16 The Seal Is Broken!

Dick silently rejoiced that Peter hadn’t overheard their debriefing of the night patrol; his secret identity remained safe. Just then, Jason left the table and caught up with Peter near the exit. They exchanged a few words before stepping outside together.

During the lax Birds of Prey meeting, Bruce frowned disapprovingly as Jason left midway, but it was Jason—his presence alone was a courtesy.

Sensing the atmosphere growing tense, Tim quickly pulled out a small vial from his pocket to divert attention. “This is what the mysterious figure used last night to bind the stowaways... Wait, where’s my stuff?”

Tim’s vial was empty. Damian seized the moment to mock, “You’re hallucinating, Drake. One more all-nighter and you’ll drop dead.”

“And you, Damian, are one shampoo away from going bald.”

Damian instinctively reached for his weapon at his waist but realized he was only in casual clothes.

Bruce intervened before the bickering escalated, taking the vial. “What you collected has already degraded.”

Tiny beads of liquid clung to the inside of the vial—hard to notice without close inspection.

Bruce shifted his gaze, and Alfred took the vial to the Batcave for analysis. They had seen similar substances before, like the residue left by the shadow spider on the Joker—materials that vanished over time.

But this was a new kind of compound.

“Observe carefully,” Bruce reminded Red Robin.

Red Robin folded his arms heavily.

Hearing footsteps approaching from behind, Peter clenched his backpack tighter and quickened his pace, trying to evade the impending interrogation.

He didn’t need to turn around to know it was Jason. The familiar aura surrounded him, and Peter sensed faint hints of smoke and blood.

Jason strode up beside him. “I’ll take you to school.”

“You’re too enthusiastic,” Peter chuckled nervously. “I know the way…”

“Then take me back afterward,” Jason said bluntly.

Peter couldn’t refuse and fell silent.

At 1.83 meters tall, Jason squeezed into the Camaro’s passenger seat, his long legs curled awkwardly as if wedging himself into a small box.

“Where were you last night?” Jason asked straightforwardly.

Peter concocted a hasty excuse: “I couldn’t sleep, so I went for a drive to get familiar with the city.”

The Bumblebee’s radio started playing a song called “Liar.”

Jason glared at Peter. “Is this really the time to set the mood?”

Peter apologized on behalf of the car and nudged him under the driver’s seat.

After saying that, Jason wiped his face, suddenly realizing he sounded just like Bruce.

Back when Tim or Damian were rebellious, Jason never used such a disciplinarian tone. Red Hood was more of a troublemaker, always enjoying the chaos. The more headaches Bruce got from his brothers, the better—he wanted Bruce so overwhelmed he couldn’t get out of bed.

It was just that this newcomer looked too innocent—such innocence was fragile in Gotham and easily tainted.

Jason didn’t want to see another bed in Arkham reserved for him.

With a scowl, his polished shoes anxiously tapped out a rhythm.

After a quiet ride, he said, “Next time you can’t sleep, call me. I’ll take you shooting.”

The Batcave’s arcade couldn’t always be monopolized by that Damian kid.

Jason watched Peter find his classroom before leaving.

Given Peter’s Wayne family ties, Bruce believed they needed to provide him with necessary protection, especially after Tim highlighted the suspicious nature of Osborn.

Jason’s usual patrol zone was closest to Gotham University, so naturally, the task fell to him. He was busy investigating a small-time smuggler under Black Mask but didn’t feel like refusing the job.

Peter entered the classroom and immediately noticed the gaze upon him vanish.

Jason must have been displeased with his excuse. Next time, Peter would need a better one.

He picked a random seat, temporarily detaching from his plans as Gotham’s friendly neighborhood Spider-Man and focusing on college life.

He had to admit, he was looking forward to it. But unlike the serious professors and engaged students he imagined, some classmates had their feet up playing games, others ate snacks without care, and couples openly kissed...

