The moment Kingpin pulled away in his Land Rover, Batman emerged silently from behind a sedan parked nearby.
While Tony Stark and Kingpin were facing off at the victory banquet, Batman had already shed his suit for a valet's uniform. He had used the opportunity to plant bugs and trackers on Kingpin's vehicle.
The fact that he appeared from behind a different sedan rather than the Land Rover wasn't because he had targeted the wrong car.
There weren't many vehicles parked outside the banquet hall. Most of the wealthy attendees had drivers who would bring the cars to the entrance when summoned, rather than parking them in the lot themselves.
Tony Stark was like this, and Kingpin was no different.
Among the few cars present, the Land Rover was the only one capable of accommodating Kingpin's massive frame, but Batman had cautiously installed listening devices and trackers on every vehicle in the lot regardless.
He would much rather do too much than make a mistake.
"Norman Osborn has admitted to being the Green Goblin. It's time for a face-to-face talk," Batman whispered.
Norman Osborn's ankle monitor was integrated with eavesdropping and GPS capabilities. Every word of their conversation at the banquet had been heard loud and clear by Batman.
Batman wasn't worried that Norman had recovered his memories as the Goblin; if anything, he felt a sense of relief.
The ankle monitor collected blood samples daily to analyze the gamma radiation in the Goblin's system. That data had allowed Batman to deduce that Norman's memories had returned even before the man admitted it himself.
One of the reasons Batman had taken Norman to the morgue under the jurisdiction of New York's Chief Medical Examiner—and later to the third sub-level of Oscorp—was precisely to trigger those memories.
The fact that the Green Goblin didn't continue to hide the truth, but chose to reveal his identity despite knowing Batman was listening through the monitor, was a positive outcome no matter how one looked at it.
If the Goblin had continued to feign amnesia, Batman would have had to initiate a series of contingency plans involving a midnight break-in at the Osborn estate.
Glancing down at his valet uniform, Batman was about to find a place to change back into his suit and return to the second-floor VIP box when a humble, desperate voice drifted from nearby.
"Sir... Sir, I'm not going in. I'll just crouch right here. Is here okay? I just want a whiff... really, just a smell."
Batman turned toward the sound and saw a security guard at the banquet entrance driving away a homeless man who was clutching a discarded McDonald's paper bag.
There were far too many homeless people in New York—perhaps even more than in Gotham. Whether due to immigration, the wealth gap, or a sudden stroke of misfortune... similar scenes played out in different places almost every moment.
Batman reached into his pocket and pulled out some spare change and a business card he kept on hand.
The homeless man's limbs appeared intact, but he was gaunt beyond recognition, his black hair matted into tangled knots.
Batman intended to give him enough money for a clean set of clothes and a proper meal. If the man was willing to follow the address and information on the card, Batman would arrange for Parker Industries to provide him with a suitable job.
"Stop bothering us," the guard said impatiently, waving his baton. The homeless man trembled violently in fear.
"It's all because of that fire... it's all because of that fire..." The man muttered under his breath, clutching the McDonald's bag tightly to his chest, refusing to leave.
Batman stopped in his tracks, watching him from a short distance.
The homeless man's face felt familiar to Batman, as if he had seen him somewhere before.
"I'm not going in, sir, really," the man said, hunching his shoulders as he looked at the aggressive guard. "I just wanted to ask... those bones and scraps left over after you're done eating, could you spare a bit? I don't need a plate, and I won't go inside. You just toss them out, and I'll catch them right here."
The security guard raised his baton.
"No, no, no! Wait!" The homeless man's voice rose slightly as he suddenly pointed in a specific direction. "Where you're standing, the wind is going to pour in from the east after midnight!"
This non sequitur caused the guard to pause, his baton mid-air. He asked with genuine curiosity, "What are you trying to say?"
The homeless man wiped his nose. It was October, and as darkness fell, the night wind was cold enough to make one shiver.
Before the guard could raise the baton again, he quickly organized his thoughts and spoke:
"If you get me something to eat, I'll stand behind that pillar to your right. That spot is a dead zone for the wind. How long is your shift tonight? Until four in the morning? By then, you'll be stomping your feet from the cold. If I stand there, I can block seventy percent of the wind for you."
"The supervisor..." the guard began hesitantly.
"If the supervisor comes to check, I'll cough three seconds in advance," the homeless man said, increasing his pace. He knew he had to list his advantages while the guard was wavering. "I've been on the streets for six years. I'm a light sleeper. I can hear the slightest movement even in my dreams."
By now, Batman had changed back into his suit and removed his glasses, standing near the guard and the homeless man in his persona as the young entrepreneur, Peter Parker.
The guard tucked his baton back into his belt, completely won over by the man's pitch.
"Don't lie to me, or I won't mind making sure you have to crawl on the ground to beg from now on," the guard warned before turning back into the nearly empty banquet hall.
"Thank you, thank you..." the homeless man stammered, bowing low.
Before he could straighten up, a shadow fell over him.
Batman stood before the man, looking into his panicked face.
"A fire? Six years ago?"
The homeless man took a half-step back, eyeing the young face and the high-end wool suit before speaking cautiously.
"Sir..."
"Do you want to keep living on the streets, or do you want to change the rest of your life?" Batman asked.
Batman had previously investigated records of the Whitman family. Dane Whitman—the most likely candidate for the nephew Nathan Garrett had mentioned—had vanished from the face of the earth six years ago following a fire.
Therefore, upon hearing this man mention he had been homeless for six years, Batman's first instinct was to wonder if this was the person he was looking for.
The homeless man looked at Batman. Six years of living on the streets had left him completely numb, but he had a faint sensation that an opportunity had just dropped from the sky. If he didn't seize it now, he didn't know when the next one would come.
"I don't want to be a drifter. Not for another second," he said.
"Follow me," Batman commanded.
The man stood frozen for a moment, torn.
If he stayed, he would get the scraps the guard was bringing, filling his empty stomach for the night.
If he followed this stranger, he might escape the streets—but he might also end up as a lab rat for human experimentation. Even a vagrant like him had heard the news from two months ago about Oscorp using the homeless for illegal testing.
But as he watched Batman walk further away, the man gritted his teeth and ran to catch up.
"Sir! Kind sir, wait for me!"
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