As it turned out, Batman liked Gotham too.
Beating people up elsewhere just didn't feel as satisfying. In Gotham, his punches seemed even faster—direct critical hits!
There were seven of them in total, armed with automatic weapons. They probably weren't professionals, just half-baked gang members.
But their fates were already settled. Their vitals were stable—they weren't dead, but they would probably spend over a year in the hospital.
If they could still walk afterward, Gotham Prison would have an invitation waiting for them for the rest of their lives.
Batman stood at the doorway and glanced inside.
Then he swiftly raised his leg, spun around, and kicked a stubbornly resilient "assassin" who was still trying to grab a gun unconscious.
"Batman?"
Harvey Dent stood inside with a submachine gun in hand, staring at the distinctive figure outside. In Gotham, nobody seemed bold enough to impersonate Batman.
The risks of doing so were simply too great.
"Harvey Dent?"
Batman stepped over the stairs littered with rolling shell casings and entered the room, reaching out to flick the light switch by the wall.
The bulb had been shot out, leaving the room in darkness.
The grenade explosion earlier had blown up the television as well.
"How rare. I thought you were just an urban legend. Want a bottle?" Harvey Dent seemed to relax somewhat.
He picked up a bottle of beer and asked Batman if he wanted a drink.
"No. You're exhausted."
Using the faint light from the doorway, Batman studied Harvey Dent. His face was covered in stubble.
There were dark circles under his eyes, along with a few nervous twitches. He looked numb from being stretched too tightly for too long.
"I'm enjoying the joy of victory. They didn't kill me, so this is another victory for me. Cheers!"
Harvey