Gotham?

Alex froze on the spot, genuinely taken aback.

Why in the world had he ended up here?

Up until now, he had instinctively assumed that his dimensional leaps would only take him to parallel universes within the sprawling Marvel multiverse—different timelines, different outcomes, but always Marvel at the core.

But this? This was DC.

Crossing over from Marvel into DC wasn't just a hop across branches of the same tree; it was like leaping into an entirely different forest altogether.

"…Well," Alex muttered after a long beat, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth, "this just got a lot more interesting."

The Marvel multiverse, vast as it was, shared a certain sameness. Characters recycled across timelines, plots twisted and rehashed in slightly altered forms. But the DC world—Batman, Superman, Wonder Woman—these weren't just characters Alex had studied in comics or analyzed as archetypes. To him, they had always been larger-than-life legends, seen only through the lens of film and television. And now? He was standing in their world, breathing the same air.

That thought alone sent a ripple of excitement down his spine.

Of course, one question lingered in his mind—what kind of DC universe was this?

The comic worlds were countless, splintered into infinite iterations, many far more dangerous than Marvel's. The cinematic worlds were fewer, more contained, but even then, which version had he landed in? The brooding shadows of Nolan's Gotham? The stylized grit of Snyder's vision? Or something else entirely?

The Batman franchise alone had more faces than he could count, and Superman… well, in some universes Superman's power soared so high that even Alex might not stand a chance against him.

"Doesn't matter," he decided at last, shaking his head. "First thing's first—get a lay of the land."

Straightening his back, Alex started down the dimly lit street with the confident stride of someone utterly unbothered by the unknown. Gotham awaited.

---

"So this is Gotham…"

Half an hour later, Alex muttered the words to himself with a mix of awe and exasperation.

The city was every bit the stereotype he'd expected: oppressive skyscrapers looming overhead like silent sentinels, streets littered with graffiti and trash, alleys that seemed to breathe menace. Even the air felt heavier here, thick with exhaust fumes, rotting refuse, and the faint stench of desperation. The streetlamps flickered unevenly, casting broken shadows across cracked sidewalks.

And then came the welcome party.

Four young men stepped out of a side alley with the casual arrogance of predators who knew their territory. Their eyes gleamed with hostility under the brims of their hoodies, knives and pistols flashing in their hands.

Alex blinked.

Seriously?

He had been in this universe for less than thirty minutes, and he'd already been mugged. It was so absurd he almost laughed.

"Truly worthy of Gotham," he thought, lips quirking. "The city with America's highest crime rate. Living up to the title already."

"Hey, you!" The leader, a wiry white kid with a pistol too big for his hand, barked. His hood shadowed most of his face, but the malice in his eyes burned clear. "Hand over your cash. Now!"

"Don't make us say it twice," another chimed in, waving his knife with theatrical menace.

"Yeah, move it if you wanna live!"

They fanned out around him, four predators closing the circle, their bravado filling the night air. For an ordinary man, the sight of flashing blades and cold steel muzzles would have frozen blood in his veins.

But Alex wasn't ordinary. Not even close.

He was just about to swat the fools aside like flies when something else caught his attention. His gaze flicked past them, senses sharpening, and a sly smile curled at his lips.

"You guys," he said calmly, folding his arms as if he were at a casual street performance, "really should run. Otherwise, it's already too late."

The hooded youth snorted, puffing himself up with bravado. "Run? From you? What a joke!"

Beside him, a bald thug shifted uneasily. "Henry…" he whispered, as though suddenly remembering something.

"You idiot, don't say my name out loud!" Henry snapped, smacking the bald man's head. The slap rang sharp in the quiet street, made sharper by the absence of hair.

Alex chuckled under his breath. Really? This was Gotham, and these were its criminals? Dim-witted muggers dumb enough to rob strangers in alleys where a certain bat made nightly rounds? It was almost insulting.

"Don't hit my head!" the bald one whined. Then, lowering his voice in a panicked rush, he added, "He's right, though! If Batman shows up, we're screwed."

At the mention of the name, Henry's expression faltered for the briefest of moments. Fear glimmered in his eyes before he forced it down with a bark of false courage. "What are you afraid of? That guy's just a man in a mask! There's four of us. You think we can't handle him?"

Alex didn't even bother hiding his amusement. The gang's leader was blustering, but his clenched jaw and twitching fingers betrayed his nerves. The legend of the Bat carried weight even here.

What Henry didn't realize was that the man they dreaded was already here.

"Kid!" Henry snapped, raising his pistol with a loud click as he cocked the weapon. "Don't push me. Don't make me say it a third—"

Whoosh!

A sharp whistle sliced through the night. In the blink of an eye, something struck Henry's gun, knocking it clean out of his hand.

The metallic clang of the weapon hitting pavement echoed like a death knell.

Henry froze. Slowly, almost mechanically, he turned his head—and his face went pale.

A bat-shaped blade. A Batarang.

"He's here!" the bald thug yelped, eyes wide with terror.

Even as the words left his mouth, another whistle cut the air.

A shadow dropped from the rooftops like a predator pouncing. In an instant, the figure slammed into Henry, driving him to the ground with bone-jarring force. Henry wheezed in shock, pinned beneath the crushing weight.

Thud!

The black shape straightened, cape flowing like liquid night. Pointed ears, armored plating, the cowl that struck fear into the hearts of Gotham's criminals.

Batman.

"Batman!" one thug shrieked.

"Kill him!" another cried, hysteria breaking his voice as he raised his gun and fired wildly.

Bang!

The gunshot cracked through the alley, but Batman had already moved. He ducked low, cape whipping, and surged forward with predatory speed. The bullet cut nothing but air.

One precise kick sent the gun spinning away. Before the thug could even flinch, Batman's fist buried itself in his chest like a hammer.

The man flew back, crumpling against a brick wall, wheezing like a fish on land.

The third tried to flee, but Batman was faster. A brutal takedown, a sharp elbow strike, and another body hit the ground with a thud.

The fight was over almost as quickly as it had begun.

And through it all, Alex simply stood there, watching with sharp curiosity. His X-ray vision pierced the cowl with ease, revealing the man beneath.

"So," Alex murmured, a spark of recognition flashing in his eyes, "it's the Ben Affleck version."

No mistake—the jawline, the features, the build. This wasn't Bale's leaner knight, nor Pattinson's brooding youth. This was Snyder's bruiser, but younger, sharper. A Batman still in his prime.

Which meant…

If Batman was Affleck's incarnation, then Superman had to be Cavill's.

Relief washed through Alex like cool water.

Because Henry Cavill's Superman—at least at this stage—was nowhere near the cosmic heights of some of his comic counterparts. Powerful, yes, but not invincible. And if Batman's younger age was any indicator, then Cavill's Superman hadn't yet grown into the full godlike force he would one day become.

"Good," Alex thought, his smirk returning. "That's a Superman I can handle."

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