Everyone held their breath as the figure moved through the hospital corridors. His cape swept behind him, not fabric but something darker-like a shadow that had chosen to walk among men. Nurses froze, orderlies whispered, and patients who glimpsed him ducked their heads. Gotham had long since learned that when the Bat moved, silence followed.
The door opened.
Black Mask lay propped against white sheets, the monitors by his bed pulsing with fragile rhythm. He would live-but he would never breathe the same again. The bullet had missed his heart, but one lung was punctured. Each inhale rasped like a man dragging air through broken glass.
His eyes opened. They widened. The heart monitor spiked into frantic beeping at the sight of the dark shape by his bed.
Batman: "Where is he?"
The only reply was the ragged sound of Black Mask's breathing. His fingers twitched, brushing against the emergency button. The door slammed open and five armed guards rushed in, weapons raised. Outside, the gasp of onlookers rippled through the ward.
Batman's eyes flicked over the weapons with cold contempt.
Batman: "This is a place of healing. Not one for more pain and suffering. I'm here to talk."
The guards shifted uneasily. Sweat formed on their brows. For a moment, the only sound was the thrum of the monitor, the quiet whimper of a nurse just outside the door.
Black Mask's finger pressed another button. The guards lowered their weapons at once. Then, another press. His assistant appeared-timid, barely more than a boy, carrying a laptop like a shield. He set it on the bed. Black Mask's hands trembled faintly as he typed. A mechanical voice spilled from the speakers, distorted but cutting through the tension.
Black Mask (through the voice modulator): "Apologies, Detective. As you can see, I've been left in... less than satisfactory condition by that bastard."
Batman stood at the foot of the bed, silent, unreadable. His presence alone made the guards wish they weren't in the room.
Black Mask: "It seems we share a common enemy. I'll give you whatever you need. In exchange, you put him in Arkham."
Still, Batman said nothing. The mask betrayed no emotion.
Black Mask: "He betrayed me. After a job, he shot me. They say it missed my heart-but it tore into my lung. I'm 'lucky' to be alive. I'd give you his address, but he's too smart. He's gone by now. So... a number might work instead."
Another button pressed. An aide entered carrying a black briefcase. It opened with a click, revealing a single card.
It was black. Crimson letters etched across it read:
Hyde
Contract Killer
Below the name, a number-though both men knew it was not a direct line to the killer, but a handler. A ghost's address in digits.
Batman reached out, gloved fingers plucking the card from the case. He turned without a word. His cape billowed as he left, the silence of the ward swallowing him whole.
Behind him, Black Mask let out another rasping breath. Whether it was relief or dread, even he didn't know.
POV Switch: Alistair
Black vest, black jeans. Hair tied back, green threaded through the dark, black eyes reflecting the hallway lights. Earrings out for now. That was Alistair as he moved down the corridor toward his new door-number 47.
The key slid in. A soft click. Before he entered, though, he noticed movement.
His neighbor stood in the doorway across the hall. Cute-black hair streaked with red highlights, brown eyes set in warm caramel skin. She wore glasses, pajamas that were more comfort than fashion, a shirt hanging loose and shorts that left legs bare. For a heartbeat, she froze-caught staring at him. When Alistair's gaze met hers, steady, unblinking, her cheeks flared crimson. She fumbled, then darted back inside with the embarrassed quickness of someone who realized the "hot neighbor" was staring right back.
Alistair grinned faintly, one corner of his mouth tugging up. He shrugged, unlocked the door, and stepped inside.
The new apartment was lavish-far more than the cramped, rat-infested hole he'd endured before. It breathed space.
The first thing one saw was the living room: leather couches of obsidian black pressed against cream-white walls, facing a massive flat-screen mounted above a stone fireplace. On the walls hung paintings-true works of art, not prints. The Mona Lisa with her enigmatic smile. Starry Night, its swirling blues alive under the light. Liberty Leading the People, defiant and bloody. The collection was too intentional to be mere decoration; it was a shrine to history's contradictions.
A towering bookshelf stretched along one wall, packed to the edge with literature-old spines cracked with age, leather-bound volumes beside modern hardcovers. On another wall, a tall canvas sat propped on an easel, its surface waiting for paint. The balcony beyond framed the city like a painting of its own: jagged skyline, neon haze, the faint hum of traffic below.
