The storm rolled heavy over Gotham, rain cutting across the skyline in silver threads. Lightning flashed against gargoyles and broken windows, a brief spotlight over a city too used to shadows. Gotham belonged to the night, and Oblivion thrived in it.
From a rooftop overlooking the docks, he crouched low, his coat clinging damp to his frame. His eyes, sharp as razors yet deceptively calm, scanned the scene below. Crates. Armed men. SUVs lined up in a row like vultures waiting for the feast. The contract tonight was direct: a senator's trafficking ring dismantled before it could slip too deep underground.
Oblivion had seen filth like this for centuries. Greedy men who thought their wealth made them untouchable. But trafficking children? Metahuman children at that? That crossed lines few dared to touch.
He adjusted his grip on his pistols—Deadpool's kind of weaponry, but tempered with runes only he understood. Beside them, blades glistened faintly beneath the storm. His tools weren't just for killing. They were reminders that balance required sharp edges.
The first guard fell silently. A suppressed shot carried by thunder.
The second barely had time to shiver before a blade traced his throat, Oblivion's presence already gone before his knees hit the ground.
Oblivion moved like the rain itself—every drop part of him, every shadow an ally. The men below barked into radios, panicked as their earpieces filled with static. Fifteen guards had stood proud minutes ago. Ten remained now, trembling.
A flash of steel, a whisper of boots on metal crates, the faintest flicker of a coat—then another body collapsed.
When the last guard realized he was alone, Oblivion was already behind him, one hand covering his mouth, the other pressing a blade just close enough to let him feel its cold promise. "Sleep," he murmured. And the man did, silenced with brutal efficiency.
The senator's laughter died as he realized the silence wasn't normal. His cigar fell from his lips, hissing in the rain. He spun, seeing the carnage. Then, in the corner of his vision, a figure in a trench coat.
Oblivion stepped into the light, his presence heavy but composed. He didn't raise his weapon. He didn't need to.
"You sell children," Oblivion said, his voice calm, steady, stripped of theatrics. That calm made it worse.
The senator stammered, "I—I can pay you. Double—no, triple—"
"I don't want your money." Oblivion's eyes glowed faintly, stormlight catching the strange depth within them. Death and charm. Agelessness wrapped in handsomeness. "I want your ruin."
The senator stumbled back against the SUV as Oblivion handed him his own phone. The man blinked down at it—his entire empire bared open. Bank accounts. Offshore transfers. Names of partners. All forwarded, not just to the police, but to the press, rival politicians, and anyone who might tear him apart.
By dawn, the senator wouldn't be arrested. He'd be devoured.
Oblivion turned, vanishing into the storm without another word.
But he hadn't gone unseen.
High above, Batman stood perched on a rooftop opposite, cape drawn tight against the rain. His binoculars caught only fragments—guards dropping one by one, the faint silhouette of a man who didn't move like any ordinary assassin. When he blinked, the figure was gone, only the wreckage left behind.
Bruce lowered the lenses, jaw tight. Into the comm, he growled, "He's here."
Wonder Woman's voice carried softly through the link. "Are you certain?"
"I didn't see his face. But his work…" Batman's mind replayed the precision, the silence, the way the senator had collapsed without a hand laid on him. "Fifteen men down in minutes. No wasted movement. No mistakes. This isn't an amateur."
"You think he's like you," Diana said.
Bruce's silence was telling. He didn't want to admit it. The detective in him recognized skill when he saw it. But this was more. Older. Colder.
Finally, he muttered, "No. He's not like me. He's something else."
He stepped closer to the rooftop ledge, scanning for any trace. The rain made the world blurry, but one detail stood out—a small etching scratched into the stone beneath his boots. A word, carved into granite as if the rock itself had yielded.
Balance.
Batman's eyes narrowed. The script was ancient, not Latin, not Greek. He filed it away instantly, his mind already building connections.
He tapped his comm again. "Diana. He left something."
Her tone sharpened. "What?"
"A mark. Something old. You'll want to see it."
There was a pause, then her voice dropped. "The Amazons spoke of a ghost like this. A man who served balance, moving through centuries, striking where the world was weakest. We thought it was myth."
Batman turned back to the empty dock. Rain poured down, washing away footprints that had never been there to begin with. "It's no myth. He's real. And he's watching us."
From a rooftop farther along the harbor, Oblivion stood with arms crossed, watching the Dark Knight in the storm. His lips tugged into the faintest smirk.
"Detectives," he whispered, his voice swallowed by thunder. "Always chasing shadows."
And then he was gone—nothing but rain, nothing but rumor.