American comic book: Transmigrated into Dior and adopted by the Wayne family

(Please continue reading #31, godfathers! Orz!)

"Lovecraft's suicide was a terrible tragedy."

"The accusations against him by an overly enthusiastic detective are unacceptable."

Mayor James stood in front of the Gotham Police Department precinct, looking at the gray sky, and choked with emotion, saying:

"I assure you, Dick, that detective has been dealt with."

"I promise!"

The flashes kept going up, capturing Mayor James's sanctimonious appearance clearly.

at the same time.

Dio climbed the steps of the Gotham Police Department one by one, the shadows cast overhead dividing his face in two.

Police officers were arriving one after another around the station, but no one stopped to look. After all, the station was swamped with work!

At this moment, Bruce, who was walking in front, paused, turned around, and his eyes were filled with complex emotions.

After exchanging a glance, the two of them chose the same corner without prior arrangement.

Dio leaned against the wall, arms crossed, looking at Bruce.

"Speak. What is it you want to talk about?"

Bruce clenched his fists and lowered his voice:

"You orchestrated everything, created the chaos, and then struck at the last minute."

"You treat me, Selena, Gordon, everyone like toys."

"What exactly do you want, Dior?"

Bruce stared intently into Dio's eyes.

"Ha, Bruce, it's really funny how impatient you are to ask me all this questions."

"But toys?" Dio chuckled softly. "That word is too light, Bruce."

"I just thought it was funny, is that reason enough?"

Dio stepped forward, exuding an aura of authority that belied a twelve-year-old, and stood half a step away from Bruce.

"And Gordon? A ridiculous idiot, he's not even worthy to carry my shoes."

"You say it's interesting?" Bruce's voice tightened. "Then why did you help me? Why did you let me escape those people's pursuit?"

"You think I'll help you? Don't flatter yourself, Bruce."

"So what exactly do you want?"

Bruce gritted his teeth and asked, enunciating each word clearly.

"Gotham's power? Wealth? Or just a desire to see everyone suffer?"

"I used to think we were alike, but I was wrong."

"The boy who used to feed horses and support his mother on the farm is gone."

As soon as he said that, he regretted it a little. Wasn't he just deliberately reopening someone's wounds?

"Yeah?"

Dior's fake smile slowly faded, and a suppressed anger flickered in his eyes.

"On the day your parents died, Gordon put a coat on you and told you that this wasn't the end of the world."

"But when my mother was thirsting for blood in bed, no one told her that this wasn't the end of the world."

"After she died, I realized something: there is never any kindness in this world, only the strong dominating the weak."

"Therefore, I will not and do not want to die meaninglessly like my mother. This is what I want."

Bruce opened his mouth, but his throat felt like it was blocked by something.

He had seen that photo.

On a farm bathed in sunlight, a thin, blond boy holds a bundle of hay, with a horse standing beside him.

It's a place that produces food, yet not even a single child can get enough to eat.

He realized he had no right to be angry at all.

He had never experienced any of the things Dior had gone through, yet he took it for granted that Dior should be the way he imagined him to be.

"I'm sorry," Bruce said softly, almost inaudibly. "I shouldn't have said those things."

Dior didn't answer. He shoved a file folder into Bruce's arms and turned to leave.

"Take a good look, this is what Alfred and I found!"

As he left, he brushed past a police officer in a hurry.

"Young Master Bruce, someone is calling you."

Bruce suppressed the turmoil in his heart, calmly picked up the phone, and said:

"Hello, I'm Bruce Wayne."

"Young Master Bruce, it's me, Alfred."

The voice on the other end of the phone was weak and hoarse.

"Your voice? Wait?"

Bruce's heart tightened as he thought of the unanswered phone at the manor.

"Alfred, are you injured?"

"Yes, it's a minor injury. I'm afraid I'll need to rest for a few days. I called to say that..."

Alfred was rambling on on the other end of the phone.

Bruce's expression gradually changed.

Dio? It was Dio who saved Alfred?

Bruce opened his mouth, but his throat felt like it was blocked by something.

He recalled what he had just said to Dio.

You planned everything.

You treat everyone like a toy.

The Dior who once fed horses and supported his mother on the farm is gone.

It turns out that when he questioned Dio about "why he helped me," Dio had just rescued Alfred from the clutches of a madman.

I keep tearing open other people's wounds.

Bruce looked down at his hands, which had no wounds.

I'm so damn stupid!

Not far away, Dior paused, and smiled subtly.

[Your superb acting skills shifted Bruce Wayne's focus to the reasons and motivations. Points +500]

Bruce Wayne has learned of your heroic deeds and his trust in you has deepened even further. Points +500

[PS: Savior of villains, you've taken another step closer to controlling people's hearts, but what you just said about your mother, was it true?]

"snort."

Dior sneered inwardly.

Bruce is still too inexperienced. As long as you get him emotional, he won't notice what's really important.

Hmph! Muda, Muda! You're not good enough for me now!

Let's talk about it when you're older!

Dior continued walking until he left the police station.

He stood at the bottom of the steps, not in a hurry to call a taxi home, but instead looked up at the gray sky over Gotham.

I shouldn't have said what I just said.

It's not the content that's wrong, it's the emotion.

The original intention was simply to use anger as a shield to divert Bruce's attention from his motives for doing so.

Halfway through the conversation, that guy started reopening old wounds, causing me to lose control of my emotions, which is wrong.

Dior clenched his fist, then relaxed it.

He mentally analyzed the conversation again.

Bruce mentioned the photo, the farm, and Dior feeding the horses to support his mother.

He shouldn't have said that back then.

You should use ambiguous statements to brush it off.

My mother is dead, Dalio is dead, and those things in the East End are long gone.

He shouldn't have been led astray by a twelve-year-old's words.

"As expected of that evil little bat brat!"

Dior took a deep breath and suppressed the surging emotions.

Now he has something to do.

Dior looked around the street and finally picked up a small glass bottle on a street corner.

He shook the bottle, looked at the remaining green liquid inside, and smiled.

"A venomous snake potion? I wonder if there's room for improvement."