Splatter.
Splatter.
Chunks of flesh and bone hit the cracked concrete with a wet smack, sliding apart like spoiled meat left too long in the sun. The mangled remains of two men sprawled at Alex's feet, steam rising faintly from what had been their bodies. He didn't even glance at them. His expression stayed calm, detached, as if he were merely stepping over puddles after a rainstorm.
Ahead loomed the factory's massive steel gate—paint flaking, rust streaking the seams, the smell of oil and iron hanging thick in the air. Alex drew in a slow breath, raised his right hand, and curled his fingers into a fist.
Boom!
The punch landed like thunder. The entire gate buckled inward with a metallic shriek. For an instant the dent deepened, the frame trembling—then the whole thing tore free. The iron slab, easily weighing several tons, sailed through the air and crashed somewhere deep in the yard, the impact echoing through the complex like distant artillery.
> "What the hell?!"
"What's going on out there?!"
Inside, both sides of the gun-running deal froze mid-transaction. The clatter of magazines and the murmur of whispered negotiations died instantly. Even hardened traffickers blinked in disbelief. That door was solid steel. No man should have been able to punch it open.
Within seconds, panic turned to survival instinct. Buyers, sellers, lookouts, and muscle alike snatched for their weapons. Safety catches clicked off. The scent of gun oil mixed with fear-sweat until the air itself seemed ready to ignite.
Then came the footsteps.
Step, step, step.
Step, step, step.
Measured, unhurried, echoing through the cavernous hall. In the shattered doorway appeared a lone figure—a young man walking through the drifting dust as calmly as if he were entering his own home. Moonlight spilled behind him, turning his outline into something almost unreal.
When the gang members saw his face clearly, recognition hit like a collective electric shock.
> It's him… the lunatic from TV… the one they called Homelander.
No one dared breathe for a beat.
> "I warned you," Alex said at last, his voice cutting through the silence like tempered steel. "Anyone who continues to commit crimes in Gotham is defying me. Unfortunately… you chose to do exactly that."
He paused, gaze sweeping the room.
> "So now, I'll have to kill you."
He said it without anger, without emphasis—merely stating fact. The calmness was worse than rage. It sounded like the weather report announcing a coming storm.
For a second no one moved. Then nervous laughter broke the spell.
> "Another freak who thinks he's Batman! Kill him!"
The command snapped the room back to life.
Ratatatat!
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Gunfire erupted like a sudden squall, muzzle flashes strobing the walls. Bullets screamed toward Alex in glittering arcs.
He didn't even blink.
Each round struck his body with a sharp metallic ping, flattening or ricocheting away. Sparks flashed off his skin. When the smoke began to thicken, his eyes kindled—a faint glow that swelled into two blinding crimson beams.
> "Aaaaaah—!"
"God, no—!"
The beams carved through the haze. Flesh burst, bone vaporized, screams tore the air apart. Heads popped like melons under a hammer. Blood sprayed across the concrete pillars and splattered the corrugated walls in dark ribbons.
> "Monster! He's a monster!"
"God help us—what is he?!"
"Please—spare me! Spare me!"
Terror spread faster than the bullets had. The bravest among them dropped their rifles, trembling too violently to pick them up again. They had fought police raids, rival mobs, even vigilantes—but this was something else. Bullets meant nothing to him, and from his eyes came death itself.
Even in Gotham—a city already steeped in insanity—this was beyond the realm of belief.
Alex advanced slowly through the chaos, silent, methodical, merciless. His heat vision swept the room like a farmer's scythe cutting down a field. Flesh, metal, and concrete melted alike beneath its red glare.
Fzzzt. Fzzzt. Fzzzt.
Within minutes the screams faltered, dwindled, and were gone. Smoke and the stench of burned flesh hung heavy in the still air. Only Alex remained standing amid the ruin.
He surveyed the scene, expression unreadable, then gave a small nod.
> "Let's leave a signature."
He narrowed one eye. A thin beam of heat lanced downward, sizzling across the floor. Slowly, deliberately, he etched three letters into the scorched concrete—each stroke glowing orange before fading black:
H O M E L A N D E R
No cameras, no witnesses, only corpses to bear testimony. But that was enough. The police would find it soon enough, and word would spread.
If he wanted Gotham to fear the name Homelander, he would make sure they did. Boldly. Openly.
> "Done," he murmured. "Next."
Boom.
The air rippled—and he was gone.
---
Almost simultaneously, he reappeared in a narrow alley on Gotham's outskirts. The city's neon glow barely reached here; shadows pooled between overflowing dumpsters.
Ahead, a small scene unfolded—commonplace for this city, grotesque anywhere else.
A middle-aged man in a sweat-stained fedora had a pistol pressed against the forehead of a trembling young lawyer. The victim's briefcase lay open, papers soaking in a puddle.
> "Help? You really think someone's coming to help you?" the gunman sneered. "Even the Waynes were murdered! This is Gotham, you idiot!"
He cocked the hammer with a decisive click.
The lawyer shut his eyes, lips moving in a broken prayer. His knees threatened to give out—until, all at once, his shaking stopped. A different kind of terror widened his eyes. He was staring past the gunman, mouth hanging open.
The killer frowned, half-turning—and froze.
A young man stood a few feet behind him, silent as the grave. No footsteps, no warning. He was simply there, as if the shadows themselves had shaped into flesh.
> "Who the hell are you?!" the gunman barked, spinning around, gun leveled. "You want to live, you walk away—now!"
Normally he would have pulled the trigger already. But something in those calm blue eyes drained the strength from his fingers. Some primitive instinct whispered that firing would be the last thing he ever did.
> "I told you," Alex said, voice low and merciless. "There will be no criminals in Gotham. Anyone who commits a crime—dies."
Recognition flickered across the man's face, twisting into disbelief.
> "You—Homelander! It's really you!"
A half-hysterical laugh burst out of him.
> "The psycho from TV? You came all the way here? Fine—die then, freak!"
Bang!
He fired—but Alex had already moved.
Crack!
The punch landed like a cannon blast. The man's chest caved inward, ribs shattering, heart crushed to pulp. He hit the ground with a dull thud, dead before the echo faded.
The young lawyer remained frozen where he stood, staring at Alex with wide, horrified eyes. Saved—but not comforted. In the dim alley light, the man who had rescued him looked far more terrifying than the killer had.
Alex didn't speak to him. He turned away, raised a finger, and burned the name HOMELANDER into the cracked pavement. The smell of scorched asphalt filled the air.
Then he vanished again, leaving only the corpse, the survivor, and the glowing letters that seared themselves into memory.
---
That night, Alex appeared again and again across Gotham—an unrelenting phantom moving through the dark.
Wherever he went, blood followed.
Wherever his name was branded into the ground, fear followed.
By midnight, the city was drenched in both.
That day would be remembered in whispers and headlines alike—
the night Gotham learned the price of defying Homelander,
the night its streets ran red like a river of blood.
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