Location: Gotham City
Time: 00:00
The shipyard was alive with nervous movement. Floodlights cut jagged cones through the fog, but the shadows were deeper still—thicker than the night itself. The smell of rotting fish clung to the air, making every breath sour.
Masked men moved crates, checked guns, shouted orders. But no one raised their voice too high. Not here. Not in Gotham.
On a steel beam above them, a figure crouched silently, cape trailing like a shadow given form. Watching. Waiting.
Two guards broke away from the main group, walking along the pier, boots clanging against the damp metal grates.
Guard 1 (muttering): "I don't like this, man. Place gives me the creeps."
Guard 2 (snorting): "Relax, G. We're in and out. Drop the shipment, get paid, end of story."
Guard 1: "Easy for you to say. What if he shows up?"
Guard 2 (laughs, shaking his head): "Who? The Bat? Come on. There's, what, fifty of us here? Fifty with automatics. He's just one guy. One freak in a cape."
A sound broke through the night—a high, piercing scream from somewhere deep inside the yard. It echoed off the steel containers, sharp enough to cut bone.
Every man froze. The two guards whipped their heads around.
Guard 1 (voice cracking): "…the hell was that?"
Guard 2 (trying to sound tough, failing): "Nothin'. Probably one of the boys droppin' a crate."
Another scream—louder, closer this time. Then a sickening thud.
The men near the pier went pale. One of them muttered a prayer under his breath.
Guard 1 (whispering): "That wasn't a crate."
The shadows above shifted—just for a heartbeat. A blur of black against black. Gone before their eyes could lock on.
Guard 2 (shaking, raising his rifle): "…no, no, no… it's him."
Guard 1 (breathing fast, clutching his gun): "It's the Bat."
Silence fell. No birds. No wind. Just the sound of boots shuffling nervously on metal and the faint ripple of water against the docks.
Somewhere in the dark, a voice—deep, gravelly, unhuman—slid through the night:
Batman (off-screen, low and sharp): "You picked the wrong city."
The men spun in every direction, guns snapping up to cover empty air.
Another scream split the night. Another body hit the ground.
Panic spread like wildfire.
Guard 2 (yelling): "He's pickin' us off! Keep together, damn it!"
But already, they were scattering.
Batman dropped from the rafters like a thunderclap, boots cracking against the pier as his hand clamped onto the nearest guard's rifle. With a sharp twist, the weapon was wrenched free, barrel bent useless in seconds.
Before the man could react, Batman drove his fist into his gut with the precision of a sledgehammer. The guard doubled over, retching bile onto the concrete, collapsing to his knees. One down.
Fear spreads faster than fire.
The others saw him now—five men, adrenaline kicking in, weapons already raised. They screamed, the panic raw in their voices.
Guard: "Light him up!"
Gunfire erupted, muzzle flashes tearing through the darkness. But Batman was already in motion, cape unfurling like the wings of a demon. Bullets smacked into the reinforced Kevlar weave—absorbed, deflected, slowed—but he was never still long enough for them to get a clean shot.
He hurled a smoke pellet to the floor. It cracked open with a hiss, the dense black fog rising instantly, swallowing the five men whole. Their coughing echoed in the mist, loud, clumsy, terrified.
Guns first. Always guns first.
A shadow in smoke, Batman lunged. He caught the first thug's wrist mid-firearm sweep, wrenching it until bone cracked, the weapon clattering uselessly. A knee rose into the man's jaw—CRACK—and he collapsed unconscious.
The second turned, eyes wide, firing blindly into the haze. Batman was already behind him. A gloved hand closed over the muzzle, wrenching the weapon upward. His elbow drove into the thug's temple, knocking him out cold before the man even hit the floor.
Sloppy. Untrained. These aren't soldiers—they're desperate. Paid muscle. And they're scared.
The third guard broke ranks, coughing, swinging wildly with the butt of his rifle. Batman sidestepped, grabbed the weapon by the barrel, and used it as leverage to spin the man off balance. A palm-strike to the sternum sent him sprawling back into a crate, gasping for air that wouldn't come.
The last two tried sticking together, backs pressed, rifles raised. It didn't matter. Batman rose from the smoke behind them, silent as death. A swift chokehold dropped the first into unconsciousness, body limp, hitting the ground like a sack of cement. The last spun in terror—only to be lifted off the ground by his collar and slammed against the side of a shipping container hard enough to rattle the steel.
