“Cobblepot,” the prison guard knocked on the cell door, “time for work.”

Penguin’s eyes snapped open. In truth, he had woken up half an hour ago, but it had been so long since he’d slept so soundly that he didn’t want to get up.

Warden Bella Bettywen was a person who had long since abandoned any shred of humanity. Everyone was entitled to rest—except Penguin himself. He still remembered complaining once, only for the woman to give him a cool, sidelong glance: “Isn’t this what leadership is all about? Keep going, Cobblepot. When you make more money than everyone else before going to prison, you should expect to work harder than anyone else after you’re locked up.”

Shut up, you heartless capitalist!

Penguin worked during the day, and at night, and snatched naps during free time. He’d realized long ago that Bettywen didn’t care if he dropped dead from exhaustion. Even though he displayed his talents, she showed no concern, so he had to fight to survive in his own way.

After working tirelessly day and night for what felt like an eternity, Penguin had finally enjoyed a brief but refreshing sleep the night before. Though it had only been a few hours, he lay there, unwilling to rise from his bed.

“Work time?” Penguin shuffled to the door, noticing that it was the same guard, Locke, who always oversaw his nighttime labor with the “volunteers.” Penguin tried to establish rapport, calling him by name. “Locke? Isn’t it a bit early for work?”

The sky was just beginning to lighten with the faint glow of dawn. It was early morning, but by the time they reached the East End and finished the job, the sun would have fully risen. These “volunteers” only wore hoods—it wasn’t exactly foolproof, and there was always a risk someone would notice something off.

“This is the warden’s order. You all have an obligation to complete the work assignments.”

Penguin noticed that Locke seemed unusually alert and energetic. Shaking his head, he followed the guard.

As they walked, Penguin saw some inmates still in bed, smiling in their sleep, while others were already up, even doing yoga.

He gathered his temporary subordinates—hardened criminals serving life sentences for murder, turned into mindless puppets under his command. Together, they boarded the truck.

Since finding one of the prisoners passed out in the warehouse a while ago, Penguin made sure to personally oversee the hoods being put on correctly to avoid any slip-ups.

The heavily loaded truck rolled out of Blackgate Prison, merging onto Gotham’s roads.

The world outside looked strangely vibrant, as if it had been scrubbed clean. Penguin rubbed his eyes. Had his vision improved somehow?

The sky remained a gloomy shade of night, with only the headlights and streetlights shining brightly. As he breathed in the cool night air, he felt an unexpected sense of calm.

Penguin stuck his head out the window and looked into the distance, where Wayne Tower’s lights glowed. His expression changed abruptly. “Hey! Hey, what is that?”

No one else in the truck—the guards or the prisoners—responded to him.

Dozens of winged creatures soared between the high-rises, their forms briefly illuminated by passing beams of light, as though it were the set of some grand fantasy film.

Some passersby had even pulled over to take pictures, but Penguin seemed to be the only one truly alarmed by the sight.

The guard in front turned to glance at him. “Cobblepot, keep your head inside the truck.”

And that was it. The guard didn’t seem to care.

Was I the only one who saw that? Or was it just my imagination?

As they drove into the old district, Penguin finally realized what was going on.

Some of the large billboards on the sides of buildings were displaying footage of the same “creatures” he had seen. But now he saw clearly—they were gargoyles, like the ones scattered all over Gotham. These statues, grotesque and horned, like winged demons, had come to life. Yet oddly, they had brightly colored balloons tied to their claws.

The footage on the billboards had clearly been shot in Gotham—

Beneath the moonlight, these gargoyles had come to life, accepting balloons from a man dressed like a magician. Only the man’s back and slender fingers were visible. After receiving their balloons, the gargoyles flapped their wings and flew off, landing outside the windows of sleeping children. With careful, almost endearing curiosity, they gazed at the kids, tying the balloons to the window frames before flying off to deliver more.

A voiceover announced, “In celebration of Children’s Day, the Wandering Magician C has prepared a city-wide magic show, currently in rehearsal. If anyone receives a balloon from a gargoyle, they can redeem it for candy at Iceberg Construction. Those lucky enough to find a gold-wrapped piece will win an unimaginable prize!”

Children’s Day is still twenty days away!

What kind of magic could possibly make gargoyles come to life? This is real magic!

And that wandering magician C… Penguin’s expression soured. He looked out the window again. Most people were taking photos or driving around to follow the creatures. One of the gargoyles, looking just as monstrous as the others, landed delicately and handed a balloon to a little blonde girl.

The girl squealed in delight.

Penguin quietly banged his forehead against the window, staring out at the bizarre chaos. As the truck rumbled on, he caught the final words of the promo playing on the billboard: “Only those who follow the rules of the game will be rewarded. Wishing you all a happy Children’s Day.”

Penguin’s pupils flickered as a thought crossed his mind—perhaps he could seize this opportunity.

What if Mr. C needed him to maintain the rules of the game?

He was sick of being just a plumber. Especially after seeing that redheaded man, a former subordinate of his—Penguin couldn’t recall his name, but he remembered that face. The man had been openly chatting with the guards, while Penguin had been forced to keep his own face hidden. He was tired of living like this, and he would do whatever it took to climb his way back to the top.

