Incidentally, another well-known landmark was Wayne Tower. Throughout the city, traces of the Wayne name could be found everywhere.
Who would have thought it would all be destroyed by a single fire?
Avery felt a slight pang of regret, but only just. After all, the one who set the fire was the estate's owner. If anyone should feel heartbroken, it ought to be the owner, not an outsider like him.
He then turned around to glance at the manor's owner, who was slowly emerging from the wreckage. The man was impeccably dressed, wearing a dark, tailor-made suit, with white diamond cufflinks gleaming under the light. Combined with the fire he had just set and the now-ruined estate...
Well, the image of a rich, reckless playboy was complete.
Perhaps that's exactly the impression the man wanted to give.
No one could have guessed from his outward appearance that this same person, night after night, donned a strange costume and soared through the city, a masked vigilante dispensing justice from the shadows.
But Avery had long known the truth, though it was a chilling revelation. "Gotham's Prince? The Dark Knight? Or perhaps Batman? How should I address you?" He stopped dwelling on minor details and instead flashed a polite smile, teasing the man.
The "Gotham's Prince" frowned and said, "You know? Alfred told you?"
Avery immediately shook his head in denial. "No, no, no. My father is a man of great integrity and would never invade his children's privacy. Of course, he didn't tell me."
"Then how did you find out?"
Bruce Wayne continued to frown, looking deadly serious. And rightfully so—if Avery could easily deduce his identity, that meant others could too.
Batman walks a razor's edge, a man with an identity that cannot be exposed, a job that exacts justice through unconventional means. If his true identity were ever revealed, Batman would cease to exist.
For someone just starting out, it would be a case of failing before even getting off the ground. And to have his identity exposed before he could accomplish anything—well, that would make him look like a joke.
More importantly, his plans to save Gotham would be utterly ruined.
Avery flashed a suave smile, though the words that followed were far from it: "Can I keep it a mystery? A man with a bit of mystery is always more popular with the ladies."
"…"
Bruce resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the cheeky remark, not wanting to tarnish his own image.
With sarcasm dripping from his voice, Bruce said, "Damn mystery. Your lame jokes aren't much better than Alfred's."
"Shall I remind you that my father is standing right behind you, Your Highness, Prince of Gotham?" Avery teased, offering a polite yet mischievous reminder.
Bruce turned around and indeed saw his butler, and in many ways, his de facto father, standing there. Alfred, noticing Bruce's gaze, greeted him with the same smile Avery had just displayed.
A subtle emotion flickered through Bruce's mind.
No doubt, they really were father and son.
Listening to Avery's words that made his skin crawl, Bruce didn't even get to the real question before he couldn't help but correct him: "Call me Bruce, or whatever. Just don't call me that."
What "Prince of Gotham"? The media may throw that title around for attention, but it's certainly not meant for casual use.
"Alright, Master Wayne," Avery replied.
Not that this title was much better. Given their history of growing up together, using such formalities between them was anything but normal.
Bruce fought the urge to argue further about keeping things casual, his expression becoming more serious as he asked again, "Be honest. How exactly did you figure it out? It's important."
The evening breeze blew gently, carrying with it the lingering smell of something burnt.
Avery had no intention of hiding the truth. Most of the time, when possible, he preferred to be open about things.
As he thought this, he couldn't resist tilting his head and dramatically sighing: "Sigh, I just can't win with you, can I?"
He paused for a moment, then, without changing the subject, continued openly, "I have my own sources. You know I traveled the world, just like you. You've mastered many skills, so why couldn't I…"
Suddenly, Avery snapped his fingers. With a sharp "pop," a red rose appeared out of nowhere in his hand.
He extended the rose toward Bruce.
Bruce accepted the rose, the flower in full bloom, radiating beauty. It was clearly not a fake, nor did it show any signs of being crushed or concealed. Even with Bruce's sharp skills, he couldn't figure out where Avery had pulled it from. Clearly, the trick had worked well.
Though inwardly thoughtful, Bruce's brows knitted together again as he offered a sarcastic jab, "Is this the skill you've learned? It looks like a circus magic trick. Have you been spending your so-called travels performing in a circus as a magician?"
"I seem to recall that Alfred once vaguely mentioned you claiming to be a writer. Now it looks like we should add a prefix to that—an unsuccessful writer."
For these two, banter between boys was almost the same as a physical scuffle. Their words, filled with "malice," were simply how they showed affection. Similarly, Avery would often seize opportunities to tease Bruce whenever possible, and Bruce would never hold back either.
Avery lowered his eyes in mock sorrow: "After all these years, and this is how you treat me?"
Bruce snorted and turned away, unfazed by the act: "I'm just telling the truth."
Avery remained silent for a long while, until the weight of the quiet finally drew Bruce's attention. Puzzled, Bruce turned around to look back, half-suspecting his friend might be playing some trick on him. What he saw, however, was Avery, standing still at the edge of the breeze in his dark coat, his slim figure outlined against the wind. His eyes sparkled like distant stars.
Just as Bruce began to feel a subtle emotion stirring inside him, he saw Avery flash a mysterious smile. His right hand, as if concealing something, stretched out toward Bruce.