Damn it, I’m surrounded by those who kill their fathers!

Peter received a call from Bruce and immediately headed to the address provided.

Within minutes, he arrived at a villa.

Sensing an eerie aura emanating from the place, Peter's vigilance skyrocketed.

Taking a deep breath, he pushed open the door and stepped into the living room, only to find Bruce waiting on the second floor.

"Hey, Bruce," Peter called out, frowning as he noticed Bruce's vacant expression. "What are you doing?"

Just as Peter was about to approach him, Bruce suddenly pulled out a handgun and aimed it at him.

With the black muzzle pointed his way, Peter halted, narrowing his eyes.

"Bruce, are you planning to shoot me?"

Seeing Bruce in such a dazed state, Peter immediately realized his mind was being influenced.

But having a gun aimed at him still irritated him.

"No! You shouldn't have done that to Katie! I always saw you as a father figure; you shouldn't have done it!" Bruce struggled to say, his voice filled with pain.

"What did I do?"

From Bruce's words, Peter pieced together the situation. That wretched Katie Wisniewski must have falsely accused him of something.

"You shouldn't have done it!"

Bruce didn't answer directly, muttering to himself instead.

Under Katie Wisniewski's control, Bruce's finger twitched on the trigger, as though he might fire at any moment.

Yet, his self-control held him back from pulling it.

Staring at Peter, Bruce felt as though he had returned to that fateful alley where his parents were murdered.

Only this time, he was the robber holding the gun, and his parents were Peter.

If he pulled the trigger, everything would change. Destiny would be reset by the echo of the gunshot.

"No! No!"

Clutching his arm, Bruce ultimately didn't fire. Instead, he collapsed to the floor, clutching his head in agony.

"Swish!"

In an instant, Peter darted toward Bruce, but the surroundings abruptly transformed.

The Bruce who had been standing on the stairs vanished, and white mist quickly enveloped the area.

Standing amidst the fog on the second floor, Peter scanned his surroundings with a frown.

Is this magic?

Sensing the unfamiliar energy in the air, Peter, who had once battled "Lucifer," quickly deduced that this must be magical interference.

"Peter Podrick," a familiar voice called out as Peter inspected the area.

Looking downstairs, Peter saw Katie Wisniewski emerge from the dissipating mist, holding a book.

"Well, well. I didn't expect you to be superhuman. Quite surprising. You must be an alien, am I right?" Katie approached, holding an ornate, heavy book.

"Let me introduce myself. I'm Elizabeth Paris. We're alike—you're an alien, and I'm someone from the past."

"Someone from the past?" Peter narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean? Are you a ghost?"

"In a way, yes. I was from the 18th century, burned alive by the church. But as you know, witches always leave behind contingencies. I sealed a spell within this book," she explained, raising the book slightly. "Whenever one of my descendants reads it, I can take over their body."

She stepped closer. "I found you intriguing, Peter, but you ruined our connection. Still, I'm being honest now, hoping you'll reconsider."

"Uh-huh."

Peter nodded nonchalantly. "Sorry, I'm not into old ladies. Wine gets better with age, but women? Not so much. By the way, the church burning you at the stake wasn't unjustified. You're the type of scum who preys even on their descendants. You deserve to burnt again."

"Silence!" Katie roared, her anger flaring.

At her command, countless metallic weapons shot toward Peter, gleaming ominously in the dim light.

Peter raised his arms to shield his chest, and with a series of metallic clangs, the projectiles bounced harmlessly to the ground.

Katie's eyes widened in shock as Peter remained unscathed. She immediately launched a whip of purple magical energy toward him.

Unfazed, Peter conjured a celestial energy sphere in his hand and hurled it at her.

With a thunderous "boom," the magical whip disintegrated into stardust.

Clearly not expecting Peter's counterattack, Katie retreated, summoning the mist once more to obscure his vision.

Realizing her intent to flee, Peter blinked into position right beside her.

But when he reached out to grab her, her form dissipated like a mirage.

Frowning, Peter swiftly searched the entire villa, only to find both Katie and Bruce had vanished without a trace.

...

Having escaped the villa, Bruce and Katie arrived at a bar.

The place, relatively empty during off-peak hours, was dimly lit.

Bruce stumbled to the bar, where a grizzled old bartender with long ears and a hooked nose greeted him.

"What'll it be, sir?" the bartender asked.

"Rum," Bruce groaned, holding his head.

"Which kind of rum, sir?"

Bruce hesitated, his mind clouded.

What kind of rum did he want? Should it be with daiquiri, mojito, hurricane, or painkiller?

After some thought, he muttered, "Painkiller. I need a painkiller."

Before the bartender could act, a woman's voice chimed in: "Get him some wake-up tea. Dan, give him a Mamajuana."

Bruce looked up and recognized her—the waitress he'd saved earlier.

Shaking his head to dispel strange thoughts, he watched as the bartender set down a jar and poured a murky brown liquid into a glass.

Bruce frowned. "I need something stronger."

The bartender replaced the glass with a pint and began shaking the concoction vigorously.

Taking a sip, Bruce was struck by the bizarre taste—a mix of caramelized alcohol, honeyed sweetness, and earthy notes reminiscent of tree bark and wild roots.

It was like sipping Satan's spit, and oddly, he found himself liking it.

"Thanks for your help earlier," the waitress said, her sincerity shining through.

"You seem troubled, but I believe good people like you always find a way."

Her words caused Bruce to pause, his expression softening as Katie's control over him slightly loosened.

"Am I a good person?"

"Of course," she nodded. "You're a good man."

Touched by her earnestness, Bruce instinctively touched the gun at his side, ready to say something when Katie appeared.

Noticing the shift in Bruce's demeanor, Katie glared at the waitress.

Reaching out, she attempted to siphon the girl's life force.

Bruce, realizing Katie's intent, shoved the waitress aside and hurled his drink at the bartender.

"Damn rum! Tastes like horse piss!"

Security guards rushed over as Bruce's antics escalated into a brawl.

Outside, a news crew shooting on location noticed the commotion and began filming.

At home, John and Star-Lord were watching TV when the live broadcast of the bar fight caught their attention.

"Uh," John squinted at the blurry figure on screen. "Isn't that Bruce Wayne?"

Star-Lord leaned closer. "Kinda looks like him. But isn't Bruce a billionaire? Why would he be brawling? Didn't pay his tab?"

"Probably," John replied gleefully. "The guy's a troublemaker anyway."

Eyes glinting, John sprang to his feet.

"Finally, the hypocrite reveals his true colors. Perfect chance to expose him to Dad and teach him a lesson."

Grabbing his jacket, John headed out with a spring in his step.

"Where are you going, John?" Star-Lord called after him.

"To deliver justice—and take down that guy!"

...

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