The city above was restless, but Oblivion wasn't listening to Gotham tonight. He moved through its veins—tunnels, forgotten tracks, and hollowed stone—where silence pressed in heavy, broken only by water dripping against rust. His stride was smooth, unhurried, like a shadow that had simply chosen to take form.
The contract had reached him in whispers. A disturbance below. Not men, not gangs. Something else. The kind of task mortals avoided, the kind that found its way to him.
He passed through the dark with no light to guide him. He didn't need it. His senses stretched outward, pulling on every vibration, every faint shift of air. Somewhere ahead, something scraped against concrete, claws tracing lines into the walls.
He stopped.
From the dark, a pale figure slid forward—its limbs too long, its back hunched, its eyes burning like dying embers. It hissed, steaming saliva dripping between jagged teeth.
Oblivion simply tilted his head. "Pathetic."
The demon lunged. He shifted a step, coat trailing with his movement, drawing a blade with silent precision. Steel met claw, the clash ringing against the tunnels. Sparks lit the darkness. The creature shrieked, pulling back, voice tearing like gravel.
"The ghost… the ghost still walks."
Oblivion's eyes, cold and ageless, locked on it. He didn't respond. His silence was answer enough.
The ground trembled. More poured from the cracks—slender things with scales and heads set in their torsos, creatures with limbs bent backward, voices chattering in unison.
"The ghost… the ghost… he cages the living, he cages the dead…"
Oblivion drew his second blade. His breath remained even, his stance calm. Not a flicker of emotion crossed his face.
They attacked.
He moved like a current through still water—cutting, twisting, striking with precision so clean it was almost quiet. A throat opened under his blade, spilling shadow. A clawed hand was severed before it touched him. A skull cracked against the wall, crushed without hesitation.
The creatures screamed, but he did not react. Their voices meant nothing. Their fear, their awe, their hatred—it slid off him like rain against stone.
One tried to wrap its body around him, twisting serpentine limbs tight. He drove a blade through its torso without breaking stride, letting it collapse in silence. Another rushed from behind; he stepped aside, let it stumble past, then cut it down without a glance.
He didn't need speed born of panic. He didn't need rage. Everything he did was exact, measured, inevitable.
Shadows bled from the walls, forming more bodies. They were endless. Still, Oblivion's expression never shifted.
One voice broke from the others, layered and echoing. "The Frostbearer comes! Even you cannot unmake the winter!"
Oblivion's gaze rested on it a moment. "Then it will break all the same."
Light flared along his blade, not fire but something older, colder. His strike tore through the demon, leaving its body burning in silence. The others faltered, whispering his name, their voices thin and trembling.
He cut them down without pause, without effort wasted. When the last fell, the tunnels grew still again.
Oblivion cleaned his blade with one motion, sheathed it, and walked deeper into the dark. His pace hadn't changed. His expression hadn't changed.
The silence that followed wasn't peace. It was the pause before something larger moved. He could feel it, like pressure in the bones of the world.
But Oblivion did not fear it. He never feared. He only prepared.