Snowy was already sprawled across the main couch, her white fur stark against black leather.
Against the far wall sat an alcohol cabinet that could've stocked a bar-vodkas, whiskies, wines, even crystal decanters catching the dim light. Beside it, a glass case displayed blades-curved, straight, ancient-each one polished, cared for, but not retired. Tools, not trophies.
Alistair dropped into the couch beside Snowy. He pulled his glasses off and tossed them carelessly onto the table. As his body relaxed, the glamour slipped. His hair faded to white, his eyes burned red.
Alistair: "You like the new place?"
Snowy lifted her head, meowed, then pressed her face against his, rubbing her small warmth against his skin. The gesture was clear enough.
If she could speak, she would've said: Yeah... it's a hell of a lot better than the last one. Though I do miss the rats-good protein, good exercise.
Alistair chuckled softly, running his hand through her fur. The laugh faded, replaced by a long, drawn-out sigh. His crimson eyes roamed the apartment again-the art, the weapons, the bottles, the books.
A place to rest, maybe. Or just another stage waiting for its blood to be spilled.
His phone buzzed again.
Alistair: This is seriously starting to feel like déjà vu.
He checked the screen. Caller ID: DICKHEAD. Tony. He tapped to answer.
Alistair: Yo.
Tony: Yo?! That's it? The fuck do you mean yo - what the hell happened with Mask?!
Alistair: Oh him.
Tony: Yeah, who else?
Alistair: I shot him.
Tony: No shit you shot him - why did you shoot him?
Alistair: Sigh You don't got a girl with you this time, right?
Tony: (defensive) No! I swear. Scouts honor.
Alistair: The dickhead sent a hit squad after me. My pad got trashed. Had to teach him a lesson.
Tony: (angry) He did what?!
Alistair: Relax, T. I can hear the wind picking up from here - you might cause a tornado in Metropolis. I don't think Supes would be thrilled.
Tony: I'm cool. I'm cool.
Alistair: No big deal. It's not like I can- you know - actually die.
Tony: (annoyed) That's not the point. Are you getting soft, Al?
Alistair: Fuck off.
Tony: I'm serious. Are you getting soft?
Alistair: No.
Tony: Then why not finish him? Let a double-crosser live and they all start trying to fuck us over.
Alistair: He's the only one, Tony. If I offed him, Gotham's already shaky - killing Mask would pour gasoline on a fire after Maroni. You want a city at war? Because that's the shortcut.
Tony: Fuck. You want me to come to Gotham?
Alistair: Now you want in?
Tony: Why not? My brother's in the mix - of course I come.
Alistair: Nah. Stay put. You've got jobs in Metropolis. I'll handle this. You'd probably summon a hurricane on somebody.
Tony: Fair. But seriously - if you need backup, call me or Lucius. Okay?
Alistair raised an eyebrow.
Tony: Also - original reason I called. You've got a job. Another hit. Employer wants to meet face to face.
Alistair: (dry) Charming. Who's the suitor?
Tony: I dunno the name. But Al - don't take this one. It stinks. Feels like a setup.
Alistair: I know. I'll just gun-and-cut my way through, like always.
Tony: That's exactly why I'm worried. Remember that vacation we talked about? Intervention after this job. Me, you and Kenny - Brazil. Boys, drinks, half-naked hotties. If you don't come, I'll drag you by your hair, princess.
Alistair sighed, then let out a reluctant chuckle.
Alistair: Fine. Now, location.
Tony: (excited) Yes! Alright. Just us three - single, free, a triumvirate of-
Alistair: Location, Tony. Location.
Tony: Right, right. East End.
A beat of silence.
Alistair: East End, huh.
Tony: Yep. Specifically by the abandoned train station. Be careful, Al. I don't doubt you can get out of a mess, but be careful. I'll call later.
The line dropped.
Alistair leaned back and sighed he looked at Snowy
Alistair: I Got work tonight kitty ill i won't be home alright.
He held up the cat to his face she lazily yawned as if she was done with Alistair nonsense to her he was the minion she was the boss he placed her down and stood up.
Time-skip: Four hours later
Light pooled through the dressing-room like a stage wash. The walk-in closet was a small universe of fabric - rows of suits and jackets, shelves of shoes, drawers of ties and cufflinks. Mirrors multiplied the man standing in the center until he was a dozen versions of himself staring back.
