Ascendant in the Shadows

The Speech

Li Ang retreated into the shadows, his figure blending seamlessly with the darkness. Pressing against the wall, he deftly climbed up to the rooftop, pulling out his phone to leisurely browse images and information about the luxurious Dalton Hotel.

Elevator designs, security camera placements, guard rotations, employee access routes—each detail pieced together in his mind to form a comprehensive map of the building.

A faint smile curled at the corners of his lips as he stepped back a few paces, then sprinted forward. At the edge of the rooftop, he leaped into the air, stretching his body mid-flight before gliding to a ledge outside one of the hotel’s unoccupied rooms.

Clutching the narrow stone groove of the window ledge, Li Ang swung himself expertly to the utility room. Once inside, he flipped in and landed soundlessly.

It appeared the hotel hadn’t gone so far as to install security cameras in the utility room. Donning a janitor's uniform and a mask, Li Ang pushed a cart loaded with cleaning supplies into the freight elevator, casually descending to the first floor.

The banquet was being held on the rooftop floor, leaving most of the waitstaff occupied upstairs. Taking advantage of the distraction, Li Ang entered the employee lounge, where he swapped the janitor's outfit for a sleek black suit and white shirt, dressing himself to resemble a waiter.

But that wasn’t enough. Standing before a mirror, Li Ang adjusted his features—raising and straightening his nose, thinning his cheeks, and broadening his jawline by manipulating his facial muscles. His appearance transformed into someone entirely different.

"Stand tall, stay humble, and always keep smiling," Li Ang muttered to himself. Leaving the lounge, he confidently strode into the elevator and ascended to the rooftop.

As guests steadily filled the venue, the banquet commenced in earnest. The president of the City Development Foundation—a sharp-eyed middle-aged man with a distinguished goatee—delivered an opening speech. His witty remarks elicited polite laughter and scattered applause from the gathered socialites.

But everyone present knew he wasn’t the star of the evening. Those with any insight were aware that standing at the center of Gotham’s power stage tonight was none other than the man of the hour.

“And now, let’s welcome Mr. Wayne to say a few words.”

The microphone hovered mid-air, seized by a firm and confident hand—a hand that might as well have belonged to Prometheus himself, clutching the torch of civilization.

Bruce Wayne, billionaire playboy and three-time consecutive champion of Gotham Women’s Magazine’s annual “Most Desired Partner” poll.

Under the glamour of his wealth and status, even the most outrageous rumors about Bruce—whether involving Russian ballerinas or supermodels—were elevated to intrigue. The crowd tonight wasn’t interested in his alleged escapades.

What captivated them was the name “Bruce Wayne” and the vast fortune it represented.

“The chairman has already covered most of the details about the Gotham Port Reconstruction Project,” Bruce began, shrugging with a charismatic grin. “Frankly, he called me up here just to watch me fumble for words and amuse you all.”

Gentle laughter rippled through the audience as Bruce smiled, coughed lightly, and adopted a more serious expression.

“To me, Bruce Wayne, what is Gotham?” he asked, his voice carrying a contemplative weight. “Is it my hometown? My sanctuary? Or my purpose?”

He surveyed the audience with piercing blue eyes, seeming to delve into the lives of each guest before continuing, “But the truth is—I can’t answer that question.”

“When I was a child, I faced plenty of challenges—falling into puddles and scraping my knees, that sort of thing. At the end of such bad days, my father, Thomas Wayne, would pat my shoulder and say, ‘Bruce, tomorrow is just a dream away.’”

Bruce’s voice lowered, tinged with melancholy. “Now, as you all know, my parents are gone, taken from me just a few blocks from here, in what is now infamously called ‘Crime Alley.’”

The tragic fate of Thomas and Martha Wayne had left an indelible stain on Gotham’s history, the alley where they were killed becoming a grim symbol of the city’s struggles.

“Losing them was a nightmare. Anger, grief, regret, and pain consumed me,” Bruce confessed, his tone softening. “But my father’s words, ‘Tomorrow is just a dream away,’ stayed with me.”

The crowd collectively adopted somber expressions, offering their respects to Gotham’s most influential orphan. Even those who had never interacted with Bruce felt compelled to honor the man whose wealth commanded such reverence.

“You’re probably wondering why I’m sharing all this,” Bruce continued. “The point is: in times of fear and uncertainty—like now—it’s meaningless to ask what word best describes Gotham today.”

Spreading his arms, he addressed the room with conviction. “Because when we walk the streets of this city, what we see in its buildings and alleys reflects our own fears, failures, and inner demons.”

“Bullshit,” Richard Sappa, head of Gotham’s Italian mafia, muttered under his breath. He tossed aside his wine glass, picked up a lobster claw, and began gnawing on the tender white meat inside.

“But,” Bruce said, smiling, “if we ask ourselves what Gotham’s tomorrow can be, we’re asking the right question. To dream, to imagine, to envision a brighter city—that’s the goal. It’s about reshaping Gotham rather than letting it shape us.”

Bruce gestured to a scaled model of the Gotham port displayed on the stage. “And that’s why I’m putting my money where my mouth is: into Gotham’s future.”

With a snap of his fingers, shimmering blue lights projected a three-dimensional hologram of the revitalized port. Cranes, containers, and warehouses gleamed in the vision, while the decrepit shanties of the inner docks were replaced by soaring skyscrapers.

“The Gotham Port Reconstruction Project will expand and modernize our facilities, creating jobs, opportunities, and safer neighborhoods,” Bruce declared.

The mob bosses exchanged wary glances, their expressions growing darker.

In the midst of roaring applause, Bruce’s voice rose passionately. “I can’t tell you how excited and hopeful I am. But tonight, I invite all of you to join me. Think about Gotham’s past, its present, and… its future. Let’s build it together!”

Thunderous applause filled the hall, rattling the glass windows. Descending from the stage, Bruce began mingling with the enthusiastic guests, shaking hands and sharing smiles.

In a dim corner, Richard Sappa tossed aside the remains of the lobster claw, wiped his mouth with a napkin tucked into his collar, and muttered to himself, “Join your plan? As you wish, Master Wayne.”