"Almost no rest for a week, almost no food or water." Alfred sighed softly, looking at Bruce Wayne lying on the blood-covered medical bed in the Batcave. His tone was reproachful, but also with a hint of worry that could not be concealed.

Bruce opened his blue eyes slightly, looking at the screen on the rock wall with empty eyes, the images kept rolling, showing the violent crimes in Gotham in the past 72 hours - robbery, murder, arson, street fighting... and a figure that he could not ignore: Arkham Knight.

"What I mean is," Alfred said in a deep voice, raising his chin and pointing at him, "Your first priority is to go back to bed and rest immediately, and then at least let me send the boys to rescue you before the danger to your life overwhelms you."

Bruce did not answer.

He sat up slowly, the blood on his forehead mixed with sweat, blurring his vision. The wound pulled his nerves, he felt the sting of broken ribs, and his muscles twitched due to excessive tension. But he just gritted his teeth, stood up without a word, and walked towards his black armor .

Bruce reached out and picked up the tactical gloves, slowly buckled them, and the tense muscles were fixed with the armor, as if wearing a pair of cold shackles. He looked up into the distance, the Batmobile waiting for him was as dark as night, silently lying on the platform, like a beast ready to go.

Alfred continued behind him: "Calendar Man wants to use this to declare war on the whole city... He believes that the police will be unable to face him..."

Bruce lowered his head and adjusted the communication device on his wristband. The HUD system of the armor restarted, and the blue light reflected on his angular face, reflecting the face full of fatigue but as hard as steel. There was an unshaved stubble on his chin, and his eyes were as deep as the night, revealing an unyielding anger.

He slowly uttered a sentence, his voice low and firm:

"Then he was wrong."