Bang!
The sound echoed like a heavy object slamming into the ground.
The Claw lay motionless, clutching its collapsed chest. Even though it had undergone years of brutal training by the Court to be an emotionless killer, what happened in the last sixty seconds had shaken both its body and spirit.
Just one minute ago, half of the elite assassins surged forward, charging at the lunatic in the red cape.
They thought bringing down this unknown force would be as easy as defeating Batman. But reality, ever the cruel teacher, struck them down hard and fast—like a shrewish slap to the face.
The first Claw to leap forward had his head smashed in by Jack with a single punch. His blood, unnaturally blue, burst out like fireworks and splattered across every surface of the Batcave.
What followed was nothing short of a massacre.
Simple punches crushed skulls. Swift kicks shattered ribs. Heat vision lanced through the darkness, splitting bodies in half with searing precision.
The Claws, who believed they held the upper hand just moments before, were now rapidly awakening to a horrifying truth.
The man in the red cape wasn't just powerful—he was unstoppable.
And while their focus had been drawn to this overpowering intruder, Batman, ever the strategist, took full advantage. Using the chaos, he struck from the shadows, eliminating enemies one by one.
The tide had turned. What was once a coordinated, overwhelming ambush now lay in ruins. The invincible had fallen. The plan—thoroughly shattered.
"Cough... cough..."
The Claw removed its night vision goggles, revealing a pale, hollow face. With trembling limbs, it tried to rise from the ground.
But before it could even lift its torso, a heavy black boot pinned its skull to the floor.
"Shhh. Don't move."
The voice came from the young man standing above. Jack.
He was smiling, but not out of kindness. His eyes gleamed with something darker—an expression of release, maybe even joy.
"Honestly, this is my first time…"
"Killing?" the Claw croaked.
Jack stared at the assassin beneath his foot. A trace of melancholy passed over his face.
Defining what makes someone human is a question philosophers and psychologists have debated for centuries. The infamous "wolf-child" experiment came to mind. Were these Claws—brainwashed weapons of the Court—still to be considered human?
Jack wasn't sure.
What he did know, though, was more disturbing.
He didn't feel the slightest bit of disgust at killing.
No. In fact, this body—this young, powerful body—felt strangely accustomed to it.
That realization sent a curious shiver through him.
A soul adrift in time. A "lone soul and wild ghost." A Superman who didn't mind killing.
It only made Jack more curious about himself.
He glanced toward Batman and Alfred, who were using grappling hooks to bind the remaining unconscious Claws. Their likely destination? A lifetime in maximum-security prisons.
But Jack had no interest in their fates.
"Let's see…"
In a blink, Jack appeared beside Batman. He conjured a notepad and pen and began scribbling furiously.
"Compensation: $20 million for dragging me into this conflict without consent."
"Combat fee: 25 Claws eliminated, $1 million per Claw. That's $25 million."
"Energy expenditure: Using heat vision weakened me. Nutrition fee: $10 million."
"Mental stress: The risk of Court retaliation deserves $10 million in damages."
"Subtotal: $65 million... Discounted: $50 million."
Batman didn't answer. His eyes lingered on the Claws, who had all collapsed, white foam forming at the corners of their mouths.
He crouched, pried open their jaws, and observed them carefully.
"There's poison embedded in their molars," Batman said grimly.
The weight of that realization sank heavily onto him. The Court of Owls was far more dangerous and ruthless than he had ever imagined.
Just then, Alfred stepped out of the shadows, his hands holding a sleek black card.
"Mr. Jack, this is a black card with a $100 million daily limit. You will forever be a friend of the Wayne family."
Jack grinned and took the card, pocketing it with satisfaction.
"Very sensible."
With that, he lifted off the ground, rocketed upward, and blasted through the Batcave's ceiling.
A streak of red vanished into the night sky.
Alfred stared up at the gaping hole in the ceiling. "Master Bruce, your friend is extremely reliable… and rather dramatic. Perhaps we should consider installing a skylight?"
Batman didn't respond immediately. Instead, he settled in at the Batcomputer, typing steadily. A list of numbers began scrolling across the screen.
Alfred walked up behind him.
"It seems Mr. Jack has a keen interest in food. But, Master, isn't it somewhat unethical to spy on your friends?"
The screen blinked.
[Iceberg Restaurant: $1.00 spent]
"I know, Alfred. I know," Bruce said softly, removing his cowl.
His face was weary, hollowed out by sleepless nights and endless battles.
"I just need to confirm a few things. That's all."
Iceberg Restaurant
A decadent high-end club, a jewel in the criminal empire of Gotham's infamous Penguin.
Its main clientele? The corrupt, the influential, the depraved.
Quick money always leaves a trace in the criminal code. But Penguin had always been careful—his operations subtle, protected, and widely spread across Gotham.
Tonight, however, the front doors were met by an unexpected visitor.
Two towering security guards, dressed in black suits, blocked the entrance. Their bulging muscles and emotionless expressions made it clear—they were not just hired muscle, but trained killers.
"Hey!" one of them barked.
The man in the blue uniform and red cape stopped in front of the entrance. His face was cold, unreadable.
"No entry without an invitation," the guard growled.
His partner subtly pulled open his suit jacket, revealing the black pistol holstered beneath.
The message was clear: Leave or die.
"Wow, a pistol," Jack said with a mock gasp, raising both hands in exaggerated fear. "Should I feel scared now?"
Without waiting for a reply, the first guard lunged forward and grabbed for Jack's throat.
"Listen up, freak. I'm tired of you comic book weirdos wearing your underwear outside your pants. You need to be taught a lesson—"
Crack!
The guard's hand never even touched Jack's neck.
Instead, his arm was seized mid-air, and in a blink, his entire body was hurled backward. He crashed through the bulletproof glass behind him, demolished several tables, and landed hard on the floor inside the restaurant—completely unconscious.
Chaos erupted inside the Iceberg Restaurant.
"Who the hell is that?!"
"God—he just killed him!"
Before the panic could escalate further, Jack flew in through the shattered window and landed in the center of the room.
"Ladies and gentlemen, the Iceberg Restaurant is now officially booked for tonight!"
The crowd froze. Then, laughter broke out.
"Oh God, another lunatic from Metropolis."
"Gotham attracts the strangest nutjobs."
"Who does he think he is, breaking into Penguin's place?"
But then—
Buzz!
A blinding red beam carved its way through the marble floor, hissing with heat as it formed one word:
DEATH
Silence fell.
Jack's eyes still glowed red, the heat vision simmering out.
He looked around at the diners, now frozen in growing horror.
"You have one minute," Jack said flatly.
"Run—or die here."