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

Early morning, Wayne Manor

The sound of the news broadcast from the radio mingled with the muffled thuds of punches, echoing in the backyard.

"It's a pity that Mayor James couldn't make it today, but he invited a close friend."

Bang, bang, bang, bang!

Dior stood shirtless in front of the hanging black sandbag.

Sweat trickled down his neck, past his collarbone, over his chest muscles, and down the still-developing muscle lines on his abdomen.

Twelve years old, 167 centimeters tall, and weighing less than 100 pounds.

But the Joestar bloodline and Ripple Breathing technique had already planted seeds in his body that far surpassed those of his peers.

Dio stood with his left leg forward and his right leg back, his center of gravity slightly lowered, his fists wrapped in bandages, pounding the sandbag again and again.

boom.

The sandbag dented and bounced back, and he threw another punch.

"Let's welcome the visionary scientist, philanthropist, and Trusted Chairman of Development at the Gotham Chamber of Commerce—Theo Gallervin!"

Applause erupted from the radio.

Dio's fist paused for a moment.

Theo Gallerwin?

This name sounds familiar.

He squinted, quickly searching his mind for the name.

Is Gallagher the new development chairman of the Gotham Chamber of Commerce?

He sounds like a respectable person, but why does his name sound so familiar?

"Thank you very much, it's an honor to be here today..."

A man's calm and magnetic voice came from the radio.

Dior stopped punching, his brow furrowed, but he couldn't remember where he had heard the name before.

Maybe he's just an unknown nobody?

After all, he had only seen clips of DC's various movies and TV series, so it was already good enough that he knew Superman, Batman, and The Flash.

"Never mind, I'll investigate him another day."

He took off his boxing gloves and picked up a towel to wipe his sweat.

The most urgent task is to complete that long-term mission, obtain the rewards, and improve our strength.

Early this morning, Bruce took Alfred to find that person named Karen Jennings.

That person was undoubtedly the experimental subject.

His third mission was to infiltrate the Indian Mountains and obtain DNA implantation technology.

The Owl Court hired the hitman because Thomas stopped the project.

Dior paused.

Could it be that the Court of Owls wants to reboot Gotham, which is why they created so many monsters?

That doesn't make sense; there's clearly an easier way.

Dio stroked his chin, his mind filled with a multitude of clues, but he couldn't quite put them together.

My immediate goal should be to include "how to infiltrate the Indian Mountains" in my plans.

It would be best to find someone who has come out from inside, as they can both find out the route and understand the guard situation.

"Tsk."

He slung the towel over his shoulder, preparing to take a shower, when his phone vibrated.

It's Peter.

"Feed".

Dior answered the phone, his tone languid.

"Boss! I found it!"

Peter's voice boomed from the receiver, tinged with a boastful excitement.

"Hugo Strange! The guy you asked me to look into! I've found out where he is."

Dior's brow twitched.

Hugo Strange.

Supervillain.

The project manager of Songlin Farm.

The doctor who twisted Thomas Wayne's desire to heal humanity into creating monsters.

Most importantly, this guy is now working for the Court of Owls, just like him.

It's a hassle.

"explain."

"He's the chief psychiatrist at Arkham Asylum, the very same chief psychiatrist!"

Peter lowered his voice, as if he were hiding from someone, acting furtively:

"He has an excellent reputation. Many people say that he is a highly skilled doctor and has freed many patients from Arkham."

"Some people have even written him thank-you notes, you know, the kind that say things like, 'Thank you Dr. Hugo for saving my son.'"

Dior's lips curled into a slightly sarcastic smile.

Chief psychiatrist? Good reputation? Let the patients out?

He sneered inwardly.

Were those patients who were released cured, or did they become more suitable for experiments?

Presumably, Arkham's patients were nothing more than laboratory animals in hospital gowns to Strange.

Cured?

Think beautifully.

"Boss? Are you listening?"

Peter was still rambling on and on.