The man struggled, wheezing, eyes darting in sheer terror beneath his ski mask. Batman's shadow engulfed him completely.
Batman (low, gravelly): "Where's the shipment?"
The guard stammered, voice trembling. "I–I don't know! Please, man, I don't—"
Batman's fist smashed into the container next to the thug's head, denting steel.
Batman: "Wrong answer."
The guard's scream tore through the shipyard like a warning siren. Men froze mid-step, eyes darting toward the shadows, and even the stink of rotting fish couldn't drown out the scent of fear.
The broken thug slumped against the container, eyes glassy, drool spilling from his mouth. He was alive—but his mind would never be the same. He trembled like a man who had seen the Devil and knew he'd be back for him.
Fear works faster than pain. Fear spreads. Let it spread.
Batman turned without a word, his cape wrapping around him like a shroud, each step deliberate, echoing across the steel grating. He moved toward the central cargo ship—the heart of the operation.
As he stepped into the cargo bay, floodlights snapped on in unison, blinding white. Dozens of barrels clicked into place. Rifles, pistols, shotguns—all aimed squarely at him.
Thug Captain: "There he is! Light him up!"
Batman stood still, cape drawn across his frame like a wall. He didn't flinch. Didn't move. Just… waited.
The men hesitated. Fingers twitched on triggers, but none pulled.
They're scared. Good. Scared men make mistakes.
A rookie guard finally cracked, firing a wild burst. The muzzle flash lit his face—and in the split second of light, Batman was gone.
"Where the hell—?!"
A scream erupted above them. One thug was yanked into the rafters, boots scraping steel, cut off mid-shout. Then silence.
Panic spread like wildfire.
Another guard spun too quickly, discharging his rifle into a comrade's leg. The man went down screaming.
Then the smoke came—hissing pellets bouncing across the floor, choking the bay in black fog.
Divide them. Confuse them. Break them.
Shapes moved in the haze—shadows that weren't there. Men coughed, choked, whirled around, firing at ghosts.
Then, a CRACK. A batarang took out the overhead light, plunging half the ship into darkness.
A guard stumbled back, eyes wide, breath short. Then Batman erupted from the smoke, cape whipping like wings. A gauntleted fist smashed into his jaw—teeth and blood spraying before the man hit the floor, unconscious.
Another thug tried to rally, screaming: "He's just one man! ONE MAN!"
Batman's voice cut through the fog, cold and guttural, echoing off the steel:
Batman: "I'm more than that."
Bane stepped out of the haze like a monster born from it. The hydraulic hiss of his venom tubes cut through the chaos, glowing green as the liquid surged into his muscles. The mask hid his face, but not the gleam of savage amusement in his eyes. He clapped his massive hands together, the sound echoing like a gunshot.
Bane: "Indeed… you are more than a man. You are the Bat. And I—"
He spread his arms wide, commanding absolute fear.
Bane: "—am the one who breaks you."
He raised one fist, and with just a gesture, every gun lowered. None dared disobey. The men melted into the shadows, leaving their monster to do the work.
Bane charged, each step a thunderclap against the metal flooring. Batman moved to intercept, but the sheer momentum was too much—Bane's arm swung like a wrecking ball. It connected with Batman's ribs, launching him across the shipyard into a stack of crates that exploded into splinters.
The Dark Knight hit the ground hard, his cape draped over him like a fallen shadow. His ribs screamed with pain. He gritted his teeth.
He's stronger. Faster. Enhanced. Don't fight his strength… exploit his weakness.
Bane stalked forward, his massive frame blotting out the shipyard lights.
Bane: "I broke you before, Batman. I can break you again."
With a hiss, he pressed the trigger on his glove. Venom surged through his veins, pumping his muscles to grotesque size. His veins bulged, his breathing grew ragged, and his body swelled with raw, toxic power.
Batman's fingers twitched beneath his cape. Smoke pellet. He crushed it. A burst of black fog engulfed Bane, who swung wildly, crates shattering like matchsticks.
From the smoke, batarangs whistled through the air—sharp, precise, cutting through tubes on Bane's back. Green liquid hissed and sprayed.
