The rain fell in sheets over London, painting the cobblestone streets in shimmering silver. Bruce pulled his coat tighter around himself, blending into the endless tide of people moving through the city.
It had been two weeks since he arrived. Unlike Moscow or Paris, this wasn't about survival or stealth. This was about something else.
This was about seeing the truth in the chaos.
In the shadowed corners of the city, there were men who could kill without leaving a trace, criminals who could make a murder look like an accident, liars who could spin stories so perfect even the police believed them.
Bruce had spent years learning how to fight, how to hide, how to strike from the darkness. But that wasn't enough.
If he was going to hunt criminals, he had to understand them first.
And that meant learning from the best.
---
Bruce had tracked him down through whispers, through stories, through police reports buried so deep they were never meant to be found.
Henri Ducard.
A name that existed in the gray spaces between the law and crime.
A manhunter, some called him. Others said he was a private investigator, a bounty hunter, an assassin in everything but name.
He didn't work for justice. He worked for truth—the kind people were willing to pay fortunes to learn.
That was the kind of man Bruce needed.
And when he finally found Ducard, he wasn't in some shadowed alley or hidden lair.
He was in a cigar lounge, sipping whiskey, watching the city like a god staring down at his own creation.
Bruce took a seat across from him.
"You're a little young to be looking for me," Ducard said without looking up.
"You're the best at what you do," Bruce replied. "And I need to learn."
Ducard smirked, setting his glass down.
"And what exactly do you want to learn?"
Bruce met his gaze. Unflinching. Unshaken.
"How to think like them."
For a moment, Ducard was silent. Then he exhaled a slow breath, watching the smoke curl through the air.
"You don't learn that from books, boy," he said. "You learn it by standing in the filth, breathing it in, and letting it stain your soul."
Bruce didn't flinch.
"Then teach me."
Ducard chuckled, shaking his head. "You don't get it. If I teach you what I know, you won't ever look at the world the same way again. You won't see people. You'll see patterns. Lies. Weaknesses."
Bruce leaned forward.
"Good."
---
Ducard didn't believe in classrooms or books. The city was the classroom. The people were the books.
For months, Bruce followed him through the underbelly of London.
They sat in bars, watching drunks spin half-truths and full lies, learning to pick apart every movement, every flicker of doubt in their voices.
They walked through crime scenes before the police arrived, studying how bodies fell, how blood spread, how even the smallest details told a story.
They followed men and women in power, listening to their words, watching their body language, knowing when they were lying before they even spoke.
Ducard drilled lessons into him.
"People always tell you who they are. They just don't use words."
"A crime scene is a puzzle. The trick isn't finding the pieces—it's knowing which ones matter."
"Everyone has a weakness. Find it, and you own them."
Bruce absorbed it all.
Because this wasn't just about learning.
This was about building something inside himself—something dangerous, something unbreakable.
---
One night, Ducard led Bruce into a dimly lit backroom of a gambling den.
A man was tied to a chair, blood dripping from his nose.
"He killed a girl last week," Ducard said, lighting a cigarette. "Clever about it. Made it look like an accident."
Bruce said nothing.
Ducard stepped forward. "Now he's got one chance to tell me where he dumped her body."
The man in the chair spat blood onto the floor. "Go to hell."
Ducard smirked, turning to Bruce.
"Get it out of him."
Bruce froze. He wasn't a killer. He wasn't a torturer.
Ducard saw the hesitation in his face and chuckled.
"Use your head, boy. You don't need to break him. You just need to know how to pull the right thread."
Bruce inhaled, stepping forward. He knelt in front of the man, studying his face, his body, his tells.
The bruised knuckles. The slight twitch in his left eye when Ducard mentioned the girl. The dirt under his nails—not from the city. From somewhere else. Somewhere damp.
Bruce spoke softly.
"You buried her in a field outside the city. Near water. Probably near a farm."
The man stiffened.
Bruce tilted his head. "And you didn't do it alone, did you?"
The man's breathing hitched.
Got you.
Ducard smiled, stepping forward. "I think we have our answer."
The police found the body the next morning.
And Bruce understood something new.
A man's mind could be a weapon just as sharp as any blade.
---
The night before Bruce left, Ducard took him to the top of an old clock tower, looking over the city.
"You've got the mind for this," Ducard said, watching the lights below. "But you're still holding back."
Bruce frowned. "Holding back how?"
Ducard exhaled, flicking his cigarette into the wind.
"You still think there's a line between you and them." He glanced at Bruce. "One day, you'll have to decide if you're willing to cross it."
Bruce didn't answer.
Because he already knew the truth.
He would never be like them.
But he would understand them.
And that was enough.
With that, he left London, heading toward his next destination.
Because his journey wasn't over yet.