Marvel’s Shadowed Knight

Brooklyn. Inside a small coffee shop, a man sat by the window, drawing countless gazes.

His mere presence had transformed this otherwise quiet café into an unexpectedly crowded hotspot.

Dressed in a black suit, paired with a gray imperial-collar dress shirt and a black tie with subtle dark patterns, the man exuded a rare air of aristocracy—something uncommon in America.

The tailored fit of his suit accentuated his broad, muscular frame, leaving no doubt about his physique.

Yet, contradicting his strong build was his slightly melancholic face.

Surprisingly, rather than seeming out of place, this contrast created a unique, almost hypnotic allure.

Today, the moment Wayne stepped out of his house in this attire, he was no longer the Dark Knight of the night.

Instead, he became Bruce Wayne, a man perfectly at ease in the social world.

There had been times when he questioned why he always referred to himself as Wayne rather than Bruce.

His answer was simple:

"The name Bruce carries too much weight. I'm not sure if I can bear it yet."

Just like how he never outright called himself Batman.

That title was a burden far heavier than it seemed.

"You already are him. Everything he was has become a part of you. So what does it matter if it's heavy or not?"

Thomas's words had been a wake-up call.

Wayne was this universe's Bruce Wayne now.

So what was there to hesitate about?

Bruce held a copy of the Daily Bugle, with a headline covering Spider-Man's death.

To outsiders, he appeared fully engrossed in the news.

But in reality, his gaze was fixed on a building across the street—

Kingpin's estate.

"Hey, handsome, how about we get to know each other?"

A confident woman with long black hair gracefully took the seat across from Bruce.

To be fair, she was stunning—silky dark hair, a healthy, well-proportioned figure.

By all standards, she would be considered an ideal romantic partner.

If it had been anyone other than Bruce sitting here, at least eight out of ten men would have fallen head over heels for her approach.

But Bruce?

He calmly set down his newspaper, neatly folding it to the side.

With a polite smile, he said, "I'm sorry, miss, but you're not really my type."

The woman opened her mouth, as if about to protest.

But Bruce had already placed a crisp bill beneath his coffee cup.

"Apologies, but I have business to attend to. It was a pleasure meeting you."

With that, he stood up and walked out of the café.

For a brief moment, the woman felt a twinge of disappointment at being turned down.

But as she watched Bruce's effortless grace—his refined movements, his natural elegance—any resentment melted away.

Men feel pleasure when admiring beautiful women.

Women feel the same when watching an irresistibly handsome man.

And Bruce Wayne?

He was the epitome of attraction.

Even as he disappeared down the street, the woman's eyes lingered on his retreating figure, unable to look away.

The air of melancholy around him, tinged with a subtle noble aura, was simply impossible to ignore.

"Life with a man like that… must be amazing." she murmured to herself.

If only the people who had actually worked with Bruce Wayne had heard her words—

They would have rolled their eyes so hard they might have gotten stuck.

Bruce, exuding an air of nobility, arrived at Fisk's residence, only to be met with the wary gazes of two bodyguards.

"Apologies, sir. Mr. Fisk is not home today. If you have any matters to discuss, I can pass along a message," one of the bodyguards stepped forward, placing a firm hand on Bruce's shoulder.

It was clear that even Fisk's bodyguards were towering figures, all over six foot three, radiating an intimidating presence. Standing before Bruce, the man showed no sign of backing down.

"Oh, what bad luck. I went through quite the trouble to secure an appointment for today, only to find out Mr. Fisk is unavailable." Bruce feigned frustration as he spoke, though his keen eyes had already noted the positions of the handguns on the two guards' waists.

"You'll just have to reschedule," the bodyguard replied coldly, clearly accustomed to such situations.

"Alright, thanks anyway." Bruce placed a hand on the guard's shoulder in return, subtly shifting his fingers toward the man's neck.

In an instant, the bodyguard's body went limp, his eyes rolling back as he collapsed toward Bruce.

"Hey! What's wrong? Are you okay?" Bruce caught him, his voice filled with concern.

The second bodyguard, however, did not rush over. Instead, he remained cautious, keeping his hand on his holstered weapon. He couldn't be sure whether Bruce had done something—after all, there had been physical contact between them.

And he knew well that in this world, there were countless ways to render a person unconscious with just a touch.

What if Bruce had used one of them on his partner?

"Put my colleague down, please. I appreciate your cooperation," the bodyguard ordered, extending a hand as a gesture of instruction—his other hand, however, remained ready to draw his gun at a moment's notice.

"Of course, no problem. No need to be nervous. I wouldn't want to get myself shot because of a misunderstanding." Bruce played the part of an innocent bystander perfectly.

"Watch carefully, I'm putting him down now," he said as he slowly lowered the unconscious guard to the ground, making sure to narrate his every move.

Despite Bruce's seemingly cooperative attitude, the remaining bodyguard couldn't shake the feeling that something was off—though he couldn't pinpoint exactly what.

Then, in a swift motion, Bruce flipped open the unconscious guard's suit jacket. From his sleeve, a tiny dart shot out, embedding itself in the second bodyguard's neck.

The guard's eyes widened in shock. He clutched his neck as his body went weak, slowly sinking to the ground.

Even in his final moments of consciousness, his hand remained near his holster—a testament to his unwavering vigilance.

But even the craftiest fox is no match for a skilled hunter.

Bruce effortlessly dragged the unconscious guards aside, clearing his path to Fisk's front door.

Retrieving his tranquilizer dart, he examined the sleek, compact device.

"No surprise—another fine product from Batman. Simple, yet effective."

That said, Wilson Fisk clearly had great confidence in his home's security. Even in his absence, he hadn't bothered to lock the front door.

With a gentle push, the entrance to the Kingpin of New York's domain swung open for Bruce.

And so, the Bat infiltrated.

(End of Chapter)

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