Metropolis wore its wealth like a crown. Towers of glass reached into the night, neon signs painted the streets in restless colors, and the hum of traffic never faded. But Oblivion knew the truth: no city was clean. Not Gotham, not Metropolis, not even Themyscira in its myths. Corruption hid behind every polished smile. That's why he existed. To keep balance where no one else could.
He leaned casually against a lamppost outside the Royal Crown Hotel, rain dripping from the brim of his coat. On the surface, he looked like any handsome passerby—tall, sharp-dressed, the kind of man who drew glances without effort. But his eyes… his eyes told another story. There was charm in them, yes, but also the weight of centuries, a presence that unsettled anyone who held his gaze too long. They felt death in him, and they didn't even know why.
Tonight's contract had brought him here. The target: Victor Korrin, a philanthropist on paper, a trafficker in truth. Men like Korrin had always existed—buying power with money, buying silence with fear. They believed themselves untouchable. Oblivion's job was to remind them otherwise.
The hotel doors slid open. Korrin emerged flanked by two bodyguards, smugness radiating off him as he laughed into his phone. He carried himself like a man untouchable, like every move he made was shielded by his money and connections. Oblivion pushed off the lamppost, sliding into the slow tide of pedestrians.
He didn't stalk. He didn't rush. He walked like he belonged, like he had all the time in the world. Yet when the group reached the waiting limo, one guard was already sagging against the hood, a tiny dart buried in the side of his neck. The second turned in confusion, only to meet the flash of steel that kissed his throat. No scream, no time for panic. Just silence.
Korrin spun, horror breaking through his arrogance. His phone buzzed in his trembling hand, but when he lifted it, the screen wasn't showing his call anymore. It was filled with files. Names. Accounts. Photographs. Evidence. Every secret he thought safe was staring back at him.
A voice slid past his ear, low, calm, undeniable.
"Your empire ends tonight. I don't need to kill you. You'll do that yourself."
Korrin's breath hitched. He whirled around, searching the sidewalk. But the tall man with the coat had already vanished into the rain, his face burned into memory yet somehow ungraspable, like a dream dissolving upon waking.
Far across the city, candles flickered inside a loft lined with shelves of grimoires and enchanted relics. Zatanna sat cross-legged on the rug, hands weaving subtle gestures as she tested a divination charm. She hadn't been seeking him—at least, not consciously.
But suddenly, the magic rippled.
It hit her like a stone dropped into still water. A distortion, ancient yet sharp, not chaotic like demonic power, not divine like the gods. This was something balanced, deliberate, honed to a blade's edge. It was not merely an act of violence she sensed, but a presence—a will that pressed against the weave of magic itself.
Her lips parted slightly, and the spell broke in her hands. "That… shouldn't be possible."
She closed her eyes, focusing. For the briefest instant she caught the silhouette: a tall figure, trench coat trailing, eyes that cut like death but gleamed with something dangerously human. Then, nothing. He'd covered his tracks with such precision that the impression was already gone, leaving only the faint ache of magic disturbed.
Zatanna exhaled, uneasy. Whoever he was, he hadn't wanted to be found. And the more she thought about it, the more she realized that was exactly why she needed to find him.
Later that night, Oblivion moved along the rooftops of Metropolis. His boots touched gravel without a sound, coat swaying like a phantom's cloak. The contract was finished. Korrin's empire would crumble before dawn, law enforcement and journalists tearing him apart with the very evidence Oblivion had left behind.
He paused, feeling the faint brush of magic across the air. Someone had tried to see him earlier. Someone talented. He didn't need to guess who—it had Zatanna's curiosity all over it.
His lips curved slightly, the expression unreadable. "Little sorceress," he murmured. "Best to keep your distance."
And with that, he stepped forward—and the city seemed to swallow him whole, leaving nothing but the whisper of rain against empty stone.