MHA; I'm Batman

Chapter 2: The Package**

The night was a canvas of chaos, painted with the flickering orange hues of fire and the cold, metallic glint of rain. The explosion had torn through the street like a beast unleashed, leaving behind a carcass of twisted metal and shattered glass. Smoke rose in thick, curling tendrils, mingling with the drizzle that fell from the heavens. The air was thick with the acrid smell of burning rubber and gasoline, a scent that clung to the back of the throat like a bitter memory.

Around the wreckage, figures moved like shadows, their black uniforms blending seamlessly with the night. Their faces were hidden behind sleek, featureless masks, their eyes invisible but their presence palpable. They spoke in low, guttural tones, their accents foreign and sharp, cutting through the silence like knives.

"Nothing here," one of them muttered, kicking aside a piece of debris. His voice was cold, detached. "The X prototype isn't in the car."

Another agent crouched near a trail of blood, his gloved fingers brushing against the crimson stains. The blood was fresh, still glistening under the faint light of the streetlamps. "He's close," he said, his voice a low growl. "Wounded. He can't have gone far."

The leader of the group, a tall man with a voice like gravel, stepped forward. His presence was commanding, his every movement calculated. "Expand the search radius," he ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument. "That bastard couldn't have disappeared into thin air. Find him."

---

Meanwhile, Rentaro's father stumbled through the labyrinth of narrow streets, his white coat now a tattered, blood-stained rag. His glasses were cracked, one lens missing entirely, and his breathing was labored, each breath a struggle against the pain that coursed through his body. The briefcase in his hand felt heavier with every step, its weight a constant reminder of the burden he carried. But he clutched it like a lifeline, his fingers tightening around the handle with a desperation that bordered on madness.

People on the street stared at him with wide eyes, some gasping, others quickly looking away. He was a ghost, a specter of pain and desperation, moving through the crowd like a man possessed. His steps were uneven, his body swaying with the effort of staying upright. Blood dripped from a wound on his temple, tracing a crimson path down his cheek and onto his coat. He didn't care about the stares. He didn't care about the pain. All he cared about was the briefcase and the boy waiting for him in Tokyo.

---

He finally reached a small delivery company, its sign flickering weakly in the rain. The place was supposed to be closed, but the door was slightly ajar, a sliver of light spilling out onto the wet pavement. Inside, a worker was stacking boxes, his back turned to the entrance. The sound of the rain outside was a steady drumbeat, almost drowning out the ragged breathing of the man who now stood in the doorway.

"Excuse me," Rentaro's father rasped, his voice barely audible over the rain.

The worker turned, and the boxes in his hands tumbled to the floor. His eyes widened in shock as he took in the sight of the bloodied man before him. "S-Sir, we're closed," he stammered, his voice trembling. "And you... you need medical attention. Let me call an ambulance—"

"No time," Rentaro's father interrupted, his voice firm despite its weakness. He pulled a pencil from his coat pocket and scribbled an address on the briefcase. His hands were shaking, but his writing was clear. "Tokyo. Please. My son is there. I need this delivered to him."

The worker stared at him, bewildered. "Sir, I can't just—there are procedures, regulations—"

Rentaro's father reached into his coat and pulled out a thick wad of cash, thrusting it into the worker's hands. The money was damp with rain and blood, but its value was unmistakable. "If your company's policies don't allow this, then deliver it yourself. Please."

The worker hesitated, his eyes darting between the money and the briefcase. Before he could respond, Rentaro's father turned to leave. "Wait!" the worker called after him. "What should I tell your son?"

Rentaro's father paused at the door, his shoulders slumping. For a moment, he looked like a man who had carried the weight of the world for too long. "Tell him... tell him I'm okay," he said softly. Then he was gone, disappearing into the rain-soaked night.

---

Days later, Rentaro sat in his room, flipping through a Batman comic. The rain had stopped, but the air was still heavy with the scent of damp earth. The doorbell rang, and he frowned. He wasn't expecting anyone. When he opened the door, a delivery man stood there, holding a metallic briefcase. The man's face was pale, his eyes avoiding Rentaro's gaze.

"Rentaro?" the man asked, his voice uneasy.

"Yes," Rentaro replied, his eyes narrowing in confusion.

The man handed him the briefcase. "I need your signature," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "And... your father wanted me to tell you that he's okay."

Rentaro's heart skipped a beat. He took the briefcase, his hands trembling slightly. "It's heavy," he muttered, more to himself than to the delivery man. He signed the form and handed it back, his mind racing.

The delivery man lingered for a moment, his eyes filled with something unreadable—pity, perhaps, or guilt. Then he turned and left without another word.

Rentaro closed the door and stared at the briefcase. A small smile tugged at his lips. "Three years," he whispered. "It's been three years since I last saw him. So he's doing okay after all. I'm glad."

But as he carried the briefcase to his room, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong. The weight of the briefcase in his hands felt like the weight of the world.

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