Click.
Derek slid a fresh mag into his Glock as he walked, but the silence that followed wasn't comforting. The gunfire had stopped—never a good sign in a city like this.
He followed the crowd to the edge of the chaos. As expected, the gangbangers were long gone, leaving behind only a sea of uniforms and chalk outlines. Gotham's finest, busy bagging evidence and tagging bodies.
No wonder he blended in with the lookie-loos. In Gotham, as long as no one's still shooting, the locals treat a fresh crime scene like a pop-up gallery. Morbid curiosity wasn't just a trait here—it was a damn cultural institution.
Seeing the coast was clear, Derek tucked the pistol back into his waistband and peeled off his shredded, blood-spattered shirt. His bare chest caught a few stares, but he didn't care. He clapped a random bystander on the shoulder.
"What's your name?" he asked, casual as ever.
The guy turned, eyes drifting a bit too long over Derek's abs before answering.
"Uh, hey man, no offense—I'm not into dudes."
Derek narrowed his eyes. "I asked your name, not your orientation. You deaf or just stupid?"
He flashed the butt of his Glock and pressed it discreetly into the man's side.
The dude flinched. "Alright, alright—don't freak out. Just kidding, man. You look good, I panicked. You want my number or somethin', I'm game…"
Clunk.
Derek thumped the guy in the ribs with the pistol. "Try again. With less thirst."
"Okay, okay! Chill! Jesus, there's cops everywhere! Look, I just came out to grab condoms, alright? Wife's waiting, said she wants a rough night. I'm not tryna get involved in nothin'!"
Derek leaned in, voice low but sharp. "Which gangs were shootin'?"
The man snorted. "You serious? This is Falcone's turf. Always has been. Sabatini runs it for him. The guys they were scrappin' with? Russians. You could tell from the tracksuits and that vodka breath."
"You know where their bases are?"
"Hell no! What do I look like, a snitch? I do know there's this dive called the Iceberg Lounge, though. Lotta Falcone guys hang out there. That's all I got, man—I swear!"
"Iceberg Lounge. Got it."
Derek turned to leave, blending back into the dispersing crowd. He didn't care much for the GCPD—they hadn't bothered him yet. Maybe the shirtless look was too intimidating. Or maybe it was the crazy in his eyes.
People parted for him as he walked, like Moses parting a sea of drunks and rubberneckers. But he hadn't made it twenty feet before a voice cried out behind him.
"Help! That shirtless Asian guy—he threatened me with a gun! Tried to make me gay or somethin'! Asked about Falcone too—I think he's a Russian hitman!"
Derek froze mid-step.
"Motherf—"
He whipped around, gun already drawn. The idiot was pointing at him, running toward the cops.
Derek sprinted after him, shoulder-checking a bystander out of his path.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Three shots. Clean. The loudmouth hit the ground screaming, his legs wrecked. Derek strode up, crouched beside him, grabbed a handful of greasy hair, and snarled in his face.
"You know why you got shot? Not 'cause you ran to the cops. 'Cause you lied. I ask a simple question, and you cry 'gay panic' like we're in the goddamn '90s."
Then he kicked him square in the balls.
The man folded like a dying insect, twitching on the pavement. Derek dusted off his hands and turned to walk away. The crowd watched in horrified silence—until the first cop shouted.
"GCPD! Put the gun down!"
"Freeze! Hands on your head!"
"Don't shoot—wait! That guy's not normal!"
"Shit! It's that freak again!"
Bullets started flying. People screamed and scattered. Derek ducked, annoyed more than afraid.
Why even come to a murder scene if you can't handle a little screaming?
As he weaved through the chaos, a voice shouted over the gunfire.
"Stop shooting, dammit! Take him alive!"
"He's the one! That guy can't die!"
"He'll just come back like last time—don't waste him, trap him!"
"Goddamn it, you're shooting toward civilians!"
The voice belonged to an older cop. Looked late forties, but moved like he was twenty. In seconds, the man had broken from the formation and caught up.
"Freeze!"
Two warning shots kicked up dirt on either side of Derek's feet. He stopped, turned slowly.
"Well, you're fast."
Derek raised his gun lazily. The old man was faster.
Crack!
A bullet punched through the back of Derek's hand.
"Fuck!"
He staggered, clutching the wound.
"Damn… Dead-on shot…"
The cop fired again, this time at Derek's leg.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Derek dropped, blood gushing from his calf. He hit the concrete with a grunt and rolled onto his back, smirking through the pain.
Guess it was nap time again.
Before he could slip fully into unconsciousness, the cop was on top of him, pressing the barrel of his pistol to Derek's forehead.
"Get him cuffed. He's coming with us."
A female officer knelt beside them, cracking open a med kit. She started cutting Derek's pants and wrapping his leg with gauze.
He winced. "Damn, you cops give foot massages too? Where's the Yelp page?"
She jabbed a thumb into his wound.
"Asshole."
Nearby, other officers who'd seen Derek earlier rushed up.
"Captain Gordon! That's the guy!"
"Falcone's men shot him twice! Dimitrov's boys too! Then he burned up! Like, spontaneously combusted!"
"Swear to God, like a vampire in sunlight—gone in seconds, then he just came back!"
"No joke, sir!"
Gordon's mustache twitched. He gave them a measured nod.
"In Gotham… nothing's off the table."
"You're damn right, Captain."
Derek waved weakly from the ground. "Hey, Gordon. Knew it was you. Heart skipped a beat."
He grinned. "We should have a chat sometime. After I stop bleeding."
Then his eyes closed.
A moment later, they opened again.
New place. Perfect condition. No pain. No bandages. No handcuffs.
Derek stood slowly, stretching.
After dying once this morning, he'd started to understand his... talent.
It was simple.
He couldn't be held.
Three triggers. Death. Unconsciousness. Loss of free will.
Any one of them, and boom—he reset. Fully healed. Somewhere new.
"Hell of a power," he muttered, flexing his fingers.
And the city of Gotham? It was about to find out just how dangerous that made him.