In a premium room at Gotham Hospital, the former Nightwing, now Mohammed, slept deeply. Gotham beyond the curtains was pitch-black today, with only the moonlight providing illumination.
But the man in the hospital bed had no idea why he was here, or why he was in this city. He was just a taxi driver from Paris, not an American, and certainly not Dick Grayson.
What he had experienced during the day had left him utterly exhausted. A group of all sorts of monsters had placed him under house arrest in this hospital room, with guards stationed outside the door.
He was no match for those spandex-clad lunatics. Hungry and exhausted, his head kept spinning as though he had been in a car accident.
This body was strong, but hey, it was his body now. He couldn't possibly give it back to those freaks, could he? Fortunately, after he desperately struggled and resisted, those people gave up tormenting and studying him. At last, he could sleep.
There were faint sounds outside the door, like a body being gently laid on the floor. Then the ward door was pushed open, and a tall figure entered.
She wore thigh-high heeled boots with red soles and an orange-yellow bodysuit. Her ample chest stretched the spider emblem across it, making it look ferocious.
A glint flashed in her eyes beneath the mask. She glanced at the unknown Superhero collapsed in the corridor, then softly shut the door.
She walked toward the bed with a model's stride, first checking the monitoring equipment to confirm Nightwing's physical condition. Then she pulled a syringe from the small pouch strapped to her thigh.
Holding it up to the moonlight outside, she gently pressed the plunger. A drop of green liquid emerged from the needle.
The room held only the