Heading to Gotham

Shane didn't nod immediately, nor did he refuse on the spot. He only unconsciously rubbed the fish scale slime still clinging to his palm with his fingertips.

Any sudden proposal hides unspoken considerations, even if the one making it was Tom, who had treated him fairly gently over the past seven days.

"Why ask that all of a sudden?"

Shane's voice was calm, betraying no emotion.

"Superheroes... to me, they seem more like a label you Earthlings use to categorize 'special groups.'"

Tom set down his fishing rod, turned, and pulled a clean rag from the cabin, leisurely wiping the water stains off the gunwale.

He didn't rush to answer. Only after he had wiped the gunwale spotless did he turn back to face Shane.

"You want to live on Earth long-term, don't you?"

Tom's tone remained gentle, but carried an unshakable certainty that left no room for evasion.

Shane gave a slight nod.

The original reason for fleeing Viltrum was to escape endless slaughter and find a place where he could live in peace.

This Earth, though its situation was unclear, was ultimately his spiritual "homeland" and the best option available.

"To live long-term, you need a legal identity."

Tom's voice dropped, growing heavier.

"Without an identity, you can't work, can't travel normally—but what's more troublesome than having no identity is your origin."

He paused, his gaze falling on the faint scars across Shane's chest, then continued.

"Your civilization's philosophy is almost completely at odds with Earth's values."

"Right now, very few people know you exist. But once your origins become widely known, how do you think Earthlings will see you?"

Shane's eyelids lowered slightly. Of course, he understood. If Viltrum's brutal reputation ever spread, Earthlings would hardly accept him.

"Think about Superman."

Tom brought up the man who had saved him.

"You know, he's never shied away from this topic in any interview. His homeworld was destroyed long ago—there's no threat behind him."

"And he grew up on Earth, with a genuine goodwill toward humanity ingrained in him. Yet even so, how many people have truly accepted him?"

The red-and-blue Superman in the news was always at the front lines saving people.

But the comment sections were never short of doubters—some called him an alien spy, others worried he might lose control one day and bring disaster to Earth, and some even called for government oversight.

Shane frowned. He could actually understand. If he stood in the shoes of an Earthling who knew nothing about Superman's true nature, he'd be worried too.

But now, his position would likely place him even lower than Superman in the eyes of Earth's native inhabitants.

"He's strong enough—strong enough to easily override any law or rule on Earth."

Tom's voice carried a hint of emotion.

"Just like when you were catching fish in the sea earlier. Whether you meant to grab a few for lunch or just wanted to experience fishing, those fish would still panic and flee at your approach, or even get crushed by accident."

"Your power and Superman's—it's the same."

Tom pointed toward the calm sea in the distance.

"Unless you never use your abilities again. Maybe live like me, working from sunrise to sunset. But can you do that?"

Shane looked down at his unconsciously clenched fist.

This power was forged in the blood and fire of Viltrum—it was the foundation of his survival.

For Shane as he was now, giving up this power would be as hard as giving up breathing.

What's more, if Viltrum's pursuers ever showed up, being powerless would leave him helpless.

"When you were flying high above the sea just now, those fish had no idea what you were about to do. But their fate had already shifted because of your presence."

"Using your superpowers puts you in that high-altitude position. If you want ordinary people not to fear or reject you, you have to give them a reason to accept you."

"Superheroes—that's the reason."

Tom finally laid out the core.

It meant using action to tell ordinary people that this power wasn't a threat, but a protection.

"Of course, this path won't be easy. You'll face countless doubts and attacks. But right now, it's the most suitable road for you."

Shane stood on the fishing boat, gazing at the endless sea, sinking into silence.

Tom's words made a lot of sense.

If he wanted to live peacefully on Earth, he had to bridge the two chasms of being an "alien" and coming from "Viltrum."

But the thought of having to constantly take on the duty of protecting others, like the Superman on TV, instinctively repelled Shane.

Fleeing Viltrum was also about escaping a bound fate—no longer wanting to fight for anyone or anything.

The sea wind blew for a long time. Shane never opened his mouth.

Tom didn't press him. He simply picked up his fishing rod again and sat quietly, as if his earlier suggestion had been nothing more than casual small talk.

It wasn't until the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sea in a wash of gold and crimson, that Shane finally spoke, his voice carrying a hint of uncertainty.

"I still need to think it over."

"No rush. You have plenty of time to consider."