"Let me tell you, this Dr. Hugo is really amazing. When I was asking around on the black market, several people said he was the conscience of Gotham's psychiatric community."

"Peter," Dio interrupted him.

"what?"

"What identity did you use when you investigated these things?"

"Uh... well, just a regular informant, I wouldn't use my real name anyway----"

Be careful.

Dior's voice was neither loud nor soft, but it carried a chilling seriousness.

"This person is different from those petty thugs you've been asking about before."

"Remember the Spider-Man story? If that doctor targets you, you'll turn into a spider monster, the kind that shoots webs from your belly button."

There was a two-second silence on the other end of the phone.

"...I understand, boss." Peter's tone also turned serious. "I'll be careful."

"Hmm." Dio paused for a moment. "Good research. I'll treat you to dinner next time we meet."

"Really? Boss, what are you going to treat me to?"

"We'll see how you do." Dior hung up the phone and tossed it onto the table.

He stood by the pool in the back garden, looking at the gray sky over Gotham.

Hugo Strange?

Dio touched the three moles on his ears, a dangerous smile playing on his lips.

"Interesting. This doctor is much more fun than the electrocution man."

He turned and walked into the bathroom, where the sound of running water filled the air.

Dior stood under the showerhead, squinting, a thought becoming increasingly clear in his mind.

Just like playing a pirate and watching Pirates of the Caribbean, if you want to steal something, you naturally need to find an expert at stealing.

Selena, the most skilled thief in Gotham, she'll definitely have a way.

He turned off the water, slowly dried himself off, and glanced at his face in the mirror.

"Being handsome is convenient; you don't even have to ask for favors."

After saying that, Dior put on the yellow jacket, ran his fingers through his hair, and headed towards the garage.

-----------------

Gotham City.

Dior walked down the street in the East End with a newspaper in his hand. The front page featured bold, large characters, and he frowned slightly.

Six high-ranking prisoners have escaped from Arkham prison; police are in full-scale manhunt. Citizens are advised to exercise caution.

This is troublesome; it's Indian Hills again, and there's an escape from Arkham.

He keenly sensed that the era of traditional gang rule in Gotham was about to come to an end.

But what does all this have to do with him? The more chaotic things get, the better it is for him!

Dior smiled faintly.

The street corners of the East District are always permeated with an indescribable sour smell, as if someone has hidden milk that has expired three days ago in a crack in the wall.

But in reality, someone must have died nearby.

Dior frowned and glanced around at the dilapidated brick walls and rusty fire escape ladders.

This place isn't far from where Selena last appeared. Peter's information said she lives nearby, but he didn't specify her exact location.

Not far away, a place caught his attention.

It was an abandoned bar, and on its side, right next to the drainpipe, there was a wooden plank embedded in the ground.

Most importantly, there are traces on the wooden board that have been repeatedly lifted and covered.

"Ha, I've found you."

Dior walked over, squatted down, gripped the edge of the wooden board with his fingers, and gently lifted it.

The wooden plank rose with a thud, revealing a dark, gaping space underneath.

It's not big; just big enough for one person to curl up and squeeze in.

He gently fanned the air inside with his hand, and a scent of old wood and cheap perfume wafted towards him.

And of course, there's that familiar smell of sweat from when we first met.

"That's it?" Dio fanned himself with a look of disgust. "Is this a dog hole or a cat bed?"

After complaining, he walked downstairs, and the familiar smell of sweat became more and more obvious.

Damn it.

In front of a dilapidated wooden door without any chain.

Dior, looking impatient, raised his hand and slapped it three times heavily!

Bang bang bang!

"Check the water meter." He paused. "No, your cat bed is illegal. Open the door!"

A muffled thud came from inside, as if someone had rolled off the bed.

"Wait? That voice? You're Dio?! How did you find this place?!"

Dior smiled knowingly, leaned against the doorframe, and said softly:

"you guess."