Even players had their preferences in the games they played. Mr. C might treat the world like a game, but he surely had favorites!

Penguin was determined to prove his value.

In the lane next to his truck, a luxury car sped by, heading in the opposite direction toward Bristol County.

Behind the wheel was Dick, and in the passenger seat, Tim.

After waking up, Tim immediately reviewed the surveillance footage. What he saw was a city-wide “sleep,” but it hadn’t caused any chaos. It was as if a gentle hand had swept over the city, sending everyone into a peaceful slumber. However, not everyone had succumbed. The “darkness” passed over Gotham, carrying away anyone with destructive intent. These individuals vanished without a trace.

As Tim repeatedly reviewed the footage, he noticed the city’s advertisements had been replaced. Videos flooded the internet and plastered the streets. One by one, the gargoyles’ eyes lit up as they flew toward Bristol County. As expected—Bristol County.

Their communication with Vivi had been cut off, and by the time Tim checked the cameras, the gargoyles had already returned to the city, each carrying balloons.

The mastermind had left a clear, unmistakable message: Yes, I did this.

“We still can’t reach Vivi or Bruce,” Tim frowned, sinking into the soft backseat of the car. “And no one has reported anyone missing.”

“Think about who’s missing,” his adopted brother Dick replied calmly. “Murderers, mobsters, poisoners… do you really expect Harvey’s thugs to file a missing persons report for their boss?”

“And it might not just be them,” Tim swiped through the interface on his phone. “I asked Barbara to help investigate. What if someone disappeared from their own home?”

“Honestly, Tim,” Dick said as he drove, “I don’t have the slightest desire to track down Scarecrow. The guy’s a complete lunatic. I can understand why Vivi’s avoiding contact. On my patrols, I noticed that she absolutely hates anyone who destroys public property or tries to plant bombs. She despises anyone who tries to tear this city apart…”

“Look at it this way—there haven’t been any police reports because the moment someone reports these criminals missing, they’d get thrown in jail first,” Dick stopped at a red light. Brightly colored balloons floated in the sky, and not far away, a gargoyle stared down at its claws in confusion, having accidentally let a balloon slip free, drawing laughter from the bystanders. “What really makes us afraid is the unknown, the enemies whose motives are unclear, the ones hiding in the shadows. If I were in Batman’s position, I’d be anxious, too. That’s why I can’t be Batman—I can only be Nightwing.”

Dick turned his head, confused by Tim’s prolonged silence, only to see that Tim’s finger was still poised on his screen—his brother had fallen asleep.

That four hours of high-quality sleep had flipped a switch, leaving the usually sleep-deprived vigilante deep in peaceful slumber.

“Alright then…” Dick lowered the volume of the music in the car, muttering to himself, “Let’s hope that Mr. C is someone who follows the rules of the game, not the one making the rules.”

The luxury car arrived at Rose Manor, only to be turned away by the thick mist at the gates.

Batman, now awake, was also pondering this situation. With the imbalance of information, he had remained in the manor upon waking, quickly realizing his communications had been confiscated. What had happened while he was asleep?

As time passed, the yellow rose that had once been a mere bud fully bloomed. Batman’s vision was no longer obstructed, though the petals had curled slightly at the edges. The rose sat in a vase, and through its open petals, Batman saw a brunette girl sitting against the bed, reading through a thick stack of documents.

Batman tried to free himself, but the real restraint wasn’t the tendrils of the rose—it was the single stem attached to his body, as if it were a part of him. He knew, instinctively, when the flower would wither completely.

If he tried to break free forcefully, it would be akin to suicide.

The room was eerily quiet. Batman checked the time. This afternoon, the demolition crew would tear down the Wayne Memorial.

Before he had fallen asleep, he thought he had seen Scarecrow.

But now, Scarecrow was gone.

Something must have happened while he was asleep—something that made Vivi cut off communication. So far, neither Nightwing nor Robin had shown up at the manor, likely because they, too, had been denied entry.

Batman knew he needed to act. Even if the rose eventually wilted, the contract still held him. He wouldn’t be completely free.

The girl seemed tired, placing the stack of documents on the coffee table. That’s when Batman saw—

“18 Ways to Induce Human Fear: A Guide by Jonathan Crane.”

This was Crane—Scarecrow’s collection of research papers on “fear”!

Connecting the dots, Batman realized that they had been dealing with matters related to Scarecrow earlier, and now Vivi was casually reading through his research. There had been no further mention of Two-Face either, leading Batman to deduce that both Scarecrow and Two-Face had already been dealt with during those four hours.

And the method Vivi used to resolve things was likely something the vigilantes wouldn’t approve of, which explained why she had severed communication with them.

“Vivi,” Batman said, “I think we should talk.”

But his voice was too soft, and the girl in front of him, clearly bored by the papers, raised her hand to stifle a yawn.

“I should tell you who I am,” Batman continued, “let’s be open with each other.”

The girl raised her head, her gaze landing squarely on his face.

—So you were just pretending not to hear me earlier, weren’t you?