To a human, time flows like a river. To a demon, when we focus, it drips like honey from a spoon.
The man with the scar on his lip was still blinking, his brain trying to process the fact that I was no longer standing in front of him.
I was already beside him.
With two fingers, I pinched the cylinder of his cheap revolver. It was filthy, smelling of unburnt powder. Disgusting.
Snick. Clack. Drop.
I didn't just take the gun. With surgical precision, I released the cylinder latch, popped the pin, and let the main body of the weapon fall into his other hand. I held the cylinder—loaded with six rounds—between my thumb and forefinger delicately, as if it were a piece of rare china.
Time resumed its normal flow.
"Huh?" The thug looked down stupidly at the useless pieces of metal in his hands.
"As I said," I murmured right into his ear, making him jump violently. "Guns are such vulgar tools. And you haven't even cleaned it properly. A poor workman blames his tools, but a filthy tool is simply inexcusable."
The other three men behind him panicked. It was the predictable reaction of prey animals. They fumbled inside their trench coats, pulling out an assortment of weaponry—a switchblade, another pistol, and a lead pipe.
"Get him! He's just a butler!" Scar-Lip screamed, stumbling backward and dropping the pieces of his gun.
Just a butler. How droll.
The man with the switchblade lunged first. His form was atrocious. Too much weight on the front foot, leaving him entirely off-balance.
I didn't even need to step aside. I simply pivoted on my heel. The blade missed my waistcoat by a millimeter.
As he stumbled past me, I raised my right hand and delivered a precise, open-palm chop to the base of his neck. I didn't use my full strength—if I did, his head would have detached. I used just enough force to sever the connection between his brain and his legs.
He collapsed face-first onto the driveway without a sound.
One.
The man with the lead pipe swung wildly at my head. I caught the pipe between my index and middle finger, stopping it dead in mid-air. The vibration of the impact traveled up the metal bar, shattering the bones in the thug's hands.
He shrieked, letting go of the weapon.
I twirled the heavy lead pipe in my hand like a conductor's baton.
"An interesting choice," I mused, looking at the sobbing man. "Blunt force. Crude, but effective if applied correctly. Let me demonstrate."
I flicked my wrist. The pipe blurred, striking him squarely across the shins. There was a sickening crunch, followed by a howl that I found rather grating on the ears. He crumpled to the ground.
Two.
The last one, the man with the second pistol, was shaking so hard he couldn't aim. He fired wildly. Bang! Bang!
One bullet went wide into a rose bush (I would have to prune that later). The other was headed straight for the center of my chest.
I sighed internally. This would ruin the shirt.
I raised my left hand, catching the bullet between my gloved thumb and forefinger just inches before it hit my tie. The lead was hot, singeing the cotton glove slightly. Annoying.
I flicked the spent bullet back at him. It struck the hand holding the gun, shattering his knuckles. He dropped the weapon, clutching his ruined hand.
Three.
I turned back to the leader, Scar-Lip, who was now backing away toward their rusty sedan, his eyes wide with terror. He looked at his three fallen comrades—one unconscious, two writhing in pain—and then back at me.
I hadn't even broken a sweat. My breathing was perfectly even.
"What... what are you?" he stammered.
I pulled a fresh white handkerchief from my breast pocket and dusted off an imaginary speck of dirt from my sleeve.
"I believe I already told you," I said, walking slowly toward him. The moonlight caught my eyes, making the crimson glow intensify. "I am the head butler of the Wayne household."
He scrambled backward, tripped over his own feet, and fell onto his backside.
"Please! It was just a job! Falcone sent us!"
"Mr. Falcone needs to learn that when one visits a gentleman's home, one brings a gift, not threats," I said smoothly.
I reached down, grabbed him by the lapels of his cheap coat, and lifted him effortlessly into the air until his feet were dangling off the ground. We were face to face.
"Listen closely, because I dislike repeating myself. You will return to your master. You will tell him that Wayne Manor is no longer open for business. If he wishes to acquire territory, he should look elsewhere."
I smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. It was the smile a shark gives a seal right before dinner.
"If any of your filth stains my doorstep again, I won't just break your toys. I will disassemble you, piece by piece, and mail you back to Mr. Falcone in assorted boxes. Do we have an understanding?"
He nodded frantically, unable to speak.
I dropped him. He hit the gravel hard.
"Take your rubbish with you," I gestured to the three groaning heaps on the ground. "You have sixty seconds before I call the authorities to collect what's left."
I didn't watch them leave. It was beneath my dignity.
I turned and walked back into the manor, closing the heavy oak doors behind me, shutting out the sounds of their pathetic retreat.
I stopped in the foyer mirror to check my appearance. My tie was slightly askew. I straightened it. Perfect.
I glided back into the drawing room.
Bruce was exactly where I had left him, holding the fork halfway to his mouth, looking towards the door with wide eyes. He had heard the gunshots.
"Sebastian?" his voice trembled slightly. "What happened? I heard shooting."
I walked over to the tea cart and picked up the teapot.
"Nothing of consequence, Young Master," I said serenely, pouring a fresh cup. "Just some very rude solicitors. They realized they had the wrong address and apologized profusely for the disturbance."
I placed the teacup in front of him.
"Now, eat your cake before it gets stale. We have much work to do tomorrow."
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