Chapter 30 Chapter 30 Is there anything you want to tell me...

After being severely beaten by the vigilantes, Elio fled the Batbase in a panic. He climbed to the top of the clock tower, and before he could catch his breath, he saw a familiar figure sitting there alone.

"I thought you had left." The assassin walked up to him.

Red Hood had left the base long after they'd finished discussing their division of labor, his custom-made waist pouch bulging again. Elio had assumed he'd gone off to "talk" with Penguin or Black Mask, but he was still sitting there. He didn't say anything, seemingly preoccupied, and the assassin sat down beside him.

"How old are you?" Red Hood suddenly asked without any context.

Elio thought for a moment, "Twenty."

"Twenty?" Red Hood's robotic voice raised its head in confusion. "I thought you'd already graduated from college."

"Yes, but I changed my age," Elio glanced down, "so I could go to school earlier, you know."

"Oh, so your childhood hero was Nightwing," Red Hood said. His voice suddenly became flat and steady.

"Really?" Elio thought for a moment. "I don't know. Few people can actually tell the difference between you. It's not that we don't care, it's just that we didn't know Robin had changed."

The Red Hood gave a short grunt. He pushed himself up with his hands and jumped up neatly. He was about to say something when the assassin raised his head, and the hood slid back, revealing a pair of green eyes looking up at him.

"We don't know your faces, nor do we know who you are," said the young man from a Gotham orphanage, "but that doesn't stop us from seeing you all as heroes, whether you have a bat painted on your chest or a capital R."

Red Hood fell silent.

He could, of course, scoff back, saying all you see is a uniform. That doesn't mean anything.

There once was a fifteen-year-old boy who, simply because he pried off the tire of the Batmobile, was adopted by Batman by chance, wearing a troupe uniform that didn't even suit him—it was just a piece of clothing. It was just an absurd color combination, a thin fabric that couldn't even provide the boy with much warmth in the cold winter. He was no hero at all, dying alone and recklessly in a foreign land amidst explosions, flames, and choking smoke, with no one paying any attention.

But deep down, Jason knew that wasn't the case.

The Batcave still retains his tattered uniform. He can see the pauses Batman makes every time he passes it, and the sighs Bruce gives him every time he thinks he's not looking—a strange, furry look that always annoys Jason, forcing him to think again and again of a night when he was Robin and caught a cold.

"Gotham can afford to miss this night patrol," Bruce said, joining him on the sofa and turning on the TV. Jason had fallen asleep, resting on his shoulder, wrapped in a warm blanket.

That's how that look made Jason feel.

It was that nasty, hairy feeling that could never make Jason truly hate Bruce—the man he practically considered a father—despite his constant verbal claims. Deep down, he knew everyone in this family loved him, just as they loved each other.

And the people of Gotham, those asylum seekers who knew nothing about the experiences of the "heroes", also looked up like this and saw Robin and Batman leaping over buildings at night, and a great sense of security and hope rose in their hearts.

No matter who's under that uniform, they're all Gotham's heroes.

Of course he is too.

The association irritated Jason a little, but he decided to chalk it up to Elio's unblinking gaze. That look creeped him out again, and Red Hood pulled his hood up, covering the assassin's eyes.

"I'm going to give Penguin some trouble," he said angrily. "Want to come with me?"

The assassin straightened his hood, but Red Hood could still vaguely feel his gaze darting across his mask.

"Okay." Elio replied slowly.

They didn't just break into the Iceberg Restaurant to cause trouble for the Penguin. Red Hood, who had dealt with Cobblepot countless times, knew what he cared about and precisely struck down his ongoing illegal transactions.

"We just need to repeat this process a few times," Red Hood said as he put away his gun, "and he'll spontaneously invite us over for a 'chat'."

The assassin didn't answer immediately. He opened the van's door, and the light from inside illuminated the lower half of his face, which had suddenly fallen silent. The Red Hood strangely stepped over the bodies scattered on the ground and walked over.

It was filled with new and beautiful weapons.

"Aha," Red Hood said. If his mask hadn't completely obscured his face, he would have started to wink. But even without seeing his expression, the assassin could understand the vigilante's teasing tone.

"You half and I half?" Elio tilted his head.

"Deal." Red Hood nodded.

The assassin whistled. They high-fived, each closing the car door and jumping in. Amid the wailing of Penguin's men, the vigilante and the assassin happily drove away.

"That's the beauty of working with me, Assassin," Red Hood said, stepping on the accelerator. "If the old man were here, he'd just coat these beautiful little things with explosives and set them on fire—and the gel explosives are in the shape of bats! Just imagine."

As he moved, the bat wings on the vigilante's chest fluttered as if he was flying.

The assassin looked away, but couldn't help laughing. He turned on the car radio, and the bright saxophone music surrounded them.

