"Wayne Manor hasn't had guests in a very long time, Young Master Richard," Alfred said warmly as he adjusted his gloves. "It's a good thing you invited a friend over. This old house could use some life."
He paused, then added sincerely, "If possible, I hope you'll invite more friends in the future—especially classmates from school."
After listening to Dick's explanation, Alfred nodded in genuine approval.
Turning to Dean, Alfred opened the rear car door with a practiced, elegant motion.
"Mr. Thurston, Wayne Manor is located in the outskirts of Gotham. The journey will take some time. Please, get in."
"Thank you, Mr. Pennyworth," Dean replied naturally, without hesitation, stepping into the car.
Dick entered from the opposite side.
Alfred took the driver's seat, clearly in high spirits.
"I'm truly pleased that Young Master Richard invited a friend," Alfred said with a gentle smile. "You may not believe it, Mr. Thurston, but you are the first peer he has invited to Wayne Manor—excluding the girls he dates."
Dean blinked slightly, surprised.
"I'm not saying that dating is bad," Alfred continued calmly, "but I don't wish for Young Master Richard's social circle to become the same as Young Master Bruce's—surrounded only by women, never forming a truly sincere friendship. I hope he can have genuine friends."
Alfred wasn't exaggerating. In Gotham, Bruce Wayne's romantic reputation was practically public knowledge—and carefully cultivated at that.
"Is that so?" Dean said, smiling faintly. "Then I'm honored."
Inwardly, Dean corrected himself.
Friend wasn't quite accurate.
Members of the Teen Titans had certainly been to Wayne Manor before—but they were heroes. This made Dean the first ordinary, non-hero classmate to be invited.
Speaking of the Teen Titans, they were a young superhero team formed by sidekicks and independent young heroes. Dick himself had founded and led the group. Compared to the Justice League, the Titans stayed out of the public eye more often. After all, they were still students, only able to act during limited times.
Dean reflected quietly.
If Dick asked them for help, it would make things very troublesome for me… but he won't.
Just as Batman would never ask the Justice League to interfere directly in Gotham, Dick followed the same unspoken rule.
This strange sense of territorial boundaries—heroes respecting each other's cities—was something Dean still didn't fully understand.
During the drive, Alfred and Dean chatted casually.
From these conversations, Dean learned many small details about the Wayne family. None of them were shocking—just the kind of half-known truths any longtime Gotham resident might suspect.
Strangely, the person who had invited Dean—Dick himself—was unusually silent.
He stared out the window, his reflection faintly visible in the glass, his thoughts clearly elsewhere.
The sky darkened gradually.
Night fell.
---
Meanwhile – Thurston Mansion
At that very moment, a black figure had already infiltrated Dean's home.
She moved silently through the villa, her steps light and precise. The tight combat suit outlined her athletic form, and the bat-shaped helmet and emblem on her chest made her identity unmistakable.
Batgirl.
The reason she was here traced back to that morning.
After Barbara pointed out Dean as a possible suspect, she and Dick had reached a quiet agreement.
Dick would keep Dean occupied.
Barbara would search his house.
If Dean truly was Kaito Kid, then the tools, disguises, or preparation traces would almost certainly be hidden here.
Barbara had already hacked into Gotham's entire real estate transaction network. She was absolutely certain of one thing:
Thurston Mansion was the only property under Dean's name.
If he had set up a hidden safe house under a false identity, it would still leave traces. No cover was ever perfect.
Dick had deliberately invited Dean immediately after school to minimize the chance of Dean realizing he was under suspicion—and to prevent any opportunity for him to move or destroy evidence in advance.
Earlier that evening, after confirming Kaito Kid's operation time, Commissioner Gordon had dismissed most of the museum's guards, leaving only a small night-watch team behind.
Barbara, under the excuse of attending a karate training class, had parted ways with Gordon and rushed straight to Thurston Mansion without stopping.
Inside the house, she moved with professional efficiency.
"The room is slightly messy," Barbara muttered quietly as she scanned the bedroom. "But… clean."
That was the key difference.
The clutter looked natural—books left open, clothes casually placed—but there was no dust buildup, no neglected corners, no signs of long-term disuse.
She opened the wardrobe.
Checked the bedside tables.
Searched drawers.
Went through the pockets of every piece of clothing.
Sometimes, the smallest clues were hidden in the most ordinary places.
She found nothing.
No hidden compartments.
No secret doors.
No strange equipment.
Next, Barbara searched the living room, the kitchen, the study, and the storage rooms.
Still nothing.
Only one place remained.
The basement.
Barbara switched on her bat-flashlight and slowly descended the stairs, every step silent.
She pushed open the basement door.
The scene inside made her pause.
The spacious underground room was packed—wall to wall—with magic props.
Cards.
Mirrors.
Smoke devices.
Hidden wires.
Trapdoors.
Mechanical gimmicks.
Everything showed clear signs of repeated use.
There was barely enough space to stand.
"So this is where Dean practices," Barbara thought.
Given Dean's reputation as a prodigy magician, this setup was completely reasonable. The wear patterns, the careful maintenance, the familiarity in how the props were arranged—
It all pointed to one conclusion.
He had been practicing here for years.
No wonder he was famous at such a young age.
Barbara searched through the props carefully, opening cases, checking mechanisms, examining hidden compartments.
Nothing felt wrong.
Nothing felt hidden.
Nothing pointed toward Kaito Kid.
After a long while, she straightened up slowly.
"…It looks like I was wrong."
Fatigue settled into her shoulders.
She leaned back against the cold basement wall and slid down to sit on the floor, staring blankly at the four walls around her.
"I suspected the wrong person…"
The basement was silent, filled only with the faint hum of electricity.
Then—
"Hm?"
Barbara's eyes narrowed.
She froze.
Something was off.
Not a sound.
Not a movement.
But a feeling.
She slowly lifted her head and focused her gaze.
There.
One spot that didn't belong.
A section of the wall—too clean.
Too uniform.
As if it had been wiped more often than the rest.
Barbara stood up silently.
Her hand rested on the wall.
And pressed.
The surface shifted—just slightly.
Her breath stopped.
This wasn't just a magician's basement anymore.
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