Bane: "RRRAGHHH!" His roar was guttural, animalistic. His massive fists smashed the ground, shaking the steel underfoot.
Batman moved low, using the smoke as cover. Grapple gun—fire—up to the beam. From above, he stalked, watching Bane rage blindly.
Target the venom tubes. Starve him of strength. It's the only way to level the field.
But Bane was no mindless beast. He stood still, listening, sniffing the air. His head snapped upward—eyes locking on Batman's silhouette in the rafters.
With terrifying speed, he ripped a steel beam free from the ground and hurled it like a spear. It sliced through the darkness, smashing into the structure. Batman barely leapt free before the whole section of walkway collapsed in a storm of metal and sparks.
Bane: "You hide like a rat in the dark. But you cannot hide from me, Batman. I will drag you into the light—before I crush you beneath it!"
Batman hit the ground hard, boots skidding across the steel as Bane's massive hand locked around his throat. The pressure was crushing, cutting off air, his boots barely scraping the floor.
Bane (grinning beneath the mask): "We've danced this dance before, Batman. The clown has tried. The assassin has tried. But only I have broken you."
Bane lifted him higher, muscles bulging, preparing to snap him across his knee.
And then—
A roar of engines. Headlights cut through the darkness like twin blades. The Batmobile tore through the shipyard, smashing through a mountain of crates, wood splintering in every direction.
Bane turned too late. The armored monster of steel slammed into him, ripping Batman free of his grip and hurling him to the floor. Batman rolled, coughing, cape whipping around him as he regained his stance.
The behemoth staggered but didn't fall. With a primal roar, Bane caught the Batmobile's frame, digging his heels into the ground. Sparks and screeching metal filled the air as he fought the car itself, his monstrous bulk pushing against its momentum like a bull against a charging train.
Batman's eyes narrowed. Now.
From his gauntlet, a batarang hissed through the night, striking the final venom tube at Bane's neck. It ruptured in a spray of green fluid. The hiss of escaping pressure filled the air.
Bane: "NOOOO!"
His massive arms trembled, strength bleeding from his body. In that instant, the Batmobile's raw power overwhelmed him—slamming into his chest and launching him through the air like a ragdoll. His body smashed into the harbor's edge before vanishing into the black water.
Batman didn't hesitate. He dove in after him. The icy water swallowed them both, cape dragging heavy. His gauntlets found Bane's vest straps, and with sheer grit, he hauled the unconscious brute back to shore.
But no sooner had he dragged Bane's bulk onto the dock than the shadows came alive. Ski-masked men encircled him, rifles raised, fear giving their hands a nervous tremor.
Thug 1: "Drop him, Bat! You ain't walkin' outta here alive!"
Thug 2: "Light him up—!"
Batman's fist clenched. The Batmobile responded instantly—its turrets swiveling, panels opening with a hydraulic hiss. A storm of tranq-darts and riot-dispersal rounds erupted, firing in every direction.
One by one, the thugs dropped, screaming as the darts hit their flesh, the shockwaves knocking rifles from their grip. Some scrambled for cover, only to be taken out by sonic disorientors that rang their ears until they collapsed.
In less than ten seconds, the shipyard was silent again—save for the hum of the Batmobile's engine and the ragged breath of the Dark Knight.
Batman stood over Bane, soaked and bruised, cape dripping water onto the concrete. His jaw tightened as he looked down at the unconscious titan.
Stronger than last time. Smarter too. Someone's pulling his strings.
POV Switch
Location: Gotham City, East End. Near Crime Alley.
The East End smelled of rain-soaked brick and rusted iron. Streetlights buzzed weakly, painting the cracked pavement in jaundiced yellow.
Alistair walked through the night crowd—his steps slow, deliberate. Even here, in Gotham's forgotten artery, people couldn't help but turn their heads. Some out of curiosity, others out of quiet admiration.
He didn't look like a criminal, not tonight. His hair was tied back, dark and loose at the edges in that lazy, untamed style. His glasses caught the dim light, obscuring the green eyes behind them—the kind of green that could cut through a soul. A cigarette dangled from his lips, ember glowing faintly as he exhaled smoke into the night.
