Can we make peace?

"All right, round two has begun. Let's see how these two former professional boxers deal with the problems from the first round... What? They're actually resorting to such dirty tactics!!!"

In the ring, the boxer threw a series of light feints, then suddenly spread his arms and locked Stuart in a clinch.

It was an obvious foul. Even the announcer caught it, but the referee did nothing to intervene.

That was underground boxing for you, as long as the crowd loved it.

And that move was precisely the spark that ignited the atmosphere. The spectators, bored with Stuart's evasive style, instantly perked up.

Cheers erupted, nearly blasting the entire boxing club to the moon.

That undoubtedly spurred Dean on. His lingering hesitation vanished, and a cruel smile crept onto his lips.

He drew his arm back like a heavy bow pulled taut. Bulging veins snaked beneath his skin, and individual bundles of muscle stretched to their limits were visible across his shoulder.

There was no doubt that this punch wasn't meant to knock his opponent unconscious.

He wanted to kill Stuart.

Gordon craned his neck, his face flushed scarlet as he held his breath.

There wasn't enough time for him to rush forward and help. Even his warning was swallowed by the deafening cheers.

The fully loaded hook thundered toward Stuart's temple.

Just before the fist landed, Stuart, seemingly trapped in an iron grip, suddenly narrowed his eyes and flashed an eerie smile.

He raised his left foot and stamped his heel hard onto the toes of the boxer holding him from behind.

The agonizing pain of broken bones made the man instinctively lift his foot.

All of this happened within a fraction of a second, but that was enough for Stuart.

He lowered his center of gravity and snapped his shoulders back, twisting free of the hold in an utterly bizarre turn.

He was too fast. Dean couldn't react!

Or rather, even if he had managed to react, there was no taking back that fully committed punch.

He could only watch as his fist met his partner's jaw.

Bang-!!!

A dull impact exploded in the center of the ring. Spectators off to the side instinctively squinted against the rush of air from the punch, and one drinker's baseball cap flew off.

Crack!

The sound of the jawbone shattering against the boxing glove sent chills through the crowd.

The man looked as though a wrecking ball had struck him head-on. His feet left the floor, his body spun, and he slammed into the ropes before bouncing back.

Spittle mingled with blood. His eyes rolled back, and every muscle in his body tensed as he convulsed.

The roaring crowd fell silent. Then someone let out a howl.

The entire venue erupted in frenzied shrieks.

Screams, whistles, and the clatter of bottles merged into a wild tidal wave.

The crowd had completely lost control.

Dean's pupils trembled as he watched his partner being carried away on a stretcher, utterly forgetting that the round timer was still running.

Ding!

Round two ended. Dean trudged back to his corner and sat down, cold sweat rolling from his forehead and stinging his eyes.

He had completely lost the will to fight.

1. Having witnessed Stuart's bizarre footwork

2. Having a functioning brain

3. Having plenty of experience

These factors formed an impossible triangle.

If a boxer still burned with fighting spirit, he could possess no more than two of them.

If he could, Dean would have returned his pay to Wolf just for a chance to quit the match.

But doing that would also mean abandoning his boxing career for good.

No spectator would ever enjoy watching a boxer who had slipped away through the ropes.

He decided to grit his teeth and keep going... but the ordeal was far too agonizing.

Before this, even when he had been beaten black and blue, Dean had never given up on a match or abandoned the thought of knocking his opponent down.

But this time was entirely different. Apart from the sweat, his body was completely unharmed.

It was his spirit that had taken the devastating blow.

He knew that the moment the next bell rang, he would be knocked out instantly, without hesitation or mercy.

All he could do now was wait for it to happen.

The outcome held no surprises.

As the bell rang, Dean gave Stuart a friendly smile.

"Hey, can we make peace?"

A smile was essential. It could bring people closer together.

That was what Dean's father had told him when he was little.

His father hadn't lied. A smile really did close the distance.

-The distance between a fist and a cheek.

The punch was heavy, heavier than any Stuart had used to knock out his previous opponents. It seemed to tell Dean that bastards who played dirty would always pay the price in the end.

Dean spun as he fell, landing across the ring ropes and bouncing up and down.

One lucky customer caught the boxer's flying molar, immediately sparking a scramble in that section.

Victorious, Stuart tilted his head up and narrowed his eyes, letting the referee grip his wrist and raise his arm.

He felt the spotlights envelop his body from above, as though even his soul had been cleansed in that moment.

To be fair, he didn't like this life. His opponents were too weak. Every fight felt like playing games with children, and the hardest part was controlling his strength so he didn't kill them.

But there was no other work he could do.

Go back to being Batman?

He had seriously considered that question the night before, but it seemed absurd no matter how he looked at it.

He attributed all this to the change in his personality after losing his memory.

"Maybe I'll only understand how Batman thinks once I get my memories back," Stuart told himself in the shower.

By the time he returned to the locker room carrying a canvas bag stuffed with dirty clothes, William and Gordon had been waiting for quite a while.

"Let me introduce..."

"James Gordon. I've seen you on the news. People say you're Gotham's last good cop." Stuart's gaze was cold. He tossed the bag onto the floor and unwrapped his towel in front of them.

His back was covered in scars, mostly knife wounds and marks left by bullets passing through.

All of them were circumstantial evidence that he was Batman.

But Gordon still had his doubts. He leaned toward William's ear and lowered his voice.

"He doesn't sound like him!"

"The voice you heard isn't something a normal person could produce."

Seeing that Gordon remained unconvinced, William lowered his voice and tried an impression.

"I am vengeance. I am the night. I am Batman... Well? Does that sound right?!"

"Yes, that's exactly it!"

Stuart had been left standing off to the side, and unfortunately, his hearing was exceptionally sharp.

"You didn't come here just to make me watch a stage performance, did you?"

"Of course not. I'm here to tell you your true identity."

"So who am I?"

"Batman, and also Bruce Wayne, currently the richest man in Gotham."

Stuart frowned.

The name was like a switch. The instant he heard it, his temple twitched as though jolted by electricity.

He asked William to repeat the name.

The result proved it was no coincidence.

Stuart had originally intended to ask William for evidence, but now that seemed unnecessary.

"I'm... Bruce Wayne. Then what about my parents? I've been missing for so long. Why haven't they come looking for me?"

William's expression turned strange.

There were plenty of dark jokes about Batman, but this was the first time he had heard one from the man himself.