Selina's eyes flicked between the two of them. "This is your friend?"

  Bruce nodded. "Selina, this is Batman."

  She crossed her arms. "You have a very scary-looking friend, Mr. Bruce."

  "Something like that," 47-X said, not turning from the window. "This city... doesn't deserve what's happening to it."

  "No," Bruce said, his voice quiet. "But it's going to get what it needs."

  47-X smiled faintly beneath the mask. "Good. I'm gonna go stretch my legs."

  And with that, he stepped back into the portal. "This should be interesting," he said.

  Bruce nodded once. "Don't get killed."

  47-X's voice drifted back. "I won't. Not unless I'm very sloppy."

  And then he was gone, the portal flickering shut.