*Chapter 24: You Can't Escape What's Coming*

"Lucius, I heard you were in a car accident?"

Lucius Fox, President and Technical Director of Wayne Enterprises, received this greeting in the morning. While it wasn't phrased in the nicest way, it did make him feel a little bit warm inside.

That's because the person saying it was Bruce Wayne.

"Mr. Wayne, I'm perfectly fine myself. Last night's incident was merely a... test of the vehicle's autonomous driving technology. It didn't cause me any harm."

"That's good to hear." Bruce Wayne's voice on the other end of the line seemed to have the sounds of a sports car engine and women laughing in the background. "I was worried my most capable CEO was going to take time off. Good heavens, I wouldn't want to manage Wayne Enterprises myself. Even an hour in the office is torture."

"You don't need to worry, Mr. Wayne..."

"Beep—beep—"

The phone call, abruptly cut off, interrupted Lucius mid-sentence. Such an action was entirely consistent with people's usual impression of Bruce Wayne.

The sole heir of the Wayne family, the actual owner of Wayne Enterprises, Gotham City's playboy, an ignorant and incompetent trust fund kid, a poor orphan whose parents were gone, the luckiest and most unlucky person in Gotham City.

Master Wayne, that really is quite rude...

Lucius sighed, hung up the phone, and began examining the wheelchair wreckage in the lab.

It wasn't that this wheelchair had any particularly advanced black tech in it, it was just that the origin of this wheelchair was a little strange.

According to the investigation, the identity of the wheelchair driver had been confirmed: an ordinary lowlife from Gotham's East End with numerous priors at the Gotham P.D., including robbery, theft, aggravated assault, and even a homicide case. Based on his knowledge level and financial ability, it was basically impossible for him to have built something like this himself.

And the interesting part was, this obviously illegally speeding wheelchair had never appeared in Gotham before. According to the intelligence from Gotham's surveillance systems, all they could confirm was that it appeared on a specific street route for twenty minutes between 10:00 PM and 10:20 PM every night for a week straight. The starting point seemed to be a certain block in the Otisburg district.

As for how it ended up in this lowlife's hands, and why it directly crashed into Lucius's vehicle, which was undergoing a full Gotham route scan and autonomous driving test, this was something that Lucius couldn't figure out either.

Furthermore, to test for the possibility of drunk or drugged driving, Lucius had also run tests on the lowlife after he'd been pieced back together. The results showed a strange drug component in his system. It was very peculiar, different from any drug currently known.

There was also a deformed thermos cup found at the scene. The inside of the cup wall had residue of strange blue plant petals. The components in them were exactly the same as the drug component in the lowlife's body. Based on current lab results with white mice, it seemed to be a new type of stimulant.

This mouse had been in a highly active state for ten hours, and currently showed no signs of drowsiness whatsoever. Its physical condition also seemed to be healthy.

Regardless of whether this was a new health supplement or a new drug, if there was a possibility of it entering Gotham City on a large scale, then for Lucius, it was already a matter important enough to warrant his attention.

Although, given the current situation, there were already countless things heavier than this popping up all the time, like the Riddler, Scarecrow, Penguin, Joker, and a bunch of other supervillains, plus "The Roman," the Falcone crime family, whom Batman was currently investigating.

The intense chaos this group could stir up included, but wasn't limited to, gas bombs to poison the whole city, nuclear warheads to flatten the whole city, city-wide shootouts and riots, etc. Everyone was pretty baffled as to why Gotham City hadn't been completely wiped out yet.

And in Lucius's view, maybe it was because Batman always had their backs. Anyway, he always managed to round these people up and send them back to prison overnight.

Getting back to the current situation, he had extracted DNA from inside the cup rim. Currently, there were only two human samples: one was from the wheelchair-driving lowlife, and the other had no match in the police's DNA database.

"Perhaps, I should find a chance to discreetly inquire around that area. If I'm lucky, maybe this won't require Batman to personally investigate," Lucius thought, watching the lively white mouse.

...

"Hey, Cody."

Cody, who had just gotten out of a taxi and was about to walk into the restaurant, heard the teasing voice of the newsstand owner next door. "How come you didn't come on your baby wheelchair today?"

"Got jacked." He sighed and walked up. "Let me get a newspaper. You selling any self-defense stuff?"

"Fresh stock. Beretta, Colt, and P229. You came out today without a gun? That's not very smart."

"Brought one, but suddenly thought I could buy another for backup—wait, P229? German made?"

"Gotham made." The newsstand owner chuckled. "Don't want something with more punch?"

"I don't want to die from a poorly made pirated knockoff handgun. Plus, I don't have a lot of cash on me right now."

"You're underestimating Gotham, kid." The newsstand owner grinned. "Local made Colt Python. Pick any accessories you want. Just bring the money tomorrow. If the gun messes up, I'll pay you triple."

"If I make it out alive to come find you, will triple be enough to buy your life?"

"Hehehe, I got genuine ones too, but they ain't cheap. How about we play a game—my guns have a minimum price and a maximum price. You can pick one." The owner handed over a gun. "If the gun has a major problem on the spot that could get your head blown off, like a barrel explosion or falling apart, you'll get your money back immediately. Ammo costs extra."

Damn, so this is his main business.

"That's the rule. It's between you and me. Once we agree, it's cash and carry. Don't come looking for me if there are problems later. What do you say?"

Cody raised an eyebrow and shouted to the food truck vendor next door. "Hey! Val!"

The vendor, his hands still working, looked up and asked, "Yeah?"

"How many years has he been doing this?"

"Huh? At least two years."

Cody turned back. "Alright, give me a Beretta and a Colt revolver."

"Heh heh, thanks for your business."

...

"Ding, ding, ding—"

Cody, eating lunch, instinctively reached for his phone. It showed an unfamiliar number. After thinking for a few seconds, confirming that he hadn't leaked his number to anyone except his boss, supervisor, and the Drake couple recently, a sense of foreboding instinctively rose in his heart.

Rather than believing in a coincidence like "Drake got a new phone number," he was more inclined to believe that he was being watched by someone.

Could it be Clinton? But how did he get his phone number? He probably couldn't have found it on his own.

Could it be that the wheelchair he was robbed of caused trouble, and they traced it back to him?

Are the Gotham P.D.'s efficiency levels that high?

He reached out and answered the call.