The professor seemed accustomed to this, mechanically reading from the lecture notes in a monotone. After going through two pages, he asked, “Alright, who wants to share their thoughts on this?”

Peter raised his hand.

“Looks like no one... uh, uh?” The professor pushed up his glasses, surprised someone wanted to speak. “What’s your name, student?”

“Parker,” Peter responded confidently. “Peter Parker.”

“You’re the...” The professor stopped short of saying “the one from New York.” Knowing Gotham’s xenophobia, he didn’t want to cause trouble for the young man and instead asked kindly, “Please share your opinion.”

Several students who had been quietly listening perked up. The classroom fell silent; gamers flipped their phones facedown and eyed Peter suspiciously; kissing couples separated; snack-eaters stuffed their mouths, still chewing.

An odd atmosphere.

Peter spoke clearly and logically. The professor nodded repeatedly. “Very good, very good, though you lack some critical thinking…”

The two engaged in a lively back-and-forth, oblivious to the rest of the classroom.

Gotham’s learning environment was no accident—opportunities were nearly blocked. Ordinary people had only two paths: scrape by or sell their souls. Even students striving for degrees or work experience aimed for Wayne Enterprises or its affiliates or planned to escape Gotham; no one wanted to bring bad luck upon themselves—what if their parents worked for the Penguin?

Under this atmosphere, the professor had been delivering solo lectures for years. Encountering someone like Peter, willing to discuss, was a treasure. After class, he reminded Peter to email him if he had questions.

“Of course, I’ll only respond during work hours.” With that, the professor slipped away like a ghost.

After class, Peter grabbed a sandwich for lunch and strolled over to Harry’s genetics research group.

The iris scanner opened the door, but Harry wasn’t there. Only Eliza, an albino girl, was fiddling with equipment.

Hearing the door, Eliza looked up and greeted Peter. “So thoughtful, new kid. Is that for me? How did you know I was hungry?” She stared intently at the sandwich bag in his hand.

Looks like Harry wouldn’t be eating today. Peter gave the extra food to Eliza with concern. “Where’s Harry?”

“He’s not at school today,” she replied, thanking him and setting the sandwich aside before returning to her work. “Something’s up at home, I think.”

Home. Peter thought of Harry’s father, old Norman Osborn.

“Is Mr. Osborn’s condition serious?”

“I don’t know,” Eliza looked puzzled. “He rarely talks about these things with us.”

She sighed. “Harry is a mystery.”

Peter ate outside the lab and searched Norman Osborn on his phone.

Old Norman’s situation seemed grave; he hadn’t appeared publicly in nearly six months.

Peter read several articles whose headlines questioned Osborn Group’s future and doubted Harry as the young heir.

But some voices differed. One journalist cited Timothy Drake, Wayne Enterprises’ current CEO, who attended the same school as Harry and managed the company well, far better than his unreliable father—age wasn’t a serious problem.

Peter glanced at the article’s author: Clark Kent.

He texted Harry offering help; Harry replied calmly that family matters were pressing and they’d talk later.

Peter felt a bit down.

He spent the afternoon in the library, reading thirty pages of material assigned by the professor. It was a week’s worth, but to free time for his role as Gotham’s friendly neighborhood Spider-Man, he needed to finish quickly.

His spider suit and voice modulator were ready—time for Spider-Man’s return to the stage!

At night, Red Hood quietly lurked in the shadows.

He stood inside an abandoned factory, awaiting the smuggling deal slated for tonight.

Intel indicated highly advanced new weaponry. If the buyer, the Penguin, obtained it, the difficulty of dealing with him would escalate.

Red Hood waited patiently, fingers lightly stroking his gun barrel.

“J,” an old man’s voice crackled through his earpiece, “watch your discretion.”

“They’re all wearing body armor,” Jason replied casually, then cut the comm.

If one thug wore it, the others likely did too. With body armor, shooting any part of the body except the head was fair game.

Jason had his own logic.

