The tunnels stank of smoke, blood, and the heavy weight of centuries-old terror.
Torchlight flickered across stone walls, throwing grotesque shadows that seemed to lunge at Jonathan as he moved forward.
Crane stayed close, rifle ready, eyes darting to every alcove.
Scrap's knife gleamed faintly, reflecting the dancing flames.
Isadora held the remnants of Vale's blueprint, her fingers gripping the pages like a lifeline.
The chant came first, low and rhythmic, building into a deafening roar. They had tracked it through winding corridors and collapsed chambers, down into the deepest heart of the city. And then they saw the ritual.
Dozens of masked figures stood in concentric circles around an altar. Bound at its center was a figure, barely visible beneath the hooded cloak, already marked with crimson streaks. Ash, wax, and soot littered the floor, carved symbols pulsing faintly in the torchlight as though alive.
Elijah presided at the head of the chamber, mask removed, scarred face illuminated by fire. Authority radiated from him older than the city, colder than the stones themselves.
"Tonight," he intoned, "we remind Gotham what it is made of. Blood. Ash. Silence. As it ever was, so it shall remain."
Jonathan's chest tightened. Rage and fear coiled inside him. He stepped forward.
"No," he called, voice sharp. "Tonight, the city will remember something else. That fire can burn back!"
The masked figures paused, uncertainty flickering through the ranks. For a heartbeat, the ritual itself seemed to waver.
Then chaos erupted.
Crane fired, the rifle's crack echoing through the tunnels. A mask shattered. Scrap lunged, knife flashing. Isadora ripped apart chalked symbols and scattered wax into the flames, creating thick smoke.
Jonathan fired, ducked, fired again each motion driven by fury, not strategy.
Amid the panic, Jonathan's eyes caught a figure at the edge of the circle. The stance, the way the shoulders shifted it was achingly familiar. His pulse quickened.
Could it be him? No, that was impossible… yet every fiber of his memory screamed recognition. The figure moved with precision, an uncanny mirror of someone Jonathan had lost long ago.
He could not tell if it was a trick of shadows, his imagination, or something far darker.
He shook his head, forcing himself to focus. The figure did not engage yet, only observed from the periphery, silent and unyielding.
The chaos intensified.
Masked figures surged forward. Crane swung his rifle with brutal efficiency, knocking back attackers. Scrap fought like a cornered animal.
Isadora's smoke-filled torches created walls of confusion. Jonathan advanced, heart hammering, trying to reach the altar.
Elijah's voice cut through the tumult. "ENOUGH!"
Even the fire seemed to bow at his command. The masked ranks froze. Elijah descended the steps to the altar slowly, deliberately, radiating an almost supernatural calm. His eyes locked on Jonathan.
"You have resisted," he said, voice resonating with the weight of centuries. "You have proven the truth of Gotham's debt. You are the Wayne. You are the flame. And the flame always burns first."
He pointed directly at Jonathan.
"A Wayne's blood is the foundation. It will be the payment. The city demands it."
The crowd roared, chanting Jonathan's name, reanimating the ritual's terror. Scrap surged forward but was blocked by two enforcers.
Crane was struck down, groaning as he fell. Isadora struggled to reach Jonathan through the press of masked bodies.
Jonathan stood alone, every muscle coiled, aware of the familiar presence at the edges of the chaos. Shadows moved with a rhythm he could not place.
The figure did not step forward, but the weight of its gaze pressed on him like a ghost from the past, or something darker still.
He closed his hand around the bullet carved with the Wayne crest, the oath he had sworn in the ruins above. His voice was a whisper to himself, barely audible above the chaos.
"If the city was built on blood… then mine will end the debt."
The altar flames roared, fed by fear, fire, and ash.
Elijah's eyes gleamed, unyielding, as the city itself seemed to lean in and watch. Somewhere in the shadows, the figure lingered, unmoving, watching Jonathan. A memory, a threat, a promise he could not tell.
And in the tunnels beneath Gotham, the reckoning had begun.