Quiet takes the turn of the discussion, leaving the two men pondering and enjoying the serene night.
"Peter, it's a quarter to eleven. It's bedtime." May's voice rang from within the house.
"Ahh, Aunt May, can't I stay up another 5 minutes?"
"No, it's bedtime now, you need to sleep to become big and strong, dear."
"I want to sleep with mommy and daddy. When are they gonna be back from work? Why are they working sooo long? My birthday is also nearing."
"…" May was stunned with the question.
"Oh baby, you'll sleep with me tonight, ok?"
"NOOO! I want Mommy and Daddy. Where are they? They didn't call or send letters anymore!" Peter's voice trembled, on the verge of tears.
Ben, hearing the commotion inside the house, can only smile apologetically to Krace or just to himself, dreading how to tell 6-year-old Peter about his parent's death. Krace, hearing Peter's complaint, excuses himself from the Parkers, giving space for them to coax their child.
.
.
.
Arriving home late that night, Krace stepped into the silence of his house. His footsteps echoed. He closed the door behind him, dropped the keys into the bowl by habit, and walked deeper into the shadows of his cold, empty shelter.
He sat down in the center of the room, legs folded into a lotus position.
Meditating.
Every day, he journaled. Trained. Read. And meditated. When the weight of missing home grew heavy—his real home—when memories of his lost family clawed at him, when the desperation to return felt too sharp, he used meditation to steady himself. It kept him from rushing, from making hasty choices that might blow his cover or backtracking all the progress he had made so far. It gave his mind a break, a chance to breathe.
Keeping him sane, normal.
One wrong step could unravel everything. One moment of weakness could expose him, undo months of work. So he sat. Still. Quiet. Anchored in the moment.
His mind, however, was far from quiet.
The memories were still tangled, still refusing to line up. Most were manageable, if stubborn. But one stood out.
Kratos.
Kratos' memory, in particular, wouldn't let itself be unravelled, as if the memory were alive and wanted to keep its secret to itself. Because of that particular memory, the rest were also affected, making the tangled mess more complicated.
Still, meditation gave him clarity. Over the years, he'd used it to see patterns no one else could. To connect the dots missed by the best detectives. All of the messy clues and patterns can be discerned through it. That's how he figured out the burning skeleton in the alley, the so-called Ghost Rider was Johnny Blaze.
Speaking of the man, Krace thought to himself, 'The Ghost Rider was paranormal, unnatural, but he's only a man that turned into a skeleton, riding a motorcycle. Sure, he has a flying chain and can burn people to death with a stare, but he's no Superman. Less threat than the Flash.
'He can be defeated with the right strategy.'
Plans were already forming in his mind. Contingencies. Traps. Counters. If it ever came to it—capture, subdue… eliminate. Of course, he would never resort to it. There's always a way, another way to de-escalate, to redeem. No one is beyond that. Everybody deserves a chance, and he was no judge, no punisher. Just a man trying to stop the next tragedy.
The skeleton resembled a human, he assumed it was a mutated being, like the one this world called mutants. Logically, through the characteristics shown, the skeleton's capability is still within the realm of humans.
The way the chain moved through the air without physical support suggested some form of telekinesis. If that was the case, then the death stare—the power that incinerated the thugs where they stood—was likely another manifestation of psychic force, a mental attack directed straight at the mind. The fire engulfing the victims hinted at a secondary ability, possibly heat or fire manipulation. Taken together, the skeleton probably possessed other minor enhancements as well, all rooted in some form of psychic or elemental control. Given the pattern, the entity likely possesses a suite of abilities, psychic-based, enhanced by unknown triggers. Mutant, perhaps. Something more, possibly.
But later…in the future, Krace will know, oh, how wrong he was for underestimating the thing.
But another thought had been lingering in the back of his mind.
That strange warmth he once felt deep inside, months ago. Like a spark. It came once. Never returned. He knew what happened was not an illusion. There has to be a trigger to feel it again.
