The whisper slithered through Bruce Wayne's skull like ink in water *Burn them all, burn the rats in their nests, let Gotham choke on the smoke* but seventeen-year-old jaws clenched tight against the urge, teeth grinding as he crouched motionless on a fire escape above the Maroni crew unloading crates of smuggled Russian firearms. The Darkest Knight coiled in his ribcage, restless, impatient, its presence thickening the air around him until the thugs below shuddered without knowing why, collars pulled up against a chill that wasn't the cold wind.
Bruce exhaled through his nose, slow, controlled, fingers flexing against gritty metal. Not yet. Let them feel it first.
Three nights ago, Eddie skeevers had awoken screaming about shadows peeling off his bedroom walls, only for his wife to find only a single black feather on the pillow—so the man twitched at every alley cat's yowl, checking over his shoulder as he directed the shipment's distribution. It was good. Fear was a weapon sharper than any batarang, and Bruce wielded it with surgical precision. His knuckles cracked as he rotated his wrists, tendons singing with the anticipation of violence—but movement below jerked his attention outward.
Richie Pantone, all greased-back hair and brass knuckles, slammed a crate onto the dock with enough force to splinter wood. "I'm tellin' you, Skeevers, this Batman shit's gettin' outta hand. Vinnie swears he saw him standing on the goddamn ceiling like some kinda spider."
"He's a kid in a mask," Eddie hissed, though his fingers were drumming a quick, nervous staccato against his pistol grip. "Some rich freak playin' dress-up."
Bruce smiled, slow and venomous, before letting his body drop straight down, not a flip, not a grapple-line descent, just falling, sixteen feet swallowed in perfect silence until his boots cratered the crate between them. Wood exploded upward, and Richie barely had time to wheeze "Jesus fuck" before Bruce's elbow shattered his jaw in a spray of spit and blood.
Eddie's gun cleared leather, too slow, always too slow, and Bruce caught his wrist, twisted until bone snapped like dry kindling, then slammed the man face-first into the asphalt hard enough to crack teeth. The remaining four crew members lunged in a chaotic tangle of switchblades and curses; Bruce let them come.
A knife grazed his ribs, deliberate, baiting the blade's owner closer before Bruce seized the man's throat and squeezed until cartilage popped. The thug dropped, gagging, just in time for Bruce to catch another's fist mid-swing, fingers tightening until metacarpals powdered under his grip. The scream was cut short by a knee to the solar plexus, and the last man standing found himself airborne, hurled into a stack of pallets hard enough to splinter them like matchsticks.
Just the sound of ragged breathing and the distant wail of a police siren was all that was left.
Bruce stepped over Eddie's twitching body, crouching to wrench open a crate. AK-47s gleamed under the dock lights, serial numbers neatly filed clean. Bruce flared his nostrils. Not just guns–human trafficking manifests stuck between the rifles, Polaroids of terrified girls his own age paperclipped to invoices. The Darkest Knight practically purred against his spine, talons dragging down his psyche: *See? This is why we peel the flesh from their bones.*
He closed his eyes for a slow, deep breath. One, two, three. Later. First, the snake's head.
Sal Maroni's penthouse smelled like expensive cigars and cheaper blood, floor-to-ceiling windows offering a view of Gotham's skyline - useful for spotting uninvited guests, assuming said guest hadn't climbed the building's east face hand-over-hand and shorted out the motion sensors with a precise burst of fear-energy. Bruce rolled his shoulders as he stepped through the broken glass door, glass crunching under his boots, and watched Maroni freeze in the middle of pouring himself a thirty-year scotch.
"You got balls, kid," the don said after a beat, setting down the decanter with deliberate calm. "But you ain't walking out of here alive."
Bruce didn't dignify that with a reply.