He wasn’t intent on killing but wouldn’t deliberately save worthless lives.

He’d been Red Hood for two years now, and Bruce had finally learned to indulge him somewhat. Jason knew he exploited Bruce’s guilt and his unwillingness to lose another child—and he secretly took pride in it.

The deal reached the inspection stage. A Penguin lieutenant picked up a gun, seemingly to test its firepower, and without hesitation, shot one of his own men.

The room fell silent. Even Jason’s pupils contracted sharply.

The victim was clearly a low-level thug without body armor. He looked young, fifteen or sixteen—someone Jason might have spared.

A gaping hole opened in his abdomen; he was beyond saving.

Jason had been given a second chance in life and wanted to offer others the same. But this young man wouldn’t get it.

Jason wielded dual pistols and leapt down.

“Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!”

Rapid fire. The lieutenant was hit and flew back. His body armor failed to protect his organs, which shattered under the shock. Blood spurted from his mouth as he lost consciousness.

“It’s Red Hood!” someone cried in fear.

“Why be scared? There are so many of us, and only one of him!” another shouted, then their voice faded—they’d fled before others could react.

Jason wasn’t about to let that go. Like a phantom, he appeared before the man, shooting his left shoulder, eliciting a scream of pain.

“Quiet,” Jason said nonchalantly. Amid the gunfire, he moved through the warehouse with his grappling hook like an art form, nearly intoxicated by his own prowess.

…but his reverie didn’t last long. In the dim light, he noticed a shadow flicker above. Jason reacted swiftly to defend, but the next moment, with no visible enemy, his guns were snatched from his hands!

“Nice shooting, brother,” came a low voice from above.

Looking up, Jason saw a red-and-blue figure half-hidden in the roof’s shadows.

The remaining criminals, thinking backup had arrived, opened fire on Jason. He dodged instinctively but noticed the shots wildly missed, as if aimed at a target ten times wider than him. After the gunfire, the red-and-blue figure retracted his hand.

Had he just shielded Jason?

Who was this person?

All this happened in less than a sentence’s time. Peter had disarmed Jason, used his webs to bend the attackers’ gun barrels, and Jason had already climbed the beam with his grappling hook to face the red-and-blue stranger.

Wrapped head to toe in a tight suit, with two large black lenses obscuring his eyes, crouching on the beam like some insect.

Was he even human?

The question lasted only a moment before Peter began speaking.

“Wow, you’re really cool, dude. But honestly, I’m a little worried you might crush that beam. How much do you weigh? Two hundred pounds? Who taught you to use that grappling hook? Batman? I have to admit, it’s handy, but don’t you worry it might snap the beam? Or worse, if it breaks halfway and you don’t notice, what if it collapses when you step on it and you fall?”

Jason’s mind buzzed.

Especially since this guy kept talking non-stop while shooting webs out. Those trying to escape while Jason was distracted were all stuck to the floor.

An injured man groaned in pain, and Peter muttered, “So noisy,” shooting a web to gag him.

And he had the nerve to complain about noise!

Jason’s headache nearly split his skull. He shouted, “If you don’t want to end up with them, give me back my guns!”

He lunged at Peter, but Peter shoved the pistols into his arms. “Don’t be mad, I’m not stealing from you. Here, I’m giving them back. No hard feelings, brother—I actually really like your hood. It’s cool! Don’t you think we have similar taste? I mean, they all wear masks, right? And we both picked hoods, plus you can add air filters inside. You have one in yours, right?”

“Shut up!” Jason grabbed his guns, backed off, and fired as he leapt down from the beam, but Peter dodged effortlessly.

“So unfriendly! We’re on the same side!” Peter reproached before nimbly climbing onto the roof and vanishing.

Jason panted amid a scatter of bodies, his guns covered in sticky webbing.

…What had he just stuck to the barrels?

And the gun felt off in weight.

Jason ejected the magazines and checked the bullets, nearly losing it.

When did he swap his ammo for rubber bullets?