White shirt. Faded denim. High-top Nikes that scuffed quietly against the pavement. His nails blackened with polish. A simple tattoo inked faintly across his arm—like a secret mark, half-hidden, the kind of detail that could make strangers wonder. He looked almost like a skater who'd lost his way in the wrong part of town. Almost.
But this was Alistair. This was the shape he wore before the experiment. And with the glasses on, the world saw that boy instead of the other thing he had become.
He stopped at a weathered bench across from a crumbling apartment building. Its windows were dull with grime, fire escapes bent like broken bones. He sat, leaning back, cigarette glowing. And then he waited. Hours slid by, as if time was afraid to pass him.
At last, the building's door creaked open. A woman stepped out. Black hair pulled back, skin pale beneath her sickness, her brown eyes tired but alive. She leaned heavily on a cane, each step deliberate, painful. A girl—thirteen, maybe fourteen—appeared at her side, rushing to catch her. The child's arm wrapped around her mother's waist, guiding her up the stairs with a tenderness that made Alistair's chest tighten.
The door closed. Silence returned.
Alistair took another slow drag of the cigarette. Smoke unfurled into the air—only to be disturbed by the sudden weight at his side.
A figure appeared, effortlessly, like she'd always been there. Black hair, pale skin that glowed faintly against the dark, and an ankh that rested on her chest like the punctuation of eternity. Her outfit was simple, dark, and timeless. Boots. Jeans. Tank top. She looked like a girl who might've walked out of a record store in the 90s, but the air bent slightly around her—as if reality itself acknowledged her presence.
Death.
She leaned her head against his shoulder like an old lover who knew she didn't need permission.
Death: "I wonder when you'll finally knock on her door. Tell her who you are."
Alistair sighed, tilting his head back, green eyes half-hidden beneath his glasses.
Alistair: "Not so easy, Dee. I mean… do you still talk to your folks?"
She grinned.
Death: "Touché. But still, Alistair—talk to her. Before regret sets its claws in, my love."
Her gaze slid to his, patient but piercing.
Alistair: "I'll try. One of these days."
Death: "One of these days, huh? When you're not drowning yourself in work?"
He smirked bitterly.
Alistair: "Not this again. You're starting to sound like Tony."
Death: "That's because he's right. As much as you hate to admit it—you need to move on."
Alistair's eyes stayed fixed on the apartment door across the street, like it was the only thing holding him upright. Death turned his face gently, her pale fingers cool against his cheek, until his gaze met hers.
Death: "I know you loved her. More than anything. And I know getting over what happened… won't ever be easy. But running away from it? Drowning in booze and women? That won't bring you peace. Not even close."
Alistair's jaw tightened. "I know."
Death tilted her head, eyes soft but unrelenting.
Death: "Do you? Do you really?"
Her voice sank, low and steady, each word a mirror held to him.
Death: "You know what your fatal flaw is, Alistair? The same thing that makes you extraordinary. Your ability to love. You—starved of it your whole life—can give it back tenfold. You raised your brother. You kept him alive. At twenty-seven, you've done more than most parents ever could."
Her thumb brushed his cheek.
Death: "You are not all bad, Alistair. Stop pretending you are. Hating yourself won't heal anything. You did what you had to do. To survive."
And then she kissed him. Deep. Slow. Her lips soft, carrying the weight of inevitability and comfort all at once.
Alistair's hands found her hips instinctively, pulling her closer. She climbed onto his lap like she belonged there, because maybe she always had. Her black umbrella leaned casually against the bench beside them, forgotten for now, as if even the rain itself knew better than to fall in this moment.
She pulled away from his lips, her forehead resting against his, her breath still ghosting over his mouth.
Death: "So stop hating yourself."
Alistair's eyes half-closed, a faint smirk tugging at him.
Alistair: "So…"
Death: "That doesn't mean I'll allow you to die. It's not your time yet."
Alistair: "Worth a shot."
Death slipped gracefully off his lap, brushing imaginary dust from her jeans.
Death: "I'll see you later."
And with that, she was gone. Like smoke whisked away by the wind.
Alistair leaned back on the bench, exhaling what little warmth remained of her. The silence clung for maybe ten seconds—before his phone began to buzz. He groaned, dragging a hand down his face.
Alistair: "A moment of silence, that's all I ask. Maybe Tony's right—I need a vacation. Not that I'll ever admit it."
