This car is truly uncanny.

Peter looked around the parking lot in disbelief, noticing that every car there was worth more than his own. “Why did they target mine?” he wondered.

How could a thief be so lacking in taste?

“Maybe it’s because your car’s the easiest to steal,” Jason remarked sharply.

Peter had to admit Jason had a point.

Jason glanced up; the parking lot’s surveillance cameras were off, no lights indicating they were active.

Peter looked around dejectedly, his gaze lingering on an empty parking space before shifting towards the lot’s exit, deep in thought.

Taking advantage of Peter’s distraction, Jason quietly fiddled with his phone. The tracker attached under the Camaro’s chassis showed as a green dot on the screen, not far from their current location.

Peter withdrew his gaze and looked at Jason, and to their surprise, they both said in unison:

“Let’s check out the road near the school entrance.”

“Let’s circle around the gate; maybe we’ll find something.”

Both men paused, slightly awkward, then averted their eyes. Jason cleared his throat.

Following his instincts and a faint scent in the air, Peter stepped out of the parking lot.

Gotham University wasn’t an open campus—the city government and Gotham’s wealthy residents had no desire to see terrorist attacks unfold daily around their next generation. The parking lot lay to the west of the main gate, and not far off was an intersection. Without hesitation, Peter chose a direction.

This path happened to be the least crowded among four options. It didn’t lead to any transportation hubs or main roads; its end was Gotham Bay, but far from any docks.

The green dot on Jason’s phone screen grew nearer.

Rounding a corner, Peter’s eyes brightened—the Camaro was quietly parked right there.

“Who on earth stole my car and just left it here so carelessly?” Peter stormed over angrily. Yet upon seeing inside, he blinked in surprise.

A thin boy, no older than fourteen, sat inside, his face grave. Spotting someone approaching, he immediately pressed both hands against the window. “Let me out!”

Peter almost laughed in disbelief. “Did someone lock you in there?”

The boy hesitated, a mixture of frustration and fear crossing his face as he dodged the question. “Is this your car? I’m calling the cops! This car’s seriously cursed!”

Jason raised an eyebrow.

After all these years, he’d never imagined a car thief would want to call the police.

Peter pulled out the car key, unlocked the door, and opened it. The boy, having been so desperate leaning against the window, lost his support and tumbled out. Quick on his feet, he flipped and bolted.

Jason leisurely stretched his leg, just enough to trip the boy’s ankle, sending him sprawling to the ground. He stepped on the boy’s back firmly. “Don’t move.”

Peter glanced back anxiously at Jason’s intimidating stance, but Jason simply nodded toward Peter, signaling him to inspect the car first.

Peter climbed into the driver’s seat and saw the ignition wires had been pulled out—explaining how the boy managed to start the Camaro without keys.

He touched the two wires together; the engine hummed to life, the radio working normally. No apparent damage.

It was rare these days for cars to be hotwired directly like this, so it made sense the thief targeted his vehicle. For kids struggling to get by, even selling scrap metal from this car could feed them for a while.

The boy, still pinned beneath Jason’s foot, felt as if crushed by a hydraulic jack, unable to rise. He wrapped his arms around his head. “I know I was wrong, please don’t kill me!”

Peter chuckled. “No one’s going to kill you. What do you mean the car’s cursed?”

The boy peeked out cautiously from between his arms, scanning their hands for weapons before speaking. “I just… drove it a bit, then it stalled and the door locked me inside! I couldn’t get out!”

He hung his head, defeated. “If I’d known, I’d have only stolen two tires.”

Jason snorted. “You think you’re Superman, lugging two tires out of Gotham University like that?”

The boy whimpered in fear.

Now that the car was recovered, Peter didn’t want to press further. The boy was too young; sending him to the police would only be a formality. But Jason seemed irked, which made Peter uneasy.

Jason straightened up and lifted his foot. The boy scrambled to his feet, retreating cautiously, watching as Jason reached inside his jacket.

The boy braced for an attack, but instead, Jason pulled out a business card and pressed it into his hand.

“Wayne Scholarship Fund.”

Startled, the boy looked up just as the two men slid into the aging Camaro, driving back toward Gotham University.

Peter remained silent the whole way. Jason glanced at his somewhat displeased expression and cleared his throat. “Gotham’s like this. Don’t take it personally. Even rich old men like Bruce get targeted by car thieves—and nearly lost their ride.”

Peter commented, “That thief really had an eye for cars.”

The boy’s lips twitched with a faint smile.

As dusk settled, Peter returned to Wayne Manor. Jason said his goodbyes, mentioning he planned to take the old man’s Lamborghini out for a couple of carefree days.

Peter felt reluctant to part ways; back in New York, he hadn’t had the chance to spend so much time chatting with someone in a long while.

On the way back, Peter suddenly felt a vibration on his wrist device.

He switched on the receiver. An urgent voice from a police officer crackled through: “Unknown assailants have attacked Tenth Street in the East District!”

Peter pressed his ear, incredulous he hadn’t misheard.

There had been a mass prison break just last night—what now?

Did Gotham ever have a moment of peace?

He called Alfred, obediently informing him he’d be home late and had stopped for dinner near the university, then drove toward the incident.

Mercifully, the ignition wires on his car remained exposed; he hoped no careless person would steal it again.

After parting with Peter, Jason quietly tapped into the Batcave communications channel but stayed silent, lurking unseen.

Today's emergency had come earlier than usual; the sky was still not fully dark. Batgirl and Robin were still in class; the disruptor and orphan had been injured last night and were resting on Alfred’s orders. Bruce was unusually present at a board meeting, meaning a long response time.

“I’ll go,” Nightwing said. “I’ll return to Blüdhaven tomorrow.”

No one noticed Jason listening in. He quietly logged off, changed course, and headed toward his safe house.

The Lamborghini was unarmed; he needed to gear up first.

Peter parked in a discreet spot, pulled out the uniform he’d worn last night, which hadn’t yet been washed.

Fortunately, he hadn’t sweated too much.

In the past, he changed in deserted alleys, often losing his backpack. Now, with a car, he no longer had to.

Peter began removing his clothes.

Suddenly, the radio crackled violently, then switched on by itself, playing a song: “You’re so~ hot to~ handle! So~ hot to~ handle!”

Peter frowned.

He pressed the power button gently. The radio shut off obediently.

Probably just a malfunction—the old car seemed to have many quirks.

Once tonight’s business was over, he’d take it in for repairs. As long as it was a reliable ride, minor flaws didn’t matter.

Peter quickly donned his uniform and hurried toward the chaos.

He didn’t notice that the Camaro, now driverless, silently followed him.

Without headlights on, the black car blended perfectly into the deepening night; Peter was completely unaware.

Peter sprinted a few steps, shot out webbing, and instantly vaulted into the air, disappearing among the buildings with agile leaps.

The Camaro hesitated, then with heavy mechanical clanks, transformed into a towering robot over two meters tall. Bumblebee’s blue eyes flickered as he looked around.

Where did that big human go?