Bruce Malone—a solidly built yet unremarkable man.

In his memories, he was once a semi-successful private investigator about ten years ago, but business slowly dried up. Surviving on street smarts, he carved out a living in Gotham’s underworld, floating between different gangs. He had dabbled in theft, organized small robberies, and managed to scrape by.

He had decent combat skills and, thanks to his detective background, sharp observational abilities. He despised Gotham’s upper class, but had he chosen to, his intellect could have allowed him to climb higher in life.

Now, after being caught stealing three luxury cars, he was sentenced to three years in Blackgate Prison. If Bruce had money or if the wealthy man pursuing him wasn’t so relentless, perhaps he could have made bail. But, of course, he had neither wealth nor connections.

However, before officially starting his sentence, he was given an opportunity—

Someone wanted him to investigate Warden Bella Bettywen from within the prison. In one week, they would reach out to him. If he managed to gather any valuable information in that time, they’d arrange for his release.

He had just one week.

The police transport vehicle rolled into Blackgate Prison.

The new prisoners were herded off the bus one by one. Bruce glanced up at the sky before following the line forward.

He would be stuck without a glimpse of the sky for at least a week, but if Blackgate’s rules were still in place, he would at least get half an hour of outdoor time each day.

After undergoing the standard physical inspections, the new arrivals were escorted to their cells.

Bruce observed his surroundings and noticed something unusual: instead of mixing newcomers with veteran inmates, the prison was housing new arrivals together. This wasn’t the norm for most prisons, where new inmates were typically thrown in with long-timers.

He frowned—his investigation was off to a bad start.

Surrounded by fellow newcomers, his cellmates knew as little about the prison as he did.

It was a six-man cell. Once the door closed, the only way to see inside was through the observation window in the door. This meant that, barring any major disturbances, prisoners could quickly establish dominance through violence without attracting too much attention.

Bruce stood in place, knowing they would be taken to the cafeteria in half an hour.

However, the fact that everyone was new didn’t mean they weren’t dangerous. The men sized each other up cautiously—

And then, the man on the far right suddenly lashed out, turning the cell into chaos within seconds.

Even among newcomers, some were already well-versed in using brute force to ensure their survival. It didn’t matter where you placed this guy—he would use his fists to secure his place.

Bruce paused in the middle of making his bed.

Out of the corner of his eye, he assessed the brawl, calculating how to stop the fight without leaving any marks—and ensuring that these men would fear him afterwards.

Their crimes ranged from armed robbery to assaulting police officers, from spousal murder to arms smuggling. Bruce didn’t mind teaching these scumbags a lesson.

Half an hour later, the pecking order in the six-man cell was established. Their new leader was—

“Matches Malone.”

After delivering a well-placed kick to keep everyone in line, Bruce finished making his bed just as the guards came to escort them to the cafeteria.

The guard was a seasoned veteran, instantly recognizing what had gone down in the cell, even though Bruce hadn’t left any visible wounds.

With a chuckle, the guard said, “If you lot want to win the ‘Most Civilized Cell’ award, you’d better make sure no one ends up in the infirmary for the next week.”

Bruce kept his head low as he followed behind, his interest piqued. “Award?”

“Yeah,” the guard replied, seemingly warming to him. “It’s a weekly thing, part of the warden’s rules. The best-behaved cells get better jobs or a nicer place to sleep.”

Bruce didn’t think much of it—after all, the best rooms in the prison were in the psychiatric wing, where everyone had their own private cell.

The guard didn’t say much more.

The cell doors opened in sequence, and the inmates were taken to eat in three shifts. As Bruce entered the cafeteria, his instincts kicked in, scanning the room. He had heard that Penguin and Black Mask were also imprisoned in Blackgate, but he didn’t spot them in the cafeteria.

Were they eating separately, or were they not in this shift?

Bruce pondered this.

After eating, they had half an hour of yard time, but even the yard was divided into shifts due to the sheer number of inmates.