Tom set down his rod, a warm smile spreading across his face—though there was a trace of slyness in it.

"But there's something I need to make clear. I'm just a poor fisherman. I can't support you for the rest of your life."

Shane paused for a moment, then caught on.

Tom was subtly pushing him to make a choice, and reminding him that he couldn't hide in this safe harbor forever.

He nodded, offering no rebuttal.

"I'll recommend someone to you. They might be able to help with your identity problem, at least temporarily."

Tom packed up his fishing gear and began tidying things on the boat.

Shane felt a flicker of curiosity.

"Who?"

"You'll know when we get there."

Tom kept him in suspense, carrying the sorted tackle into the cabin.

"Come on. Let's head back and pack up. We'll leave tonight."

Back at the seaside shack, Shane quickly gathered his belongings.

There wasn't much to pack—just a few changes of clothes Tom had bought him.

Tom, meanwhile, dug a rusted car key out of the storage room and grabbed a rag to wipe down a battered pickup truck parked outside.

The truck's body was covered in scratches, its tires slightly deflated, and it looked like it had seen at least a decade of hard use.

Tom slid the key in, gave it a few hard turns, and the engine coughed to life with a sputtering "putt-putt-putt," belching a cloud of black smoke from the exhaust.

"Don't let the looks fool you. It runs steady."

Tom patted the steering wheel, speaking to Shane.

Shane climbed into the passenger seat. As soon as he shut the door, he felt a layer of dust on the seat.

He grabbed a nearby rag to wipe it off, then flipped open the navigation map sitting on the dashboard.

Honestly, the whole setup felt a bit old-fashioned.

After scanning the map for a while and asking a few questions, Shane finally learned that Tom's seaside shack was actually located on the outskirts of Metropolis.

Metropolis—the city where Superman was active.

Shane's heart stirred. He looked at Tom, who was backing up the truck. "Are you taking me to seek refuge with Superman?"

Tom's reversing motion paused for a beat, then he shook his head.

"No."

Once the pickup hit the highway, it drove straight toward the city center.

At a fork in the road, Tom didn't take the route leading into downtown Metropolis. Instead, he turned onto another highway heading toward Gotham.

"Gotham?"

Shane frowned.

Even without watching the news, just from the faint memories of his past life, he knew what kind of place that was.

A city with a sky-high crime rate, perpetually shrouded in darkness—a stark contrast to sun-drenched Metropolis.

Still, it did seem like the perfect place to harbor all sorts of shady characters.

The pickup rumbled through the night for nearly two hours before finally reaching Gotham's city center.

The atmosphere here was completely different from Metropolis. Even at night, the streets exuded a suffocating pressure, neon lights casting eerie reflections on the damp pavement.

Tom drove the pickup until it came to a stop in front of a towering skyscraper.

[Wayne Enterprises]

Shane froze.

Tom brought him here?

"We've arrived."

Tom killed the engine and turned to Shane.

"This is Wayne Enterprises. The person you recommended is here?"

Shane asked, puzzled.

In truth, he had a pretty good idea by now, but who exactly was Tom? He knew Superman, and he knew Batman?

"I know Superman. Superman knows Batman."

Tom spoke as he rolled down the car window.

"And few people know that Bruce Wayne, the big boss of Wayne Enterprises, knows Batman personally—he can help you."

Shane's face was expressionless, but inwardly he rolled his eyes.

Tom's words were so obviously trying to cover up the truth.

Before Shane could speak, Tom had already started shooing him out.

"Go on in yourself. Bruce Wayne will be waiting for you inside. I've got things to do, so I won't be joining you."

After Shane got out of the car full of doubt, Tom waved his hand, then drove off in that beat-up pickup without looking back.

Shane watched the pickup's taillights disappear into the night and sighed helplessly.

He turned to look at the magnificent building before him, momentarily at a loss.

Shane really didn't want to deal with that guy—from what he remembered, the man was a gloomy, humorless bore.

Just as Shane was about to turn and leave, the revolving door of the building suddenly opened.

A tall, middle-aged man in a black suit walked out.

His hair was combed immaculately, and his face carried a gentle smile.

His demeanor was unique—combining the steady, imposing air of a capitalist with a subtle hint of sharp efficiency.

The man's gaze landed directly on Shane, and he strode over quickly, extending his hand.

"Hello, I'm Bruce Wayne. I assume the person who referred you has already mentioned me."