Alistair faced the largest mirror. He wore a red dress shirt, the top two buttons undone, black vest snug over it, black trousers pressed sharp. His shoes were glossy and too-many-paces polished. Two red rings flashed on his fingers. He tugged his tie loose, pulled his hair back, and reached for his red-tinted shades.
He opened a drawer and the world inside was metal and time - a line of watches resting in velvet slots, each one a little promise. He slid a silver watch onto his wrist with the same casual care a man smooths a wound. He smiled at himself; the grin showed white teeth... and the faint curl of fangs.
Alistair: "Damn, I look good."
He shrugged into a black coat, the fabric swallowing the light, then crossed to the low table. There, twin AMT Hardballer 1911s waited in their holsters - clean, balanced, hungry. He checked the weight of them with a small, practiced motion before lifting the long, padded case from the floor. The case felt familiar and dangerous all at once.
Snowy lay on the bed, a white island in the dark. She blinked at him once, unimpressed.
Alistair: "Don't wait up for me."
No reply - only a lazy tail flick. She settled back to sleep.
He clicked off the light, the closet swallowing him whole for a beat, then stepped out. The Ford Torino Cobra sat idling in the street-level parking, its engine a low purr. He slid behind the wheel, the city waiting like a promise and a threat in equal measure.
POV: Nightwing
The abandoned train station was cold, concrete dripping with condensation, iron beams groaning faintly overhead. Six shadows stood together in a loose half-circle: Batgirl, Batwoman, Robin, Nightwing, Red Hood, and Red Robin. The air smelled of rust and damp oil.
Red Hood: This is getting really unhealthy.
Nightwing: What's unhealthy?
Red Hood: His obsession. Think about it - Hyde hasn't touched innocents. Just Maroni, and he almost put Black Mask in the ground. That's more efficient than half the "operations" we run.
Nightwing pinched the bridge of his nose.
Nightwing: Someone please explain it to him.
Red Robin: Come on, Jason. You know the rules.
Red Hood: Yeah, yeah - "No juice before bedtime."
Batwoman snorted, just loud enough to be heard.
Batwoman: Rules keep people alive. You'd think you of all people would've learned that by now.
Red Hood: Cute. Mom voice suits you, Kate.
Red Robin: Not funny, Jason.
Robin's hand never left the hilt of his blade. He was the only one wound tight enough to vibrate.
Damian: When will Father be here?
Nightwing: Soon. Until then, stick to the plan.
Batwoman: [cutting in] And the plan is simple - keep him talking, keep him burning time. We're not kids anymore, Grayson. Except for junior down there.
Damian: [grumbling] Old hag.
Batwoman's head snapped toward him.
Batwoman: What was that?
Damian: [smirking] Nothing at all.
The sound of footsteps broke the tension. Slow, deliberate, echoing through the station like a countdown. Moonlight spilled through a broken skylight, catching pale hair tied back, a grin that wasn't friendly, and eyes too calm for the situation.
Hyde.
Alistair stopped just across from them, tilting his head as if taking in a painting. He let his case fall to the ground with a dull thunk.
Alistair: I'm guessing you're the contractors. Plural. Cute.
Red Hood: Nope. Just the welcoming committee. Listen, no hard feelings - personally, I think you're pretty damn cool. But boss man upstairs? Not exactly a fan.
Red Robin: You're going to Arkham, Hyde. That's non-negotiable.
Alistair sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose like he was tired already.
Alistair: Where's the big guy? Throws me a party, then doesn't even show? Rude.
Red Robin: Didn't you hear me? Arkham. Tonight.
Alistair gave him a long, amused look, then tugged at his cuffs.
Alistair: I heard you. I just don't care. Besides... a warm-up doesn't sound too bad.
He shrugged off his coat, folding it neatly onto the case, and glanced at the silver watch on his wrist.
Alistair: Seven minutes. That's all I can afford to play with you. Company time, after all.
Batwoman: [stepping forward] You think this is a game? You're not in control here, Hyde.
Alistair's grin widened, sharp enough to cut glass.
Alistair: That's the funny thing,. I always am.
It was quiet. Too quiet.
The Bat-Family shifted, instinctively circling Alistair like wolves around something they weren't sure they could kill.
Damian drew his blade with a hiss of steel.
Red Hood cocked his pistols with a grin.