Maroni's boys came at him from three directions. Carlo with a straight razor, Santo swinging a lead pipe, Benny armed with nothing but two hundred pounds of muscle and a grunt. Bruce flowed between them like smoke, ducking under Carlo's slash to drive a palm strike up into the man's chin, feeling teeth shear through tongue. Santo's pipe whistled past his ear; Bruce caught his wrist, twisted, and used the man's own momentum to slam him spine-first into the wet bar. Bottles exploded in a rain of glass and bourbon, and Benny's haymaker met only air before Bruce's elbow caved in his ribcage with a wet crack.
Maroni hadn't moved. "You think this changes anything? My lawyers'll have me out by morning."
Bruce tilted his head. "Your offshore accounts are all frozen. Your mistress gave the FBI the combination to your safe. And Commissioner Loeb?" Bruce tossed a burner phone onto the coffee table, its screen lit up with a recorded video of the commissioner accepting a briefcase full of heroin. "He won't be taking your calls."
For the first time, a flicker of something raw crossed Maroni's face, something almost like fear.
Bruce was on him before the man could reach his desk pistol, driving a fist into his gut hard enough to lift him off his feet. Maroni folded like wet cardboard, retching, and Bruce caught him by the collar before he could drop, yanking him close enough to smell cologne and panic.
"You're done," Bruce murmured, almost gentle, before headbutting him so hard the don's nose erupted in a crimson fountain.
When the GCPD stormed in twenty minutes later—tipped off by an anonymous call—they found Maroni zip-tied to his leather sofa, unconscious, a USB drive jammed into his breast pocket containing every incriminating record dating back to his grandfather's bootlegging days. Up on the rooftop across the street, Bruce watched blue lights paint the building in strobes, the Darkest Knight coiling in satisfaction beneath his skin.
One down.
***
The press conference was a circus. Microphones shoved in Gordon's face, reporters shouting over each other, camera flashes strobing off the commissioner's glasses as he outlined the largest police corruption purge in Gotham's history. Bruce watched the show on T.V. from the shadows of Wayne Tower's penthouse, posture loose, fingers steepled under his chin.
The elevator dinged.
Vicki Vale stalked into the penthouse like she owned it, Louboutins tapping on marble, auburn curls swaying with intent. She smelt of Chanel No. 5 and the long stemmed cigarette that heeled from her fingers, blue eyes raking over Bruce with predatory drive. Bruce hadn't expected her to drop by now—but then, Maroni hadn't expected his criminal empire to be cut open and dissected with a fine-edged scalpel by a kid vigilante, either.
"Some fluky show downtown," she commented, letting smoke rise to the ceiling. "Strange, though, how everything went kaput after your boardroom meet a little while ago—that same meet Maroni went to."
Bruce didn't flinch. "You should write fiction, Miss Vale. Do the Gotham Gazette pay extra for conspiracy theories?"
She laughed, low and throaty, and stamped out her cigarette in an ashtray. "You're good. Better than your father, even." Her eyes slid down to his hands and lingered on the fresh scabs across his knuckles. "But I don't buy the bored billionaire act. Not when you've got blood under your nails."
The Darkest Knight purred to him, interested, tendrils of influence licking lazily through the air. *She sees. She knows. Twist her until she begs.* Bruce flattened the thought with a box step breath, moving into her space, close enough to hear the intake of her breath.
"What do you want, Miss Vale?"
Her tongue stroked a hot, pink path along her lips. "I want a scoop. A private scoop."
Bruce simply frowned. "That's negotiable."
She grinned, running a hand down his chest, until her fingers curled into his belt. "I'm sure we can... work something out."
She shortened the distance by kissing him, tasting of cigarette ashes and ego, her lips smashed down onto his in a bruising collision. Bruce let her take the leadfor the moment, letting her drive him back onto the couch, her hips straddling his lap as she ripped off his tie. The Darkest Knight perked in curiosity, whispering behind his eyes: *Break her. Own her. Make her scream.*
Bruce crushed that voice with a thought and concentrated on the warmth of Vicki's mouth, the hard scrape of her teeth against his lip, hard enough to hurt, to make it bleed.
