The rain fell hard on Gotham's docks as smugglers worked under dim floodlights, stacking crates and preparing a shipment of alien weaponry bound for the black market. They moved with the kind of discipline that suggested they were well-paid and well-armed, but there was a weight in the air none of them could explain. The shadows around the containers seemed thicker than usual, the silence between thunder too heavy.
A guard reached for his cigarette, flicking the lighter nervously. He thought he saw movement at the far end of the dock, a tall figure in a trench coat walking slowly toward them. The others followed his line of sight, and panic set in almost immediately. Guns came up, shouts echoed across the dock, and a storm of bullets tore through the night. But the figure wasn't there.
One by one, the smugglers vanished into the darkness, silenced by quick strikes and the glint of steel. A blade whispered out of its sheath. A man fell without a sound. By the time thunder rolled again, only one smuggler remained—frozen, staring as the figure stepped into the dim light. Six-foot-four, trench coat flowing, mask covering the lower half of his face. His eyes glowed faintly amber, unreadable and cold.
"Oblivion," the man gasped, voice breaking.
The assassin didn't reply. He wiped the blade clean on the man's jacket, then sheathed it in one smooth motion. "Weapons trafficking. Corrupt hands. Balance restored," he said quietly before fading back into the shadows.
The Justice League soon learned of the incident, and it wasn't the first. Similar operations across the globe had been dismantled in recent weeks, each with the same pattern: corrupt officials exposed, crime lords dead, weapons destroyed. No fingerprints, no DNA, only whispers of a ghost named Oblivion.
In the Watchtower, the debate was heated. Superman was adamant—"This isn't justice. He's executing people." Wonder Woman countered with a measured voice, "And yet, his blade spares those who are innocent. There is discipline in his actions." J'onn J'onzz admitted unease. He had tried to sense this assassin more than once, but found nothing. "It is as though he doesn't exist," J'onn explained. "His mind is… void. A ghost where a man should be." Batman, leaning in the shadows, was silent for a long time before speaking. "He's precise. Careful. This isn't random. Whoever he is, he knows exactly what he's doing."
Later that night, Batman found himself standing on a Gotham rooftop across from the man himself. Oblivion leaned casually against the ledge, rain dripping off his coat.
"You've been following me," Oblivion said without turning.
"You've been sloppy," Batman replied.
A faint smirk touched the assassin's lips. "Sloppy? You found me because I let you. Don't flatter yourself, Detective."
"Who are you?" Batman demanded.
Oblivion finally turned, his eyes glowing faintly in the darkness. "A ghost. A rumor. Nothing you can trace. Call me Oblivion."
Batman studied him carefully, weighing every word. "You kill because you think it's justice."
"I kill because cages can't hold everyone," Oblivion replied coldly. "You lock them away. I make sure they never crawl out again." And with that, he stepped into the shadows and vanished, his voice lingering in the air. "Don't follow me."
Days later in Metropolis, Superman encountered Oblivion in the most unexpected way. No trench coat, no mask, just a tall man sitting at an outdoor café in a sleek black turtleneck and tan overcoat, sipping espresso as though he were any other citizen. But Superman recognized him instantly, the faint aura of wrongness clinging to him. Their eyes locked.
"You're him," Superman said under his breath, stepping closer. "The assassin."
Oblivion leaned back in his chair, one corner of his mouth lifting into a confident smirk. "Assassin? Such a cold word. I prefer… efficient."
Superman's hand closed on his shoulder, but Oblivion only smiled faintly. "Careful, Boy Scout. People are watching. Wouldn't want to ruin that clean image of yours."
Before Superman could reply, a passerby brushed between them. In that brief instant, Oblivion was gone, his cup still steaming on the table.
When the League next clashed with LexCorp mercenaries over stolen alien technology, they found Oblivion already there, cutting through the hired guns with calculated efficiency. He moved like liquid shadow, blades glowing faintly with runes as they cut through energy shields and armor alike. The League burst in, and Wonder Woman intercepted him mid-strike, her bracers catching his blade.
"Enough!" she shouted. "This is not your war!"
Oblivion's masked face tilted slightly, eyes narrowing. "Every war is my war when the innocent pay for it."
Green Lantern lashed out, Superman charged forward, but Oblivion was untouchable. Each strike they threw hit nothing but shadow. He reappeared behind them, always steps ahead, always focused. Batman shouted for the team to stop, his voice cutting through the chaos. "He's not our enemy!"
Oblivion lowered his blade, staring at Batman for a long moment before sheathing it. His voice was quiet, calm, absolute. "You fight for tomorrow. I fight for balance. Don't get in my way again." And then he was gone.
The League debated him afterward in the Watchtower. Superman was furious, Wonder Woman conflicted, J'onn unsettled. Batman gave the final word. "He's useful," he said. "He goes where we can't. He does what we won't. Keep your eyes open. But don't chase a ghost."
Meanwhile, Oblivion walked alone through the back alleys of Gotham in civilian clothes, coat draped neatly over his shoulders. People passed him without a second glance, their minds erasing the memory of his face before they even turned the corner. He stopped briefly at a nondescript building, slipping through a side door. Inside, waiting for him, was a woman with the League of Assassins—someone he knew but had never called friend.
"You still walk between us and them," she said softly, her eyes sharp.
Oblivion adjusted his coat, his expression unreadable. "I walk where I choose. You know that."
The League of Assassins kept the only real records of him. They knew he existed. They knew his name. But even among them, he was more myth than man, a mercenary who lived by a code no one could break.
And as he disappeared back into the night, his voice was low, steady, certain. "Balance restored. For now."