He thumbed the answer button.
Tony (over phone): "Alistair! How you doin' out there in emo town? You sittin' at the bench again?"
Alistair: "No. I'm in my apartment."
Tony: "Funny. 'Cause I hear Crackhead Carl yellin' at pigeons in the background."
Alistair's jaw clenched.
Alistair: "Tony… get to the point. Why'd you call?"
Tony: "I'm in Metropolis. Crashing with Lucius. You should really come over sometime—sky's blue, sun's shining, people actually smile here. Golden rays and all that shit."
Alistair: "And Superman. Somebody I'm not willing to fuck with."
Tony (chuckling): "Which is why I do my jobs when he's busy trading punches with Lex Luthor or Brainiac. I got it mapped out, brother. Don't worry. And hey—with another Grimm Brother in town, jobs get done faster."
Alistair's tone sharpened.
Alistair: "Please don't drag him into some stupid shit."
Tony: "You worry too much. Speaking of jobs—got one lined up. Straight from Ramon Sionis. You know him as Black Mask."
Alistair took the cigarette from his lips, blowing out a sharp stream of smoke.
Alistair: "Go on."
Tony: "He wants Sal Maroni dead."
Alistair arched a brow. "Sal Maroni? The Maroni? That's not just a hit, that's a declaration of war."
Tony: "And it pays three million."
Silence on the line for a moment. Then—
Alistair: "…Three million? He really wants this guy gone, huh?"
Tony: "Money's money, brother. Don't act shy now. You'll send me my broker's cut, as always."
Alistair pinched the bridge of his nose, cigarette dangling between two fingers.
Alistair: "Yeah. Yeah, I'll handle it. But you better not screw me on this, Tony. Not this time."
Tony: When have i ever let you down brother
Alistair: You really want me to answe that question
Tony: Hanging up now im with a hot yoga instructor
He hangs up the phone Alistair scoffs dropping the cigarette to the ground and stepping on it to put it out he turns back and walks off
Timeskip
Darkness wrapped Gotham once more, and with it the stench of crime seeped deeper into the city's veins.
Salvatore Maroni was many things—but never a good man. A liar, a killer, a thief. And tonight, he wasn't alone.
Inside the Iceberg Lounge, the air was heavy, tense, suffocating. Gathered around a polished obsidian table sat the pillars of Gotham's underworld: Oswald Cobblepot—The Penguin, perched in his seat with his umbrella leaning against his chair. Carmine Falcone, older but no less dangerous, his presence radiating quiet menace. Tobias Whale, massive and broad, with a calm but unyielding glare. And of course, Sal Maroni, smoldering with barely contained arrogance.
Each man had his guards in tow, guns under coats, eyes sharp. But all the tension in the room coiled around two men specifically: Maroni and Falcone. Their bad blood was legend.
Falcone lit a cigar slowly, smoke curling through the dim lounge light. His tone was sharp, cutting the silence first.
Falcone: "What did you call us for, Oswald?"
Penguin's beady eyes twinkled as he forced a wide grin, his stubby fingers gripping the arms of his chair just a little too tight.
Penguin: "Oh, come now, Carmine. We're friends here. Call me Oz."
Maroni scoffed, leaning forward, voice dripping with disdain.
Maroni: "We're not here to exchange niceties, Penguin."
The smile on Oswald's face didn't falter—but his jaw tightened. He tapped his umbrella on the floor twice, the sound echoing.
Penguin: "Fine. Straight to business, then. We all have a common enemy—encroaching on our territory. Black Mask."
Tobias Whale, calm but firm, leaned forward, his voice deep like gravel dragged across steel.
Whale: "You're talking about war, Cobblepot. The Bay wouldn't allow that. Not at all."
Penguin let out a chuckle, one that sounded more like a snarl buried under his throat.
Penguin: "Which is exactly why I'm suggesting… cooperation. Sionis is still just one man. One mask. And one mask can be broken."
Falcone blew a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling, unamused.
Falcone: "The same man who put you in Arkham—what? Three, four times now? You're a known joke, Oswald. A bird in a cage, flapping at the bars. Even if this works—what do I gain? Black Mask falls, and then what? You? Him?"