Nightwing twirled his escrima sticks into a guard stance.
Red Robin spun his collapsible staff, steady, eyes calculating.
Alistair let the grin stretch across his face, fangs just barely catching the moonlight.
Red Hood: You're not gonna use those fancy guns of yours?
Alistair: [shrugging] Eh. We'll see if you're worth the effort.
Red Hood: Oh, I'm gonna kick your ass.
Alistair: You wouldn't be the first to make that claim... and then get your ass handed right back to you. So-
He was gone.
Not teleported-just moving faster than their eyes could track. One heartbeat later, Jason's chest caved under a brutal kick. He crossed his arms at the last second, the impact still launching him across the floor like a ragdoll.
Jason hit the concrete with a painful thud.
Alistair: [grinning] Keep that same energy.
The smoke cleared just enough for them to see Red Hood groaning on the ground.
Nightwing: Don't underestimate him! Move-now!
Red Robin reacted first, tossing smoke pellets. Shadows swallowed them all. Out of the fog, Damian lunged, blade cutting for Alistair's throat.
It never connected.
Alistair caught the blade-between two fingers. A crimson staff of hardened blood flowed into his hand, spinning once before cracking against Damian's temple. The boy was flung out of the smoke, rolling across the station floor. His sword followed after him, clattering uselessly beside him.
Batwoman and Nightwing struck together. Nightwing swung high for Alistair's head, but Alistair blocked with his forearm. Batwoman's boot arced toward his ribs-he caught it, smirked, and with one brutal twist of his hips, hurled her straight into Red Hood, who had just managed to get back up. Both crashed into a heap against the concrete pillar.
Jason: [groaning] You've gotta be kidding me-
Alistair smashed his forehead into Nightwing's face. The crack of bone echoed, Nightwing stumbling back dazed. A quick gut-check followed-fist sinking into his abdomen-then a low kick buckled his leg, forcing him onto one knee.
That's when Damian re-entered, snarling, blade in hand.
The kid slashed at Alistair's side, and for once, it connected. Steel bit flesh-
But Alistair only turned, slow, predatory, red eyes flashing.
Blood dripped from his ribs, but his grin didn't falter. If anything, it widened.
Alistair: [low, amused] Cute.
Damian raised his sword for another strike-
Alistair twisted, snatching one of Nightwing's fallen escrima sticks off the ground. With one fluid motion, he slammed it against Damian's wrist, knocking the blade wide, then cracked it across the kid's face.
Damian stumbled back, teeth bared, growling like a cornered animal.
Alistair: [clicking his tongue] Tsk, tsk, tsk... Damian. Damian.
Damian froze, eyes widening.
Damian: ...How do you-
Alistair: [deadpan, stepping closer] You really think that flimsy piece of plastic over your eyes is enough? Masks don't hide blood. And blood? ...It tells stories.
Before Damian could snap back, Red Robin came in from behind, staff raised high. Alistair didn't even look. He caught the strike mid-swing, twisted, and flung Tim across the station. He crashed into Batwoman, who stumbled-straight into Red Hood.
Red Hood: [exasperated] For fuck's sake, can you two not use me as a damn crash mat?!
Alistair ignored him, stooping to grab Damian's fallen blade. He twirled it once with effortless grace, then hurled it point-first into the ground at Damian's feet. The blade quivered in the concrete, upright.
Alistair: Stance, boy. What was all that mountain training for, if you can't even keep your footing?
Damian snatched the sword, his jaw tightening. He sheathed it, drew again in a clean arc, slipping into an iaido stance. The smoke, the chaos-all of it fell silent for a heartbeat.
Alistair grinned, fangs flashing.
Alistair: There we go. That's my boy. ...Anyway-how's your mother? After we... you know... broke up.
Damian's teeth clenched, but he didn't break stance.
Damian: She said you're an insufferable bastard. That you broke her heart... and she still dreams about killing you.
Alistair: [mock wince] Oof. That's rough. ...But not as rough as what Shiva said, I bet.
Damian's expression faltered-just for a second.
Damian: [low] You don't even want to know.
Nightwing shot Batwoman a sideways glance, confusion written across both their faces.
Nightwing: ...Wait. Shiva? Talia? What the hell-
Red Hood: [throwing his hands up] Are they seriously having a family therapy session in the middle of a fight?
