DC: Rise of the Kryptonian Tyrant

Gotham.

Wayne Building.

Drizzle fell from the sky. In the thick cloud cover overhead, thunder flashed repeatedly, like a light bulb wrapped in a blanket, flickering brightly.

Crack.

A bolt of lightning suddenly erupted from the clouds, illuminating all of Gotham in a pale light.

It also lit up a thin figure standing atop Wayne Building.

He wore a long purple tuxedo and pants, white gloves on his hands. His face was pale, as if painted, lips dyed a deep scarlet. It was hard to tell if the color came from torn flesh at the corners of his mouth or crimson lipstick. Algae-green hair fluttered wildly, reflecting the madness in his eyes.

The Joker stood atop the head of a gargoyle. The wind howled, whipping the back of his purple tuxedo. He grinned maniacally.

That image, caught in the moment of lightning, was shocking and eerie.

He stood atop the Wayne Building, over 100 meters above the ground, perched on the gargoyle's thin head. His slender figure braved the strong wind, his coat flapping, looking like he could fall at any moment.

In the next flash of lightning, on the opposite side of Wayne Building, a black figure extended his arms, hovering in the drizzle, perfectly positioned.

A grappling gun appeared in Batman's hand. He aimed at the top of the Wayne Building, a place more familiar to him than anyone else, and fired the hook at another gargoyle.

The hook latched onto the gargoyle's arm. Batman quickly pressed another switch on the grappling gun. With a sharp recoil, the cable reeled in, and Batman launched forward in a high arc. Like a precision mechanism, he swung through the air, landing atop the gargoyle. His cape billowed in the wind as he faced the Joker.

"I've been waiting for you, little bat!"

The Joker placed his right hand on the gargoyle's knee, letting the drizzle and cold wind slap his face. His purple tuxedo fluttered behind him, and he suddenly laughed, as if he had thought of something amusing.

"You should know, even if my real identity is exposed, there are countless ways to still be Bruce Wayne or not be Bruce Wayne."

Batman's voice was calm. His eyes were steady as he watched the Joker cautiously, prepared for anything.

"You're not getting away, Joker."

The wind howled behind them, blowing both the Joker's purple coat and Batman's black cape.

Suddenly, the Joker stood upright, spread his arms wide, and stared ahead in the wind and rain. His face turned solemn, lips pressed shut.

"You're right, little bat. I choose to die."

"The game is on!"

The Joker grinned and fell backward.

Even though Batman had been watching him closely, he still failed to stop the Joker from toppling off the ledge.

The gargoyle's location on Wayne Building stood over 300 meters above the ground. A fall from that height would turn any normal person into a pulp.

As the Joker plummeted backward, his eyes remained shut, but the same playful smile stayed on his face.

Anyone else would die from that fall.

The Joker would not.

By the time Batman reached the gargoyle the Joker had stood on, the madman was already halfway down. Suddenly, his purple tuxedo unfolded like wings, catching the wind and slowing his descent. A small parachute popped out, further reducing the impact, and he glided toward a nearby Joker-themed van.

Once safely on the ground, the Joker turned his head playfully, raised two fingers to his temple in a mock salute toward Batman, then climbed into the van and drove away from Wayne Manor.

Even though Batman instructed Alfred through the comms to track the vehicle, the Joker still managed to disappear.

After searching Gotham thoroughly, Batman finally returned to Wayne Manor in the dead of night. He pushed aside the large clock and entered the Batcave.

Batman removed his cowl, water dripping from his chin and neck from the lingering drizzle. He sat heavily in front of the monitors, reviewing surveillance footage.

"Sir, you have a press conference tomorrow to dispel the rumors about Batman's true identity," Alfred said as he approached with a bowl of warm ginger soup.

Batman continued to stare at the screens, searching for clues to the Joker's location. Without looking back, he replied, "Alfred, I don't have time. The Joker is clearly trying to buy time. Handle it for me."

"You must make time, sir. All of Gotham is in turmoil over this. If you don't want Wayne Manor bombed by every villain who's ever had a grudge with Batman, I suggest you spend ten minutes making a brief clarification at the press conference."

Alfred stood tall, bowtie and tuxedo immaculate, the very image of a British butler.

"You need to calm the public unrest."

He added firmly.

The situation had escalated too far. Regardless of how Bruce felt, he had to make a public statement.

Bruce stared at the screen a while longer, then frowned.

"Ten minutes?"

"Yes."

"Fine. Also, give me the full list of Joker's surviving henchmen."

...

The next day.

Wayne Building, Convention Center.

The hall was packed with reporters from across Gotham—Gotham Daily, Gotham Evening News, Gotham Weekend, People City, Lace Magazine, Playboy, and even niche publications like Education News, Military Times, Student Weekly, Academic Journal, Financial Herald, Agricultural Monthly, and Travel Digest all sent their top journalists.

Even Midtown Daily from Central City dispatched a glamorous reporter. And naturally, Daily Planet from Metropolis sent a seasoned male reporter.

The topic of Bruce Wayne possibly being Batman was so explosive that no outlet could ignore it. Everyone wanted the inside scoop.

Was it true? Was it false? Or was it a cover-up?

Every reporter could smell a headline.

"Now, Mr. Bruce Wayne will make a statement," Alfred said, stepping aside at the podium.

Bruce Wayne, dressed in a tailored suit, entered casually, whistling as he walked in. He glanced at the female reporters who stood up upon seeing him, flashing a charming smile.

Reporters immediately raised their cameras. In the short walk of just over ten meters, Bruce struck dozens of different poses for the media, even flirting lightly with a few of the women, showcasing his carefree playboy image to the fullest.

When he reached the podium and faced the crowd of reporters, he began to speak.

"I can't remember when I last had a press conference, so I guess I'd better read from the script this old man gave me!"

Bruce stiffened his shoulders and spoke with mock helplessness, pulling out the statement Alfred had prepared.

"Someone suspects I'm Batman, the Dark Knight who haunts the night."

"They think I've been secretly fighting Gotham's dark underbelly…"

Before he could finish, a female reporter raised her hand abruptly and interrupted.

"Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Wayne. Do you think we'll buy that? Based on physical comparisons, it's almost a perfect match. I've even reviewed all the actresses you've spent the night with and found some impressive physical data. Mr. Wayne, you're in excellent shape. That's fantastic…"

"Of course, you can question Wayne Enterprises' statement. Thank you for the compliment on my physique, but don't throw around baseless accusations implying I'm a bat…"

"I never said you were Batman."

"Didn't you? It sure sounds like sci-fi. I'm no superhero. If I were Batman, I'd definitely be using those skills to chase after beautiful women. I'm hardly hero material, what with all my personality flaws…"

Suddenly, Bruce swept his gaze across the room, scanning the reporters with a sharp look.

Alfred leaned in and whispered, "Stick to the script."

Bruce looked down at the statement in his hand, paused, then lowered it.

"Actually…"

He paused again, eyes still on the script.

Then he set it down.

"I am Batman."

(To be continued.)