"Yeah, damn it—we hate lone wolves like you the most!"
One of the security guards snarled, picking up where Manager Ryan had left off.
"Why don't you go gain some experience working a damn convenience store? You've only been in Gotham a hot minute—hell, I haven't heard of any new Asian rookie running around these parts."
He took a step forward, voice slick with false generosity. "But hey, since you're clearly bold as brass… put the gun down. I'll even take you to meet the boss. Might make a decent colleague out of you yet."
At his signal, the other two guards edged closer to Downton.
Downton didn't flinch. Instead, he gave Manager Ryan a light pat on the shoulder.
"Manager Ryan… seems like your so-called 'colleagues' don't much care if you live or die."
"They're not my men," Ryan muttered, voice tight. "We're partners—in a manner of speaking. They're just here to protect their family's assets." He swallowed hard, then added urgently, "So please—put the gun down before this spirals. You're alone, green, and you haven't even secured the lobby. If anyone slips out and calls the cops…"
He lowered his voice. "The GCPD doesn't mess with the Maroni family. Maroni's the Roman's right hand—you know Salvatore Maroni, right? He donates more to the department in a month than your average cop makes in a year. They want to keep him happy."
Downton grinned. "Then we'll just finish the job before they get here."
He swung his pistol toward the advancing guards.
"Buddy," he said, voice calm but edged with steel, "I gotta admit—I didn't expect the 'security team' to be straight-up Maroni enforcers. Gangsters are a lot nastier than rent-a-cops. But hey… everyone's got a price, right?"
He held up two fingers. "Two paths.
One: You try to take me down. Sure, maybe you win—but I guarantee I take one or two of you with me. Ask yourselves: are you that eager to die? Or can you honestly say you'll be the one walking away?
Two: You hear me out. See, I'm not here for your family's vault. Not a cent of Maroni's stash. I'm robbing the bank—and I'm willing to cut you in."
He swept his arm wide. "Think about it. You let this happen, turn a blind eye, and you walk away with a fat stack—no risk, all reward. I'll take the heat from your bosses and the GCPD. Even if I tried to stiff you, there's four of you. You really think I'd just vanish?"
His eyes locked onto theirs. "So—do you love money? And do you value your lives?"
The guards hesitated. One glanced at the ceiling—then back at the others. The surveillance cameras were dark.
After a tense beat, the first guard gave a slow nod.
"He's right," he said quietly. "The boss only cares about the vault. Our job's to protect the assets—not die over bank funds."
"Exactly," another added, a sly grin spreading. "And if we bring him a cut? He'll call it 'damage control.' Hell, I kinda like this guy. He's got Gotham in his blood."
"So… we in?"
"We're in."
Two guards stayed facing Downton—ostensibly keeping watch—while the other two strode to the teller counters and began barking orders.
The tellers froze, wide-eyed, trembling like leaves. They looked desperately at Ryan, still pinned under Downton's arm.
Ryan took a shaky breath, then whispered, "Sir… now that you've got the Maroni crew on your side—what if you brought everyone in?"
Downton raised an eyebrow.
"Hear me out," Ryan pressed. "The customers, the staff—if they're partners, not hostages, fewer people will run to the cops. Less resistance. More… cooperation."
Downton stared at him—then broke into a genuine smile.
"Ryan… you're a talent."
He turned to the tellers, voice warm but commanding.
"Ladies! Listen up! We're all on the same team now. That cash? It's ours. So move fast—get it out! And you folks in the lobby?" He gestured broadly. "Your lucky day! I'm not a capitalist—I'm a distributor. Every one of you walks out with extra cash in your pockets. Thousands—maybe tens of thousands—no taxes, no questions."
He tossed a duffel bag toward the nearest customer. "Grab bags! Fill 'em up! Stuff your coats! Today's not about blood—it's about bills. Let's get rich… together!"
With Downton's words, a moment of stunned silence rippled through the bank—then erupted into chaotic enthusiasm.
"I'll help with the move!"
"Count me in!"
"I've got a duffel bag—you can use it!"
"Hurry! Before the cops show up!"
"Who's coming with me to chase those guards? If we stall their call to GCPD, we buy ourselves time!"
"We could file a false report—say there's a robbery in Burnley or the Diamond District. Distract the force!"
"Block the doors and windows! Keep nosy eyes out!"
One mind might falter—but many, united, moved like a machine.
With a sudden army of accomplices, the operation surged forward. Tellers worked faster, stuffing cash into bags. Others barricaded exits. Someone cut the security feed. Everything ran smoother than Downton had hoped.
In under two minutes, a young pregnant woman rushed up, breathless, clutching a travel bag bulging with banknotes.
"How's that? Did we do good?" she asked, eyes wide with nervous hope.
Downton met her gaze and nodded firmly. "Everyone pulled their weight—but you? You went above and beyond."
"Thank you, thank you!" She clutched the bag to her chest like a lifeline. "I… I didn't think I'd make it. Pregnant, abandoned—the father's gone. Even emptying my account wouldn't cover the surgery, let alone aftercare. I thought I was done for… But then you showed up." Her voice cracked. "With this… I can choose. Keep the baby. Or not. Either way—I've got a chance now."
She looked up, tears glistening. "In this godforsaken city… you gave me hope. May I know your name?"
Downton grinned. "Call me Downton. Downton of Downton Manor." He chuckled—half irony, half brand.
He took the bag, slung it over his shoulder, and shoved Manager Ryan forward. "Don't just gawk, Ryan. Go get your cut."
"Thanks, Boss Downton!" Ryan stammered, already moving—sweating, flushed, not just from the heat but the sheer madness of it all. (Earlier, he'd caught a glimpse of the pregnant woman's cleavage straining against a wad of twenties. The absurdity hadn't escaped him.)
Outside, the security guards—now disarmed and disoriented—made no move to intervene. Their radios lay silent. Their weapons, forgotten.
"Life's yours," one muttered. "But money? That's everybody's problem."
Inside, the vault emptied like a drained vein. People stuffed bills into coats, socks, handbags. No one fought. No one stole from each other. It was less a heist, more a reckoning.
Leaning against the bank's grand entrance, Downton watched them—smiling.
When the last pocket bulged and the last bag zipped shut, he clapped once—sharp, final.
"Show's over, folks. Three minutes on the dot. Time I vanish."
A murmur rose.
"If nothing goes sideways," he added, "you'll hear my name again. Or maybe a new one—a codename, something flashier."
He pointed a finger at the crowd. "But remember this: I keep my word. And tonight? We were partners."
Cheers broke out.
"You're sharp, Downton—you'll last in Gotham!"
"Best damn 'robbery' I've ever been in!"
"Hell, if you survive the Maroni family's wrath, I'll work for you full-time!"
"Gotham's got a new ghost—and he pays in cash!"
Grinning, Downton rolled up the shutter door, then pushed open the main entrance.
Outside, no sirens. No barricades. Just shopkeepers peering from windows, pedestrians frozen mid-step.
They watched as Downton strolled out—calm, whistling—while muffled laughter and whoops spilled from the bank behind him.
The onlookers exchanged bewildered glances.
That's a bank robbery?
Since when do hostages throw a party?
Next they'll be ordering hotpot and karaoke.
But no one called the police.
Not yet.