Batman's first move is a precise flying knee.
He sprints forward, each stride powerful. His cape unfurls behind him, merging with the darkness, transforming him into a phantom that seems to drift through the shadows. In the near pitch-black corridor, he is a ghostly silhouette, barely discernible from the enveloping shadows. His movements are swift and purposeful, creating a nearly silent rustle as his boots glide over the ground.
As he nears the first target, he digs in his heels, using the kinetic energy to launch himself upward. The explosive propulsion from his custom boots propels him forward, covering the remaining distance in a blur. He aims his knee at the attacker's face, using the full force of his body weight to amplify the strike. The impact is devastating—his knee crashes into the bridge of the man's nose with a sickening crunch, sending a shockwave through the attacker's skull. Blood spurts from the man's shattered nose, and his head snaps back violently. He collapses, unconscious, before his body even hits the ground.
Batman lands from the jump, knees bending slightly to absorb the impact, and the scene before him shifts immediately. Three more opponents are already charging at him, their expressions twisted with rage and desperation. He analyzes their movements in a heartbeat, detecting their lack of training. His mind races, calculating angles and vulnerabilities as they draw closer.
With precise timing, he pivots on his back foot, turning his body sideways to minimize his profile. His right hand flashes forward, rigid like a blade, and strikes the first attacker's neck in a nerve cluster, dropping the man instantly. His left elbow snaps back with equal speed, catching another opponent in the jaw, sending him reeling into the wall. The third attacker lunges clumsily with a fruit knife, a wild swipe aimed at Batman's face. Batman's reflexes, honed to perfection, make him faster. He deflects the attack with a swift downward strike to the attacker's wrist, causing the knife to clatter to the floor.
The man instinctively crouches, scrambling to retrieve the knife, but Batman steps in closer, using the opportunity to deliver a precise upward elbow strike to the man's chin. The force of the blow is like a sledgehammer, snapping the man's head back with a loud crack. He crumples to the ground, knocked out cold.
"Scan results indicate that the infection level is low, approximately 30%," Friday, Batman's AI assistant, reports, her voice calm and clinical through his earpiece.
Batman's multi-functional helmet, which had earlier integrated the infection detection technology from Professor Miyazaki, highlights each fallen opponent, indicating their status. The scan data streams across his heads-up display, updating in real-time.
"So low?" Charlie, the operator behind the screen, mutters in surprise, his brows furrowing as he absorbs the information.
As Charlie processes the unexpected scan results, Batman continues moving through the fight, fluidly shifting from one technique to the next. He dodges a clumsy grab from a charging attacker, then pivots into a powerful straight punch that connects squarely with the man's jaw. The blow is precise and devastating, combining the efficiency of karate with the raw power of Krav Maga. Batman has trained in martial arts across the globe, absorbing techniques from various disciplines, and his combat style is an unpredictable blend. Against him, even seasoned fighters would struggle—let alone these infected individuals who rely purely on brute strength.
Charlie had anticipated a higher infection level, assuming that the outbreak might have reached fifty or sixty percent—enough to render the infected beyond saving. But at this lower level, there's a chance they could be treated and rehabilitated. Batman, always adhering to his no-kill rule, instinctively adjusts his approach. His strikes become less lethal, targeting pressure points and joints to incapacitate without causing permanent damage. He reserves his more brutal techniques for non-human threats, where he can unleash his full power without restraint.
For Charlie, the difference in Batman's tactics doesn't change the feel of the game. The flow of combat remains as smooth and satisfying as ever. Charlie hardly needs to give complex inputs—just a well-timed click to counter or strike is enough, as Batman's skill far outstrips the infected's meager fighting abilities.
The fight concludes in mere moments. Bodies of the unconscious infected litter the corridor, some tied up with reinforced cables, hanging from fixtures, suspended in mid-air by Batman's meticulous handiwork. Batman strides calmly through the aftermath, his movements efficient, his breathing controlled, like a shadow gliding through the darkness.
"Wait," Charlie suddenly speaks up, eyes narrowing at the screen. "Where did Room 567 go?"
He distinctly remembers the room's location being marked on Batman's HUD just moments ago. It was supposed to be straight ahead, past where the infected were lying. But now, as Batman scans the corridor, the room has seemingly vanished.
"Did I make a turn?" Charlie wonders aloud, tension creeping into his voice.
"No, sir," Friday replies smoothly. "Room 567 was straight ahead, but it has disappeared."
Batman immediately suspects an illusion or mental interference. He initiates the "firework" program, designed to counteract hallucinogenic effects by flooding his vision with intense colors that reset his short-term memory. His helmet's advanced sensors flare to life, analyzing the environment for distortions.
As the bright colors pulse across his visor, the corridor shifts before his eyes. A hidden corner materializes where a straight path had appeared before. Room 567 emerges behind the bend, its number flashing on the display in vivid red.
Batman steps forward cautiously, his senses heightened. As he rounds the corner, the ceiling above creaks and splits open. Something heavy drops down with a dull thud. A lifeless body dangles in front of him, suspended by a thick rope. The corpse's face is frozen in a ghastly smile, lips pulled back too far, teeth bared unnaturally. His limbs hang limply, swaying slightly, and the dim corridor lights cast eerie shadows across his sunken eyes.
Even this unsettling sight fails to faze Batman. His mind is already calculating, evaluating the scene with the detached focus of a seasoned detective.
Friday's voice cuts through the silence. "Shinobu Shinkawatani, a known human trafficker with a history of child exploitation."
Batman notes the information without breaking stride. He moves past the body, mentally cataloging the scene but focusing on the more pressing mystery of Room 567's disappearance.
Suddenly, the hallway lights flicker and die. For an instant, Batman is plunged into darkness. But before his visor can fully adjust to night vision mode, the lights snap back on, revealing something new at the end of the corridor.
A woman crouches there, her disheveled hair hanging over her face like a curtain. She's clad in tattered clothing, her skin pallid and stretched tight over her bones. As she crawls forward on all fours, her joints crack with unnatural stiffness. Through the strands of tangled black hair, Batman glimpses her face—pale, gaunt, with blood seeping from the corners of her eyes like dark tears.
She moves with unnatural speed, scuttling across the floor like an insect. In the dim light, the scene resembles something from a horror film—reminiscent of the ghostly apparition crawling down the stairs in old supernatural movies. But Batman stands his ground, his expression unchanged, watching her approach with the calm of a predator waiting to strike.
With a sudden, jerking motion, she lunges at him, clawed fingers extended. Batman pivots fluidly to the side, evading her grasp. He catches her wrist mid-air with one hand, his grip like a vise, and with a sharp twist, he dislocates her arm. The woman shrieks, her voice shrill and inhuman, as she stumbles forward, thrown off balance. Batman takes half a step back and then launches a high kick to the side of her head. The impact is swift and precise, snapping her head to the side and sending her crumpling to the floor.
She lies motionless, a faint whimper escaping her lips before she goes silent.
Batman scans her body with detective mode, and Friday identifies her almost immediately. "Euridus Graham, known con artist and sociopath. No history of violent behavior until recently."
With the woman incapacitated, Batman's focus shifts again to the corridor. The hallway lights stabilize, revealing a new figure at the far end. A little girl stands there, wearing a simple black dress that contrasts sharply with her pale skin. Her face is blank, expressionless, as if she were staring straight through Batman.