The possibility of a parasite—or some hidden flaw in his body—was unsettling. But what truly terrified him was something far worse: the chance that he might possess powers. Abilities beyond human limits. The moment normal crossed into paranormal, everything changed.
And for him, that would be the worst outcome.
Because if he truly had powers—if he was becoming something more than human—it would make him the greatest threat he could imagine.
He knew what he was.
A mind sharpened into a weapon.
A body honed to the peak of human potential.
And a heart… always one tragedy away from falling into the abyss.
That's why he has and will never dream of having powers, either in his life before as Batman or now as Krace. He fears becoming uncontrollable, a psychotic power-craving person. Once he feels that power is on his side, that death is far from him, the dark side of him, the anger will come out.
So he sat, reaching inward, searching for that energy again—not to awaken it, but to prepare. To build contingencies. In case he became the monster that needed to be stopped.
But tonight, like the others, yielded nothing.
He stayed motionless for another ten minutes, then quietly stood and walked to bed.
Two hours of deep, unconscious sleep were enough to reset his body. A technique passed down by one of his harshest teachers—a man called the Torturer—long before his crusade in Gotham began.
He woke up feeling focused, showered, dressed, and headed to the office before the city had fully opened its eyes.
…
The office remained alive even at this hour—keyboards clacking, voices murmuring in late-night discussions. Rain drummed against the windows, casting blurred neon reflections over the conference room's polished table.
Krace—now living under his new identity—stood at the head of a sleek conference table, reviewing expansion plans, financial forecasts, and acquisition reports.
His company was growing at a breakneck pace—aggressive acquisitions, new divisions, international expansion. Risky moves. But risk, when properly controlled, ensured victory.
"Amelia, fill me in."
Amelia Vought, his PA, worked flexible hours — but Krace always preferred her on nights like this. There were a handful of other assistants, but none matched her precision and ability to keep up with his pace. That's why she was here now, standing by his desk with a tablet in hand, the screen aglow in the dim office.
"Boss, We just got word there are a few factories and properties for sale in China. They're going cheap. Current market value puts them low — good timing for us."
She flicked to the next screen.
"Right now, our net profit sits at around $520,000. If we factor in your personal fund, we'll have about a million to work with. Do you want to move on it?"
Krace leaned forward, scanning the numbers. Good location. Good infrastructure.
"Buy them all. Use everything we have. If it's not enough, borrow what we need, secure a short-term business loan — six months, low interest if possible. We'll need those assets operational in a few months."
"Alright." Amelia marked it down.
"As for the small studios in New York — we've bought 40% of them so far. The rest are hesitant. Some holding out for better offers, others afraid of getting swallowed up."
"Do we push them? Hostile takeover?" she asked, raising a brow.
Krace shook his head.
"No, leave them be. Just buy those who agree to sell and don't touch the others."
"Got it."
She hesitated before speaking again — careful with her tone.
"Boss… I'm going to say what the others won't."
Krace looked up.
"Boss… I need to be honest. The weekly charity work — the food runs, the shelters — it's great. But money's tight. We're spending more than we're making. If this keeps up, we might run out of cash."
She met his gaze squarely.
"Maybe we should pause the donations. Just for a few months, until we stabilise. Get breathing room, then resume once we've secured a financial buffer."
Krace listened in silence, then stood, walking to the window. The city lights shimmered through the rain.
"No."
"Boss—"
"Keep the programs running. The shelters, the food distribution — everything. I know what I'm doing, Amelia."
He turned back to her.
"If we wait until we're 'stable,' it'll take years. People don't have years. We'll cover the debts. People need help now. We'll handle the money. The company's growing, and once everything falls into place, we won't just survive. We'll own this market."
Amelia looked at him, then sighed.
"Alright. I'll make it work."
"You always do." Krace offered a small, approving smile.
She added a final note to her tablet.
"I'll get the contracts drawn up for China and brief the finance team on the credit strategy. And… I'll keep the donations moving."
"Good. Thanks, Amelia."