"why are you laughing?"

"You're funny, Hood," the assassin said. "I can see why Alvin likes you."

He adjusted the seat back and lay down comfortably. Red Hood, who was in the driver's seat, snorted proudly and replied in an exaggerated tone, "Everyone loves me. It's normal. But don't be too envious, Mr. Smith. You have your advantages too."

"Really? Then tell me, I'm ready to be praised."

"Ha! You're waiting for me here, kid."

They chatted and laughed as they returned to the assassin's safe house, their cargo fully loaded. Red Hood helped the assassin unload half of the cargo, then drove off with the rest, humming a faint tune. The assassin sorted through his ammunition, and it took him a moment to realize that he, too, was humming Casablanca.

Elio laughed at this. He closed the secret door containing the munitions and various small toys and shook his head.

Without his gentle humming or the chatter of the vigilantes, the assassin's safe house suddenly felt profoundly quiet. Elio glanced at the time on the clock and made himself some simple pasta. He rolled the noodles with a fork in one hand and put them into his mouth while he turned on his phone with the other.

After replying and sending a few messages, Elio downloaded some files. Abstergo's new company in Gotham wasn't a newly built building, but an existing address purchased with their money, which gave them an opportunity to take advantage of it.

The blue map was reflected in the assassin's eyes, and every detail was magnified and shrunk on the screen.

Elio put down his fork with a click. He stood up and put the dishes in the kitchen sink. After a quick check of his equipment, the assassin grabbed his windbreaker from the coat rack by the door and put it on, turning off the light.

He walked out of the dark safe house.

·

Leopold walked into his bright new office. With the funding paving the way, Abstergo had finally made it into Gotham—at least, that was how it seemed. But as the young Templar walked to the window and looked down, the darkness of Gotham clearly reflected his inner confusion.

After speaking with Elio, he began to investigate the family business he had always been proud of. With a hidden hope, the young Templar wanted to prove its innocence, but he unearthed clues that aroused suspicion. He tried to convince himself that it might not have been his father's doing, that someone might have misunderstood his father's intentions and acted on their own. As long as he continued to investigate, he would definitely be able to clear Mitchell's name!

He was getting close to the truth!

But at this point, Mitchell transferred him to Gotham.

Of course, it was a quite reasonable transfer—the difficulty of the projects Leopold was responsible for had been steadily increasing, and it was time for him to be in charge of the branch office—but it was too coincidental.

Or maybe this isn't a coincidence.

Leopold stood there, staring at his reflection in the glass, as if questioning his soul through this reflection, or simply lost in thought. It wasn't until the assassin hanging outside the window covered his reflection and knocked on the glass that Leopold came to his senses in surprise, and hurriedly opened the window to let him in.

"How—how did you do that?" Leopold couldn't help but stick his head out to take a look, but was pulled back by Elio.

"Never mind that, Leo," Elio said. "Is there anything you want to tell me?"

The Templar paused in his motion to close the window. He turned and saw the assassin standing there, also looking at him with his arms folded. He could almost imagine the familiar expression beneath Elio's hood, and he knew what he should say—he hadn't come into Gotham on purpose. He was investigating the family business, and the balance in his heart was gradually leaning towards the assassin—

But for some unknown reason, Leopold asked, "Do you still believe what I say?"

The assassin was silent for a moment and sighed.

"Leopold, you're one of the few old friends of mine still alive." Elio took off his hood. "I don't want to—"

There were two knocks on the door. The assassin immediately fell silent and looked out the door warily—it was a lone golden target!

"Mr. Michal," the person outside the door said, "It's very late. Go back to the hotel and rest early. Gotham is not a city suitable for staying out late."

It was Galahad, without a doubt. If Elio missed this opportunity, it would be difficult for him to find a better opportunity next time—whether it was assassination or something else—Galahad's whereabouts were mysterious, and even when he appeared in public, he was always accompanied by bodyguards. He was not an easy Templar to approach.

This means…

Elio turned his wrist. But at that moment, Leopold beside him grasped his wrist, preventing the Hidden Blade from moving. The Assassin looked up in disbelief, only to see Leopold shaking his head pleadingly.

"I don't want to be your enemy," Elio said through gritted teeth, "but the man outside the door—"

"Little Michèle?" Galahad knocked again. "Is everything all right?"

He certainly couldn't hear the whispered arguments going on in the room. Nor should he have heard them, normally speaking.

So, amidst the arguments of "You have no idea what kind of devil he is", "Please don't do that", and "What do you think I'm going to do to him", Galahad raised his eyebrows and knocked on the door one last time.

"Did you forget to turn off the light?" he called out. "I'm coming in."

Then, without any pause, Galahad pressed the doorknob and opened the door.