Bruce sent his newly recruited underlings to scout while he quietly walked around, gathering information.

He quickly realized that the other inmates in the yard were also newcomers—most had only been incarcerated for less than three months.

—This, too, was a new regulation by the warden.

—The warden seemed to be deliberately separating veteran prisoners from the new ones. But why?

After yard time, they were taken to perform labour.

The task involved folding envelopes and paper boxes, the kind of labour that required a lot of manpower. Armed guards with their safeties off patrolled the area, their guns occasionally sweeping across the prisoners. Even Bruce wouldn’t dare make a move under these conditions.

It was as if the paper boxes in their hands were bombs—one wrong move, and the guards wouldn’t hesitate to open fire.

Without any seasoned inmates around (those with experience rebelling against the prison’s rules), the labour session went smoothly, though it was tedious and boring.

Afterwards, instead of being immediately taken back to their cells, the guard stood in front of them, scanning their faces. “Next, you’ll be going back to your cells to rest, then it’s dinner time. But, if anyone wants to take on extra work, you can earn the right to spend two hours in the library after dinner.”

In the monotonous world of prison life, even something as simple as reading in the library became a luxury.

Bruce’s interest was piqued. He raised his hand, not necessarily because he wanted to read, but because he was curious about this “extra work.” With only seven days to complete his mission, he couldn’t afford to miss any opportunity.

Three others hesitated before raising their hands as well. The guard’s expression remained unchanged as he ushered the rest of the prisoners out and led the volunteers to the supply room to collect cleaning equipment.

As they walked, Bruce mentally mapped out the layout of the prison, comparing it with the information he had received before his arrest.

After a while, Bruce furrowed his brow, realizing where they were headed—

The guard stopped in front of a heavy metal door and said, “Up ahead is the psychiatric ward for criminally insane inmates.”

“Wait,” said a tall, thin man next to Bruce, gripping his mop tightly. “This is where they’re keeping the Arkham inmates. You expect us to clean the cells of these psychopaths!?”

His expression made it clear he wasn’t interested in the task.

The guard shot him a cold look and curled his lip. “You don’t want to?”

The man immediately nodded, while the other two, aside from Bruce, showed signs of unease as well.

The guard continued, “If you don’t want to clean, that’s fine. But everyone else has their own work to do. I can’t send you back alone, and I’m not going to escort you all the way back by yourself.”

So what were they supposed to do?

The guard added, “While A07S1771 does the cleaning, I’ll put you three in an empty cell. Once the cleaning is done, I’ll take all four of you back. Any objections?” A07S1771 was Bruce’s inmate number.

The three men stiffened, unsure which was worse—cleaning the cells of the insane or being locked up in the psychiatric ward next to them.

Seeing no further objections, the guard used an iris scanner, facial recognition, and fingerprint confirmation to unlock the door. The heavy metal door slowly opened.

Bruce noted that there were three layers of metal doors, separated by seven-meter-high walls, isolating the psychiatric ward from the rest of the prison.

Silently carrying his mop and bucket, Bruce kept his head low as he followed the guard.

The Arkham inmates had only been transferred here earlier that day, in the same group as Bruce.

However, the guard in front of him seemed familiar with this area. The security here was much stricter than in the regular prison; Bruce could see three cameras pointed directly at his face.

“There was a bit of a scuffle during the prisoner transfer,” the guard said casually. “You’ll be cleaning up the blood in the corridors.”

…

The Batcave.

Dick and Tim huddled over the map, staring at the location marker.

For the sake of authenticity—and because Bruce had truly been hypnotized—they hadn’t placed any surveillance or recording devices on him. Bruce would probably discover the hidden gadgets before the prison staff did.

Thus, the only tracking device on Batman was a locator hidden in his tooth.

Currently, the tracker shows him in the psychiatric ward.

Tim and Dick exchanged a glance.

“Did Bruce get caught or not?”

