Chapter Text
The city of Monaco glittered like a jewel against the Mediterranean, its wealth flaunted through shimmering high-rises, glistening casinos, and yachts that looked more like floating palaces than ships. By day, it was the playground of billionaires, socialites, and tourists. By night, though, Monaco was something else entirely.
In the shadows of its wealth, crime festered. The glitter hid a rot, one that most people chose to ignore. Drugs. Smuggling. Illegal dealings happening behind closed doors of immaculate hotels. The police did what they could, but corruption ran deeper than justice. At least, until the whispers began.
The Bat.
The first story Charles Leclerc ever heard about the Bat came from a trembling informant who swore a dark figure had dragged him off a pier and left him tied for police with half his ribs broken. The second came from a young woman who claimed the Bat had pulled her out of an alley moments before men with knives closed in.
Each story was different, but the ending was the same, a man who disappeared into the night as quickly as he came.
For most journalists, the Bat was an urban legend, a story for gossip columns. But for Charles, it was his obsession.
Charles Leclerc was 24 years old and far younger than most of his colleagues at Le Journal de Monaco. While they sat at polished desks waiting for press releases, Charles was out on the streets, scribbling notes until his fingers cramped, his dark hair curling wildly under the humid night air. His editor often called him reckless, too eager, too stubborn.
But Charles knew the truth, the real stories weren’t written from behind a desk.
Tonight was no different. He leaned against the hood of his battered scooter, notebook in hand, eyes scanning the crumbling warehouse district near the port. He had been following a lead about a smuggling ring, arms trafficking, whispered in hushed tones. It wasn’t the kind of story that won awards, it was the kind of story that got people killed.
He tapped his pen against the notebook. Come on. If you’re real, show me.
---
Across the city, in the penthouse of one of those glass skyscrapers that seemed to pierce the clouds, Max Verstappen adjusted the black cowl in front of his mirror.
By day, Max was the billionaire son of the Verstappen family, heir to racing legacies and real estate empires. To the world, he was cold, reserved, uninterested in fame despite it trailing after him like a shadow. He attended galas, signed checks for charities, and gave just enough of himself to keep paparazzi satisfied. But Max knew better than anyone what this city really was.
He had seen his family’s wealth used as a shield for crime, watched as men smiled with champagne in one hand and blood on the other. He couldn’t rely on the police, not when half their pockets were lined by the same hands.
So he became something else.
The armor was heavy on his shoulders, but it moved with him like a second skin. Black plates reinforced with Kevlar, the cape woven with carbon fibers to glide him across rooftops, and the cowl, sharpened ears silhouetting him like a predator in the night.
Max didn’t fight for recognition. He didn’t fight for thanks. He fought because someone had to.
And tonight, someone would pay.
---
Charles’s patience was about to wear thin when it happened. From the corner of his eye, he caught movement, a black car screeching to a halt near the warehouse, two men stepping out with crates slung over their shoulders. Their voices carried across the damp night.
“This shipment’s from Rotterdam. Boss wants it stored here ‘til Friday.”
Charles’s pulse quickened. He crouched low behind a stack of pallets, scribbling furiously in his notebook. Arms trafficking. Rotterdam connection. His heart beat faster. This was it, the kind of lead that could blow everything open.
And then the world exploded into chaos.
A shadow dropped from the rooftop, silent as death. One man barely had time to shout before a boot slammed into his chest, sending him sprawling into the crates. The second man drew a gun, but it was yanked from his hands by something black whipping through the air, a grappling hook that snapped back into the figure’s gauntlet.
Charles froze, pen dangling uselessly in his hand. There he was. The Bat.
Up close, he wasn’t a rumor. He was real. Terrifyingly real. The black cape rippled as he moved, fists striking with brutal efficiency. Within seconds, both smugglers were on the ground, groaning, unconscious.
Charles’s hand shook as he scribbled. Fast. Precise. Not random. Trained.
The Bat turned, scanning the shadows. For a brief, horrifying second, Charles thought those piercing eyes behind the mask had locked onto him. His breath caught, chest tight.
Then the Bat fired his grappling hook again and vanished into the night, leaving silence in his wake.
Charles remained crouched, heart pounding against his ribs. His mind screamed at him to run, to leave before he became the next body sprawled on the ground. But instead, he wrote. He wrote everything he had seen until his notebook’s page was filled with hurried words.
---
The next morning, the newsroom buzzed with noise, but Charles barely noticed. He hunched over his desk, tapping the edge of his pen against his teeth. His article draft glowed on the screen.
“The Bat: Guardian or Menace?”
It wasn’t perfect yet. His editor would demand more evidence, more credibility. But Charles knew one thing for certain, last night proved the Bat was real. And Charles Leclerc would be the one to uncover him.
What Charles didn’t know was that The Batman had noticed him crouched in the shadows of that warehouse. He had seen the pen glint in the dim light, the notebook clutched too tightly.