Batman squatted halfway along the rooftop ledge, cape rippling faintly in the night wind, his sharp gaze fixed on the gleaming modern skyscraper across the street.
It loomed over Gotham like a steel monolith. Chu Cheng had no idea what its corporate purpose was—nor did he care. What caught his attention was the bright, circular bat symbol glowing above the tower, eerily reminiscent of the Bat-Signal cast on clouds in the original comics and films.
Like in the traditional Batman series, this symbol didn't just illuminate the skyline—it served as a silent summons. A marker. A beacon to guide players and pay homage to decades of Dark Knight legacy. Batman was needed here.
Chu Cheng, like many players, didn't usually bother with storyline intricacies in games. All he needed was a location, a target, and a headcount. That was enough.
But this game had changed things. The tutorial had humbled him. The so-called "novice mission" had taught him the hard way: brute force meant feeding yourself to the wolves. Charging into gunfire was a death sentence. Reckless heroics belonged in cutscenes, not gameplay. Here, cowardice was survival. Caution was king.
So instead of charging in, Chu Cheng kept Batman crouched in the shadows, using Detective Mode to analyze the building's layout. The thermal hues, the background's icy blue gradient, and the AI-assisted marking system lit up possible entry points in glowing amber tones.
The main entrance was the first to be highlighted—two security guards on either side, cameras perched discreetly in corners. Classic setup.
But Chu Cheng barely considered this route. Subconsciously, he filed it away as a desperate last resort.
Come on. Batman knocking on a door?
Well… there was that scene from The Batman (2022). That rookie version—raw, inexperienced—had walked up to Penguin's Iceberg Lounge and knocked, plain as day.
"In there? You eaten yet? No? How about a knuckle sandwich?"
He'd knocked, then gone full beat-em-up mode when the goons answered. The scene had less Gotham noir and more Assassin's Creed parkour gone violent, breaking noses like QTEs and dropping bodies like a John Wick reject.
That Batman felt like someone who swapped out the stealth tree for brute force and high-tech armor, striding through bullets in Kevlar and eyeliner, explaining away his detection with one philosophy:
"If nobody's left to tell the tale, I'm still stealthy."
But this game's Batman? Traditional. Classic. A shadow in the dark. Not some bullet sponge in a trench coat.
Chu Cheng had learned the hard way: this version demanded planning. Strategic infiltration. Leave the brawling for later—maybe when Superman shows up and breaks the power scale.
What really impressed him, though, was how the game handled freedom of movement. Unlike other titles that feigned open-world design but funneled players down fixed paths, this engine gave him real agency. Chu Cheng could choose his route—any of the seven marked paths—or ignore them altogether. Charge in, smash glass, or rappel down the side like Arkham City—but with risk.
Still, remembering the game's brutal AI, Chu Cheng resisted the berserker urge and selected a more calculated path.
Batman scaled the building's side like a predator, pried open a maintenance window, and slipped into what looked like a dimly lit utility room.
Inside, scanning with Detective Mode revealed a camera tucked above the exit. The game highlighted it in bright orange—a high-priority threat.
Chu Cheng tapped the keyboard, summoning one of Batman's signature belt tools—the universal decoder.
On screen, Batman knelt, gloved fingers adjusting dials on a palm-sized device projecting holographic code. Chu Cheng couldn't follow the tech, but he felt it—arcane, sleek, alien. Within seconds, the camera was disabled, the LED flickering dead.
These kinds of "absurd" black-tech gadgets had been a staple in Batman games and films for years. Die-hard fans accepted them with reverence, not logic.
With the path clear, Chu Cheng guided Batman through the hallway under the silent lens of the dead camera.
At the far end, a patrolling security guard rounded a corner. But Chu Cheng, aided by Detective Mode's x-ray overlay, spotted him early.
Batman crouched—waited.
As the guard passed the corner, Batman burst forward. Just a blur of darkness, a whisper of movement.
Before the man could react, a gauntleted hand seized his skull and slammed it against the wall. The thud echoed. The body collapsed.
Silently.
Non-lethally, of course.
This was Batman. The one rule: he doesn't kill. So yes, you could smash heads into fuse boxes, toss gangsters off balconies (so long as they landed), or mow them down with the Batmobile like they were bowling pins...
…but canonically, they'd just wake up concussed. Or paralyzed. Or in a coma. But alive. That's what mattered.
With the guard neutralized, the detective mode highlighted movement on an upper floor. A cluster of heat signatures hovered in a single room.
Chu Cheng ascended, avoiding cameras and unlocked elevators until he reached the top level.
Again, no front doors. This time, the classic route: ventilation ducts.
He grinned. Just like in the Arkham Asylum series. The perfect Batman move.
But the realism here was shocking. The ventilation shaft wasn't a polished corridor—it was filthy. Layers of dust clung to the walls. Condensation formed puddles. Mold spotted the grates. Rats and cockroaches scuttled past the screen. The immersion was so deep Chu Cheng shuddered.
Vent crawling in movies looked sleek. This was... ghastly.
Still, Batman pressed on. Chu Cheng had him creep to a vent overlooking a lavish conference room.
He stopped—observed.
The room was full of sharply dressed men and women. At the head of the table stood a crew-cut man with a shark's grin. On the table: a small black box.
One by one, people approached the box, reached inside, and returned to their seats. The scene was almost ritualistic.
Curious, Chu Cheng activated first-person vision, zooming in as Batman.
Inside the box—slips of paper. They were drawing lots.
The crew-cut man looked at his slip, then swept his gaze across the room.
"So... who's today's lucky one?"
A broad-shouldered blond man stood. His Western features stood out—most others had East Asian faces. The demographic imbalance struck Chu Cheng as odd for a Gotham-based game.
The blond man approached. The leader took his slip, glanced at it, then clapped him on the back.
"Lucky guy. Edge," he said.
Edge smiled. Walked forward.
The leader bent down, retrieved a weapon from under the table.
A katana.
He offered it to Edge with both hands, solemn as a priest.
Edge accepted it silently, gripping the hilt with an unnatural calm.
All eyes locked onto him.
Then—without hesitation—Edge swung the blade in an arc.
Shhhk.
The sound was sickening. Clean. Absolute.
His own head fell—into his open left palm.
Chu Cheng recoiled from his keyboard.
Even with a lifetime of game violence, something about the way it was framed—the ritualistic calm, the muted horror—buried itself in his memory. He knew right then: he would not forget this moment for a long, long time.