Red Robin: [groaning, picking himself up] Forget that-did Damian just say he knows this guy?!
Damian tightened his grip on his sword.
Damian: I don't "know" him. I survived him. There's a difference.
Alistair's grin widened, and his eyes burned crimson.
Alistair: [soft, taunting] Careful, kid. Say it like that, and I might start thinking of myself as your stepdad.
The silence cracked like glass.
Nightwing barked out the order, his voice steady.
Nightwing: "Together. Don't give him a second to breathe."
The Bat-Family surged forward as one.
Alistair's grin sharpened.
Alistair: "Now we're talking."
Red Hood's pistols roared first, bullets cutting through the air in tight, controlled bursts. Alistair moved-not away, but into the gunfire. His fingers flicked and the shots halted midair, droplets of blood rising from the floor to encase them like tiny pearls. With a lazy wave, he sent them ricocheting back-sparking against Robin's blade, forcing Damian to deflect his own brother's bullets.
Batwoman slammed in from the side, her gauntlet electrified. Alistair caught her strike bare-handed. Sparks danced up his arm, blue light crawling under his skin. Instead of resisting-he absorbed it.
Batwoman: [staggered] What the hell
Alistair snapped his fingers. A bolt of lightning cracked outward, frying her comms and forcing her to roll away, smoke rising from her suit.
Alistair: "Thanks for the charge, darling."
Nightwing dove in, twin escrima sticks flashing in a blur. His strikes were surgical, aiming for joints, tendons, pressure points. Alistair matched each hit with the flat of his blade, his movements mimicking Nightwing's rhythm-then improving on it.
Alistair: "You're fast, Bluebird. But predictable."
On the last exchange, Alistair twisted, reversed Nightwing's exact sequence, and cracked him across the jaw with his own technique.
From above, Red Robin dropped smoke bombs laced with micro-flashbangs, filling the room with light and confusion. Alistair inhaled. The blood mist around him thickened, pulling into a crimson veil. The flashes dulled to nothing, eaten by the haze.
Alistair: "Cute toys. But you're swimming in my ocean."
The haze slithered into tendrils, lashing out and binding Tim midair, hurling him into the nearest train car with a metallic clang.
Damian seized the moment. He cut through the haze with precise iaido arcs, forcing Alistair back step by step. His form was sharper now, refined, no wasted motion.
Damian: "You taught me to strike without hesitation. Time to test your own lessons."
The sword flashed-just as Alistair raised his hand. The blade bit into his palm. Blood welled... then hardened, crawling up the steel like living glass. The sword froze, encased in crimson crystal.
Alistair: [smirking] "Proud of you, kid. But you still hesitate. I felt it."
He shattered the crystal with a squeeze, forcing Damian back.
Red Hood rejoined, unloading rounds. Batwoman swept low with a leg kick. Nightwing returned with a vaulting strike from above. For the first time, the Bat-Family pressed him together-angles, pressure, tempo.
And Alistair laughed.
His free hand flared with heat-pyrokinesis. A wall of flame spiraled up, forcing them to split. Then came the drop in temperature cryokinesis. The ground froze over, boots slipping, motion thrown off.
Finally, he pulled it all together-blood mist ignited, freezing and burning simultaneously, shards exploding outward like a storm of glass and fire.
The Bat-Family scattered, coughing, battered but not broken.
Alistair walked out of the haze, Muramasa humming at his side. His grin was gone now-his expression sharpened to predatory calm.
Alistair: "Not bad. You're forcing me to sweat a little. But every move you make? I learn it. Adapt it. Own it."
He dragged Muramasa across the frozen floor, sparks hissing red in the frost.
Alistair: "Seven minutes is looking generous."
The dust hadn't settled when Damian lunged again, blade flashing. His movements were crisp, sharper than most grown men twice his age - but to Alistair, it was a child shadowboxing against a storm.
Alistair: "Better. No wasted steps... but your wrists are still stiff. Loosen them, or your cuts will never reach their mark."
Damian snarled, striking again. This time Red Hood was at his flank, Batwoman sweeping in low, Nightwing circling from behind. For once, they pressed Alistair from all sides.
He weaved through them, not with effort, but with grace. Every strike he avoided looked like he'd already seen it a thousand times. A parry here, a sidestep there - and each time, he commented.