(he nods at Maroni) "We'll all just be at each other's throats again by sunrise."
The words lingered. The weight of truth behind them was hard to ignore.
Maroni leaned forward, his voice sharp, teeth bared in a grin that wasn't a smile.
Maroni: "As always, Falcone—thinking about yourself. You ever wonder why Gotham bleeds? It ain't Black Mask, or Joker, or freaks like the Bat. It's you. You sit back, pulling strings, pretending to be the honorable mob boss while the rest of us are out here getting our hands dirty. You're the rot under this city's skin."
The room went still, guards' hands brushing their coats. The Penguin's grin widened—he loved this.
Above the table in the dim rafters, Alistair sat in silence. His hair had returned to its unnatural white, his eyes glowing blood-red in the gloom. Twin katanas rested at his waist, holsters heavy with iron. The black dress shirt clung to his frame beneath a white vest, red tie loosened and pulled down, the top button undone as if mocking the tension below. A black choker hugged his neck, gloves tapping faintly on the beam he leaned against.
From his vantage point, the chaos of Gotham's underworld was nothing more than a play—actors clawing for scraps of power. And he? He was the audience…and the executioner.
At the table, Falcone leaned in, cigar clamped between his fingers. His tone was a blade, calm but sharpened to draw blood.
Falcone: "Watch your mouth, Maroni—or you'll find a bullet between your teeth."
Maroni smirked, a silver flask halfway open in his hand. His guards shifted behind him, tense but loyal.
Maroni: "That a threat, Falcone? 'Cause I don't do well with threats."
The flask cracked open with a metallic click, the scent of whiskey spilling into the air like gasoline waiting for a match.
Falcone's eyes narrowed, his lip curling into something that wasn't quite a smile.
Falcone: "What's next, Maroni? You gonna burn my face off, like you did Harvey's? How many more men you gonna scar before Gotham sees you for what you are?"
The insult landed hard. Guards stiffened, hands ghosting toward weapons.
Maroni slammed the flask shut, leaning across the table, his voice booming like thunder.
Maroni: "Careful, old man. Dent got what was coming to him. He was weak, and in this city, the weak don't survive. You should know that better than anyone."
Penguin chuckled, breaking the silence, but it was the kind of laugh that made skin crawl.
Penguin: "Gentlemen, gentlemen—please! This isn't a pissing contest, it's business. Black Mask is carving up Gotham while you two measure egos. Keep this up, and none of us will have a city left to fight over."
Tobias Whale leaned back, arms crossed, voice low and steady like a judge delivering a sentence.
Whale: "If you boys are so eager to kill each other, do it after we settle Sionis. Otherwise, Mask won't have to lift a finger—we'll do his job for him."
Above them, Alistair smirked, exhaling smoke from a cigarette that burned between his lips. Their words were amusing, but to him, they were already dead men walking.
Alistair: "You know, gents… you all sound like high-schoolers. Penguin's the instigator, Whale's the kid recording it on his phone… and Falcone, you're the one who swears you 'coulda gone pro' if life didn't get in the way."
The table went silent. Heads turned upward.
Alistair waved lazily from the rafters, cigarette ember glowing in the dark.
Alistair: "Hi there."
He dropped—silent as a cat—landing on the table itself, sending glasses and cards scattering. Immediately, barrels of guns snapped to him.
Alistair raised his hand casually, two fingers pointing like a gun, and then turned it toward Maroni.
Alistair: "Relax, boys. I'm here for one man. Him. Sal Maroni. My employer says you've got a big ass mouth."
Maroni sneered, standing halfway out of his chair.
Maroni: "Classic Falcone move. Can't fight me straight, so he sends a freak."
Alistair: "Nah. Wasn't him. Wasn't anyone in this room. Truth is, Maroni, you just pissed off the wrong person."
Maroni's jaw clenched. He barked at his men.
Maroni: "What are you idiots waiting for?! I don't pay you to—"
Guard #1: "Uh… boss? You don't pay us."
Guard #2: "Yeah, we been kinda freelancing."
Maroni: "JUST KILL HIM!"
The room erupted. Dozens of guns fired at once.
Alistair grinned. His katana slid free in a blur of crimson steel.
