"When gods argue over justice, it is not thunder that shakes the world, but the silence of the man who stands between them."
---
Metropolis – Tip of the Daily Planet
The air was still thinner here, almost pure. The city below glittered faintly, distant and fragile like a memory.
King stood on the golden globe, shirt and hair flicking in the wind, the hum of the atmosphere around him.
Then a voice—steady, warm, unmistakable—cut through the silence.
"You've been busy."
King didn't turn. "You're late, Superman."
A soft gust of wind. Then he was there—cape flowing, eyes calm but wary.
"I thought we should talk. Before this goes any further."
---
King's gaze stayed on the horizon. "You mean before I upset the fragile moral equilibrium you all protect."
Superman crossed his arms. "Before you destroy what we've spent our lives trying to build."
"You mean your illusion of order." King said, voice even. "You clean the world one disaster at a time, Clark. But the disease is systemic. You can't punch ideology."
Superman frowned. "And you think vaporizing a man on live television can?"
King looked at him then, and for the first time, Superman felt it—that immovable stillness beneath the man's scarred face. A gravity deeper than strength.
"I didn't kill to prove a point." King said. "I killed to end a contagion."
"Every killer says that."
King's reply was quiet. "Not every killer ends the war afterward."
---
Superman floated closer, voice soft but edged. "We don't get to decide who deserves to live. That's not justice. That's judgment."
"And yet," King murmured, "you judge yourself every day for not doing enough. Don't you?"
Superman's eyes hardened. "Don't try to understand me."
King's tone was unreadable. "I already do."
Superman's voice rose above the wind. "You think power makes you righteous. It doesn't."
King's answer was equally thunderous and resolute. "And you think mercy makes you holy. It doesn't."
Superman's eyes glowed faintly. "If you ever do this again—"
"You'll try to stop me," King finished. "And you'll fail."
Lightning flared between them. For a heartbeat, heaven and earth held their breath.
The silence between them was vast. The wind howled. The wind howled beneath their feet.
Gotham – Harleen's Ink Parlor
Neon flickered in the rain. Inside, laughter and the buzz of a needle.
Harley was finishing a sleeve—floral vines curling around a phoenix.
"Now ain't that pretty?" She smiled. "Like rebirth through ink, baby."
The front door shattered.
Three men stormed in—remnants of Black Mask's crew, guns raised, voices trembling more from fear than hate.
"Where is he?" One barked. "Where's the monster who killed the boss?!"
Harley froze. "He ain't here, sugar. And you really don't wanna—"
A gunshot cut her off. The bullet never reached her.
It stopped—midair—like it had hit a wall of air.
Then it dropped, hissing into the floor.
The doorframe splintered open behind the gunmen. Wind rushed inward, carrying a quiet thump… thump… thump that shook the walls.
King stepped through the broken glass, calm as a statue.
"Leave." He said.
The men panicked, firing wildly. Bullets flattened and fell harmlessly. King's eyes didn't blink.
One charged with a knife. King caught the blade between two fingers.
The blade snapped and ground to dust.
"Please," one whispered, dropping his gun. "Please don't—"
King's voice was quiet, almost sad. "You don't deserve death. You deserve to remember."
A pulse of invisible pressure rippled through the room. The men collapsed—not dead but unconscious—bodies trembling from the sheer force of his aura.
Harley exhaled shakily. "You always make an entrance."
King turned to her, his presence softening. "You alright?"
"Yeah." She said, glancing at the ruined doorway. "But, uh, property damage ain't cheap."
He almost smiled. "I'll handle it."
"Big guy with god hands and good manners. Gotham's gonna get spoiled."
King stood by the ruined parlor's window, watching Harley tape the "Closed" sign back up.
Rain glimmered in her hair under the flickering neon.
"You didn't have to come." She said softly. "They were just idiots."
"They were a symptom." King replied. "Idiots grow in broken systems."
Harley looked up at him. "You ever gonna stop fixin' the world, big guy?"
He looked out into the storm, the city breathing slow beneath them.
"When it stops breaking."
The King Engine pulsed once—thump—and the lights flickered out.
Read 22 chapters ahead on P.A.T.R.E.O.N
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