She pulled back just long enough to unbutton her blouse, revealing freckled skin and a black lace bra barely containing generous curves. Bruce palmed one breast through the fabric, thumb circling a stiffening nipple, earning a sharp inhale from the reporter.
"Off," he ordered, voice rough.
Vicki obeyed with a smirk, shrugging out of her blouse before unhooking her bra with practiced ease. Her breasts spilled free—full, heavy, pink nipples pebbled tight—and Bruce wasted no time sealing his mouth over one, sucking hard enough to make her gasp.
"Christ," she hissed, fingers fisting in his hair. "Didn't take you for a biter."
Bruce switched to the other breast, lapping at the peak before biting down just shy of drawing blood. Vicki's hips jerked against his thigh, grinding shamelessly, gasping when he slipped a hand between her legs to find her soaked through silk panties.
"Fuck," she gasped as he rubbed slow circles over the fabric, her cunt clenching around nothing.
Bruce chuckled darkly, withdrawing his touch just to watch her glare. "Patience, Miss Vale."
She growled—actually growled—and shoved him flat against the cushions, yanking at his belt with impatient fingers. His cock sprang free, thick and already leaking, and Vicki didn't hesitate before swallowing him down to the root in one smooth motion.
Bruce's head thumped back against the armrest, groaning as her throat fluttered around him, hot and tight and perfect. The Darkest Knight pulsed approval through his veins, urging him to *take. claim. ruin—*, but Bruce gritted his teeth and let her set the pace—for now.
Vicki pulled off with a filthy pop, lips slick with spit. "You like that, boy?" She stroked him slowly, thumb swiping over the dripping head. "Or do you prefer something... softer?"
Before he could reply, she leaned forward, trapping his cock between her tits with a wicked grin. Bruce hissed as she squeezed them together, the heat of her skin maddening against his shaft, her nipples brushing the underside with every slow slide.
"Better?" she teased, tongue darting out to catch a bead of precum.
Bruce answered by fisting a hand in her hair and thrusting upward, fucking the valley of her breasts with sharp, shallow strokes. Vicki moaned, arching into the movement, her own fingers slipping beneath her panties to stroke herself in time with his thrusts.
"Look at you," Bruce murmured, watching her clit pebble under her touch. "Desperate."
She whimpered—a rare crack in her armor—and Bruce took full advantage, hauling her upright by the hips to flip her onto her stomach. Vicki scrambled onto all fours, ass arched high, her panties already shoved aside to reveal glistening folds.
Bruce didn't bother with foreplay.
He sheathed himself in one brutal thrust, reveling in her choked scream as her walls stretched to accommodate him. Vicki's fingers clawed at the cushions, her back bowing as he set a punishing pace, hips slapping against her ass with enough force to leave bruises.
"Harder," she demanded, voice cracking.
Bruce obliged, gripping her hips tight enough to leave fingerprints as he pounded into her, the wet slap of skin on skin drowning out her ragged moans. The Darkest Knight surged through his veins, whispering filth *Make her bleed, *make her sob* but Bruce focused instead on the way Vicki's cunt fluttered around him, the way her breath hitched with each deep stroke.
He reached around to thumb her clit, and she came with a shattered cry, her walls milking him as he fucked her through the aftershocks. Bruce followed moments later, burying himself to the hilt as he spilled inside her with a groan, his forehead pressing between her shoulder blades.
Silence, save for their panting breaths.
Vicki collapsed onto her stomach, boneless, her hair sticking to her sweat-slicked skin. Bruce withdrew with a soft grunt, admiring the mess he'd made of her—the red marks on her hips, the way her thighs trembled, the glisten of his cum already leaking from her used cunt.
He traced a finger through the spill, gathering it up before pressing it to her lips. Vicki sucked it clean without hesitation, her tongue swirling around his fingertip.
"Still want that interview?" Bruce asked, voice dark with promise.
Vicki's grin was all teeth. "Oh, baby. We're just getting started."