Damn it, I’m surrounded by those who kill their fathers!

"Uh…"

Hearing Star-Lord's unintentional "criticism" of Bruce Wayne, Peter fell silent.

Star-Lord, oblivious to the inappropriateness of his words, continued to ask Peter, "Dad, is Bruce going to become the King of the Homeless?"

"The King of the Homeless? What do you mean?" Peter was puzzled.

"Dave used to be a cab driver. Now he's a homeless guy living in his car. John says he's the King of the Homeless because he knows all the tricks, like 'don't fog up the windows,' so the police won't realize someone's sleeping inside."

Star-Lord explained with utmost seriousness.

"Well, Bruce can't become the King of the Homeless. At most, he could be the King of Gotham," Peter replied, glancing at Bruce, who was busy working nearby.

It seemed Bruce's image had been thoroughly shattered in John and Star-Lord's eyes.

From their perspective, he was either a down-and-out kid or a vagrant—none of it matched the billionaire from Gotham.

"The King of Gotham?"

Star-Lord nodded thoughtfully, adopting a pensive look. "Then I want to be the King of the Galaxy!"

"You couldn't conquer the galaxy."

Peter patted Star-Lord's shoulder. "Alright, go wash up. Dinner's ready."

Afternoon

When John returned from school, he was stunned to see Bruce standing before him. "You… you're Bruce Wayne?"

John scrutinized the much taller young man in front of him, disbelief etched on his face.

Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined seeing Bruce Wayne again under such circumstances.

"Yes, I'm Bruce Wayne. Long time no see, John," Bruce said, extending his hand.

John didn't shake his hand, choosing instead to examine him suspiciously from head to toe.

"Why are you here?"

John remained guarded against Bruce, given how much his father used to value this man.

"I'm planning to travel the world. Before I leave, I wanted to meet with Mr. Podrick," Bruce replied, more composed and mature than before, unfazed by John's tone.

"Travel the world?"

John looked at him skeptically. "You'll definitely fail."

He started by cursing Bruce's journey.

Bruce's mouth twitched slightly. "I don't care about success or failure; I just want to experience something."

His gaze swept over the messy farm. "As for you, John, your temper hasn't changed. I imagine Mr. Podrick must find it a headache."

"That's between my dad and me—it's none of your business."

John clenched his fists, barely restraining the urge to punch Bruce in the face.

This guy was just as infuriating as ever.

Taking a deep breath, John calmed himself: 'Relax. Don't let this guy provoke you.'

He's just a tiny scumbag, an insignificant speck, a complete nobody.

With that self-assurance, John's mood stabilized after a brief inner tirade against Bruce.

"Maybe you're right."

Bruce didn't continue the conversation with John and instead walked toward Peter.

Watching Bruce's retreating figure, John narrowed his eyes and exhaled deeply.

This guy… is getting close to Dad again!

No way…

I really need to figure out how to teach him a lesson.

Otherwise, once he goes off on his world tour, I won't have the chance.

Evening

Peter prepared a lavish dinner to host Bruce.

"Care for some wine?" Peter asked, holding up a bottle.

Bruce looked up. "What kind of wine, sir?"

"Hemingway's favorite cocktail."

Bruce paused, then replied, "Sir, I remember Hemingway was diabetic. His favorite drink was a dry martini."

Peter raised an eyebrow in surprise. "Are you sure?"

"Fairly certain."

Beside him, Star-Lord curiously asked Bruce, "Do you read a lot?"

"I read all the time."

Star-Lord nodded knowingly. "So homeless people like libraries..."

Homeless?

Bruce shot Star-Lord a confused look. Was this annoying little brat really Mr. Podrick's child?

"Ahem."

Peter pretended not to hear, coughed lightly, and grabbed another bottle from the cabinet. "Maybe try this, Bruce—vodka and absinthe."

"Sir," Bruce grimaced, "I'm underage and can't drink. Also, mixing vodka with absinthe doesn't make a dry martini."

Though he couldn't drink, Bruce clearly knew a lot about alcohol. "A martini is always made with gin. If you mix vodka and absinthe, it won't taste the same."

Chewing on a piece of beef, John asked Bruce, "If you don't drink, how do you know so much about it?"

"There's a wine cellar at my home. I like studying the various bottles," Bruce said, glancing at Peter.

"Sir, if you're interested, I could gift you the cellar."

Peter, still annoyed by his maxed-out credit card, was tempted by the offer.

Although the idea was appealing, accepting such a gift felt inappropriate.

Just as he was about to refuse, John interjected, "Sure, consider it your rent for staying here."

Peter gaped at his mischievous son.

Do you think this farm is a five-star hotel?

Wait, even five-star hotels don't charge rent like that!

Looking at Bruce, Peter noticed he seemed perfectly fine with the arrangement, as if it were entirely reasonable.

Well, if neither of them cares, I guess I won't either.

The Next Morning

The tires screeched on the sun-scorched road, their cries echoing in the heat.

A Subaru sped across the farm, drifting sharply as it turned, sliding like butter melting in a hot pan.

The car reached the end of the road and leapt over it, its wheels spinning through the grass, kicking up a cloud of dust.

Hearing the roar of the engine, Peter crossed his arms and watched Bruce behind the wheel.

Earlier that morning, Bruce had asked Peter to teach him how to drive, claiming it might be useful during his world tour.

But now, watching Bruce's confident maneuvers, Peter doubted he had anything to teach.

"Bruce, even though I don't think I can teach you much, I still have to say—don't try this on real roads."

After Bruce parked and stepped out, Peter added, "Your driving skills are excellent. I doubt you need my instruction."

"I know, sir," Bruce replied. "I just wanted to chat with you while driving."

"Got something on your mind?"

"Just a simple worry."

"It might sound simple, Bruce, but your life is far from that."

Bruce nodded, hesitated, and then asked, "Sir, do you know Schopenhauer?"

"Schopenhauer?"

"A German philosopher, founder of atheism. He had two poodles," Bruce explained. "He once said, 'Some say suicide is an act of cowardice. But everyone has the inalienable right to decide their own fate.'"

"Someday, I think I might destroy myself—through suicide."

Bruce's statement burst out like a rock tumbling from a sack, startling Peter.

"You're not… considering that, are you?" Peter asked, concerned.

"I don't know. I'm young but exhausted. At night, when I close my eyes, I see visions that drain me of all vitality. Death looms around me, and I feel powerless to stop it."

"For the past three years, I've been trying to save Gotham in my way. I become fear itself at night to strike at criminals, but death remains a constant. I hate this feeling—this helplessness."

Peter nodded thoughtfully. "So you want to travel the world to find answers?"

"Yes, sir. Do you think I should go?"

"Absolutely. I support your decision."

Placing a hand on Bruce's shoulder, Peter said, "Bruce, inside you are both darkness and light. That's human nature—we can't escape it. Traveling might help you uncover a way to embrace your light and keep the darkness at bay."

Just as Peter finished speaking, his phone rang.

After a brief conversation, he hung up.

"Sir, is everything alright?"

"Something unexpected came up. Can you drive me somewhere?"

"Of course," Bruce agreed.

On the way, Bruce asked, "What happened, sir?"

"The spontaneous combustion incident at Smallville Orphanage. Have you heard of it?"

"Yes, bits and pieces."

"The official story is a fire, but all they found was an old woman's ashes," Peter explained.

Bruce nodded, contemplating. "The unofficial story must be spontaneous human combustion. I recall a similar case in New Jersey in 1978—a person caught fire while dancing."

"Sir, why are you interested in this case?"

Peter glanced at Bruce. "It's personal. I have a score to settle with whoever's behind it."

...

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