Alistair: "Jason, you shoot angry. Anger makes patterns."
(deflects a bullet into the wall)
Alistair: "Grayson, your rhythm sings before you strike. I can dance to it."
(catches Nightwing's escrima stick and uses it to flip him onto his back)
Alistair: "Batlady ... solid kicks. But you telegraph with your shoulders."
(snatches her leg mid-swing, spinning her away like a ragdoll)
For a moment, they regrouped. Red Robin shouted strategy, smoke curling from his gauntlets as he tried to corral Alistair's movement.
Then - it happened.
Damian darted in with perfect timing, Red Robin sweeping Alistair's footing with his staff. Batwoman dropped low again, and Nightwing slammed down from above. The coordination was flawless.
And for the first time - Alistair didn't move.
The staff cracked his ribs. The boot slammed into his knee. Nightwing's strike landed square across his jaw.
The Bat-Family froze. For one breathless second... they had him.
Alistair staggered - then began to laugh. A low, rolling sound that echoed against the abandoned walls. He turned his head back toward them, the red of his eyes glowing in the dark.
Alistair: "...See? That's what happens when you listen. Almost beautiful. Almost."
He raised his hand. The blood that had spilled from his own mouth and ribs rose into the air like a crimson tide. It spiraled out, wrapping each of them by the throat and chest, lifting them off their feet. They thrashed, but it was like drowning in tar.
Alistair: "But still... too slow. Too predictable. Too human."
With a snap of his fingers, the blood constricted - choking them until the edges of their vision blurred. Then, just as suddenly, he released them. They dropped to the frozen floor, gasping, clutching at their throats.
Alistair rolled his shoulders, the wounds they inflicted closing as though they'd never existed. He exhaled once, and the air fell eerily still.
He crouched beside Damian, who was coughing but still trying to raise his sword. Alistair pressed two fingers to the boy's temple.
Alistair: "You've got fire, brat. Don't lose it. Refine it."
A glow spread from his fingertips. Damian's bruises faded, ribs realigning under his skin. Across the room, the others felt it too - their injuries mending, pain evaporating like mist. In moments, the Bat-Family stood whole again.
Alistair rose, brushing his coat back into place, as though none of it mattered.
Alistair: "I told you... seven minutes. That's all the playtime I had. Consider this a lesson."
He retrieved his case, his coat, and turned his back on them without fear.
Alistair: "Tell your boss... next time, send himself. Or don't bother at all."
Snow crunched under his boots as he walked into the night. Behind him, the Bat-Family stood in silence - unbroken, but rattled. They had been toyed with, taught, and spared.
The kind of mercy that felt like a worse defeat than death.
The earth shuddered as something fell from the heavens.
A streak of fire split the sky, metal screaming against air until it crashed down into the abandoned station. The shockwave cracked the ground, rattling the old steel beams overhead. Dust and sparks rained like embers from a dying star.
When the smoke cleared, he stood there.
Encased in iron, plated and hulking, the Bat towered. The suit was a weapon in itself - built not just to fight men, but gods. Its eyes glowed cold, its frame bristling with power.
Batman: "I'm here myself, Alistair."
The words were simple, but the weight behind them made the air heavy. Even the Bat-Family, still recovering, could feel it: the storm had arrived.
Alistair froze mid-step, then slowly turned. That manic grin crept across his face, sharp and wolfish. His red eyes glinted in the faint light.
Alistair: "Of course. Of course you figured it out. Jesus, you really did earn that 'world's greatest detective' title, huh? But tell me-if you're Sherlock... does that make me Moriarty?"
(he tilted his head, grin widening)
"...or Renfield?"
He shrugged out of his coat again, letting it fall across the case at his feet. His hand reached down, but not for Muramasa. This time, he drew Masamune. The pale blade gleamed as if it were alive, the air around it humming with restrained violence.
The Bat flexed, servos hissing in his suit. He sank into stance, precise and unyielding. Across from him, Alistair mirrored - a duelist's posture, loose and predatory, Masamune's edge tilted low like a serpent ready to strike.
For a long, loaded second, neither moved.
The rain outside seemed to hush. The wind held its breath.
Then -
Narrator (tone like a bell tolling):
"Round Two."
Steel met steel. Will met will.
The Pale Paladin versus The Dark Knight.
The Bat versus The Devil.
And the station became their arena.