Inside an apartment on Naihe Island in Gotham City, Nightwing, also known as Dick Grayson, pushed his body to its limits.
He had been lying low for days, and now he trained with a single-minded intensity that bordered on obsession.
Dressed in a white sweatshirt and black shorts, his physique was lean yet explosive, every movement defined by strength and control. Sweat ran freely down his body as he swung a massive hammer.
"Ah! Ha!"
His abdominal muscles tightened, then released in rhythm with his breathing. The hammer, weighing nearly 100 kilograms, came crashing down.
"Bang!"
It slammed into a reinforced rubber tire, the impact producing a harsh, echoing thud that filled the room.
This method was not random. Striking a heavy tire built core strength, reinforced the back muscles, and sharpened explosive power. It was a training technique he had learned from Batman, and now he followed it with unwavering discipline.
"Bang! Bang!"
The strikes continued in a steady rhythm.
Sweat soaked his skin, catching the light as it dripped to the floor. His breathing remained controlled, even as his muscles burned.
After finishing the hammer drills, he moved on without pause.
Pull-ups came next, but ordinary repetitions were no longer enough. He had outgrown them years ago.
A specially crafted weight was chained to his calves. Though compact, it weighed a full 100 kilograms due to its dense composition.
"Ho!"
With a sharp exhale, he pulled himself upward.
His focus narrowed entirely to his back muscles, imagining the strain and burn intensifying with each repetition. Every movement was deliberate, every contraction precise.
Set after set followed, eight in total. Only then did he allow himself a brief moment of rest before continuing.
"Huff... puff..."
Next came the clean and jerk.
The barbell alone weighed 1200 pounds, far beyond normal human capability. Yet this was his current limit.
For comparison, peak human strength capped around 800 pounds. Nightwing had already surpassed that threshold, approaching something far beyond ordinary.
He lifted the barbell in one smooth motion. Clean, squat, stabilize, then press overhead.
"Clang!"
The weight crashed to the ground.
He exhaled deeply, then reset for another repetition.
By the time he completed his full routine, his body was marked with bruises and strain. His hands were torn, his muscles trembling, yet his gaze remained sharp.
As he turned toward the door, he saw Alfred Pennyworth approaching.
The older man carried a towel and a nutrient drink. These days, his role had shifted. He was no longer guiding training, only supporting it and recording the results.
"Master Grayson," Alfred said gently, handing him the towel, "you have been exercising for four hours straight. If you continue, your body may not endure it."
Nightwing took the towel, breathing heavily.
"This is the only thing I can do," he replied. "If I want to avenge Bruce, I have to give everything. Even if it breaks me."
Alfred's expression tightened with concern.
"I believe Master Wayne would not approve. He would rather you lived safely than destroy yourself like this."
"I know."
Nightwing lowered his gaze to his hands, the skin torn and bleeding.
"The book he left me… I thought it contained a way to deal with Homelander. Instead, it was just his thoughts. His regrets about Jason. His guilt about me leaving."
His voice grew quieter.
"I always believed he could not express his feelings. But in the end, he left words behind. Apologies. Things he never said out loud."
He looked toward the night sky beyond the window, his expression hardened.
"No matter what, I will avenge him. My way."
Alfred paused.
"Even if the cost is unbearable?"
"Yes," Nightwing answered without hesitation. "Even then."
A brief silence followed before he added,
"But it is not hopeless. I have made contact with others. People who think the same way I do."
---
At the Iceberg Lounge in Gotham City, rain began to fall.
The first autumn rain arrived quietly, but inside, tension filled the air.
Penguin had no interest in the weather.
He was furious.
"I told you idiots to move the money quietly," he shouted, his voice echoing through the room. "And now the tax department is crawling all over me. Do you think this city is still the same as before?"
His breathing grew heavier as anger and fear mixed.
"If we are not careful, I will end up like Two-Face. Do you even know what they are doing to him in Arkham Asylum?"
He turned sharply toward one trembling subordinate.
"And you, weren't you bragging about Cornell University's financial engineering program?"
Sweat soaked through his clothes as he yanked at his tie. He grabbed a cup of coffee and drank, trying to steady himself.
He was preparing to run.
Mexico, Brazil, it did not matter. Anywhere was better than staying here.
His fear of Homelander had begun to erode his sanity.
After witnessing that terrifying display of power, lifting an entire city, any illusion of control had vanished.
Was there anyone left who could stop him?
Even Batman had disappeared. Rumors claimed he was dead.
Penguin had no intention of waiting to find out.
He had already begun moving his wealth. Over the past month, he sent trusted men to register offshore accounts in places like the British Virgin Islands and Bermuda.
These locations offered secrecy, minimal taxes, and unrestricted capital flow. Perfect for disappearing without a trace.
The system had worked, at least at first.
Funds were transferred, shell companies established, escape routes prepared.
But today, everything had started to unravel.