The first shot never reached him. He angled the blade with surgeon's precision, the bullet ricocheting into another guard's shoulder. In a flash, Alistair cut the first man's arm clean off—blood spraying across the table like a fountain—before disappearing from their sight.
A scream tore through the room as another guard dropped, Alistair's blade buried in his skull. Cigarette still burning between his lips, Alistair dragged the corpse forward into the gunfire, bullets tearing it apart as he used it for cover.
He slammed the body onto the table, drew his pistol in the same motion, and—bang!—a guard's skull exploded in a spray of crimson, the bullet carved from his own blood.
The remaining goons opened fire wildly, panic setting in. Alistair moved like liquid shadow, weaving between them with tactical efficiency. He caught one thug's wrist mid-swing, broke it with a sharp crack, stole his gun, and used it to fire two rounds point-blank into his chest before tossing the weapon aside.
Another guard rushed him with a knife. Mistake. Alistair sidestepped smoothly, slammed the man's head into the edge of the table with such force his skull caved in, then used his own momentum to roundhouse kick another thug into the wall, spine folding at an ugly angle.
Blood mist hung in the air now. The Iceberg Lounge had become a slaughterhouse.
Maroni screamed, scrambling backward.
Maroni: "Shoot him, SHOOT HIM! Don't just stand there!"
Alistair flicked ash from his cigarette, grinning.
Alistair: "Still talking."
He moved again—faster than the eye. He kicked off the wall, grabbed a guard mid-turn, and slit his throat in one motion while firing his pistol upside down into another's jaw. The man's head snapped back violently, teeth scattering like dice across the floor.
Two guards came from behind with rifles. Alistair dropped to his knees, sliding between them like a skater, slicing tendons as he went. They collapsed, screaming, weapons clattering uselessly.
Now, only Maroni was left breathing among a pile of broken, mutilated bodies. His expensive suit was soaked in the blood of his own men.
Alistair stepped onto the table, the crunch of glass under his boot loud in the silence. His blade dripped red, his cigarette still dangling from his lips, smoke curling lazily in the air.
Alistair: "See, Sal… this is what happens when your mouth writes checks your men can't cash."
He raised his katana, and Maroni's bravado finally broke—his voice cracking as he tried to crawl away.
Maroni: "Wait—wait! I can pay you double! Triple! Whatever they're giving you, I'll match it—"
Alistair leveled his pistol at him, cocking his head slightly.
Alistair: "Thing is… I don't kill for money."
A gunshot rang out.
Maroni's body went limp.
Blood pooled across the table as Alistair exhaled smoke, holstering his weapon, muttering more to himself than anyone still conscious:
Alistair: "…I kill because you people never learn."
Alistair's crimson eyes scanned the remaining mob bosses—Penguin, Falcone, and Whale. Their faces were pale, jawlines tight, fists clenched, but there was something else in their eyes: fear and grudging respect.
Alistair: "Sorry you had to see that… but, well, work is work."
He reached into his vest pocket and produced a sleek stack of black business cards, the red lettering glinting under the dim lounge light.
With a smooth flick of his wrist, he tossed the cards onto the table. They landed with a soft thud, sliding slightly in the blood-slicked mess of the massacre.
Alistair: "Names Hyde. Contract killer. Pay me, and we won't have any problems. Play me, and… well, you've just witnessed how that plays out."
Falcone's hand twitched toward his gun, but Alistair's gaze, sharp and unyielding, held him frozen. Penguin's monocle reflected the blood-soaked scene as he slowly reached for a card, unable to tear his eyes away. Tobias Whale simply leaned back, calculating, impressed despite himself.
Alistair's lips curled into a faint, almost imperceptible smirk. Without another word, he stepped back onto the shadows of the rafters, the faint ember of his cigarette glowing for a heartbeat longer before he vanished entirely—leaving only the sound of dripping blood, stunned silence, and a lingering scent of iron.
The room remained frozen. Penguin finally broke the quiet, voice a strained rasp.
Penguin: "Well… that's new."
Falcone clenched his fists, teeth grinding.
Falcone: "He… he just made this city smaller."
Whale chuckled darkly, almost admiringly.
Whale: "Hyde… now that's a name to remember."
And just like that, Alistair Grimm—or Hyde—became a ghost story whispered in Gotham's underworld: beautiful, lethal, and utterly untouchable.