Why had he ended up in the psychiatric ward on his first day? Or maybe, because his memory had been altered, Bruce had recklessly attempted to infiltrate the Arkham section right from the start?

Both felt uneasy, but standing outside the prison, there was no way of knowing what was happening inside.

… Hopefully, nothing unexpected would happen.

But as fate would have it, surprises were already unfolding.

In fact, Vivi—who was both the warden and the mayor—had plenty of daily tasks to juggle, from upgrading her skills to overseeing the city’s affairs, especially her patrols around the East End. Her in-game life was quite busy.

After all, it was a game, and even without specific missions, a player could spend an entire day just sorting through their inventory.

So, she wasn’t monitoring every little thing that happened inside the prison.

Her focus during the intake of new inmates naturally shifted to the Arkham inmates.

In the first three days, Vivi organized the guards to hammer nails into every cell in the Arkham section—but they only nailed five walls, leaving the door-facing wall untouched.

Her primary focus was on the more notorious escape artists like the Joker and Bane—when it came to those habitual escapees, you couldn’t be too careful.

The rest of those three days were spent reinforcing the system. Vivi discovered that Arkham Asylum’s design had plenty of elements worth learning from.

For example, if a cell door was tampered with, the ventilation system would release knockout gas to incapacitate the inmate.

Another example: Arkham had the best automatic fire suppression systems—likely due to their extensive experience dealing with explosions.

… All in all, plenty of things worth adopting.

During this time, Vivi used her role as warden to openly blend into Arkham—though to others, it just appeared as though she was a diligent warden, personally overseeing the transfer of the inmates.

The transfer was mostly complete, but Vivi was still lingering around Arkham. She sat comfortably on a couch in the first-floor lobby, opened her map, and decided to check in on how her prisoners were doing—whether they were in a good mood, sleeping well, or not. The worse their mood, the better.

She zoomed in on the map of the psychiatric ward.

—The Arkham inmates were easy to identify. Their titles were either [Psychiatric Criminal] or something special like [Joker], [Poison Ivy], similar to the prestige titles held by Batman or Nightwing.

One quick glance, and something caught Vivi’s eye.

Who was [Matches Malone]?

Was this some new titled criminal she hadn’t heard of before?

If someone had escaped, the guards would have notified her immediately.

“So, just some low-level criminal like Black Mask…” Vivi frowned, propping her chin on her hand. “But I haven’t heard of him… Ah, whatever…”

“Let’s have the guards lock him up first.”

Meanwhile, Bruce moved cautiously past the inmates’ cells. After they finished cleaning the bloodstains off the walls, they were assigned to clean the cells. The other inmates were dispersed throughout, but Bruce had been sent to the deepest part of the psychiatric ward—the domain of the supervillains.

Bruce had already figured out that the guard escorting him had taken a liking to him.

In prison, that wasn’t necessarily a good thing.

Ahead of him stood a cell with three solid walls and one made of bulletproof glass. Inside, a green-haired man was idly playing with his fingers, looking completely bored. Bruce recognized him immediately—Gotham’s most dangerous criminal, the Joker.

Bruce lowered his gaze to the bucket in his hand.

Suddenly, the guard froze in place, pressing a hand to his earpiece, and listening intently to something on the other end.

“What!?”

The guard whipped around and stared directly at Bruce.

Bruce’s instincts flared—something had just gone terribly wrong.

“You—” the guard barked, his face cold, “Come with me!”

Bruce was shoved into an empty cell, diagonally across from the Joker’s. The guard snapped, “Your cell’s been reassigned, kid. From now on, you’re serving your time here!”

Bruce frowned. Had he been discovered? What mistake had he made?

Though he tried to ask the guard more questions, the man was clearly not in the mood to talk and hurried off.

Across the way, the man who had been playing with his fingers slowly turned over, fixing his gaze on Bruce. His previously bored expression began to shift.

A strange smile crept across the Joker’s face.