Inside the van's cargo space were three men, each one in varying degrees of undress.
One in pajama pants and a stained undershirt. Another stripped to briefs only. The last looked like he'd been dragged straight from a sauna—shirtless, damp, wrists bound behind him with glowing cords of purple light that pulsed faintly like veins.
All of them gagged. All wide-eyed.
Tala stared down at them, her hand raised lazily—purple energy flickering around her fingers.
"Zhut up… before Tala makez you."
The words rolled out cold and slow.
One of the men whimpered through the gag. Another tried to shift, only to wince in pain as the bindings squeezed tighter around his ribs. The rest fell completely silent.
Tala's lip curled in vague disgust.
With a flick of her hand, the doors slammed shut, the purple energy sealing them with a soft shhk as it locked in place. She turned, brushed her palms together, and muttered something in a language no one alive would recognize.
Then she walked to the front of the van.
Inside, Cheshire sat in the driver's seat—one leg bent beneath her, the other tapping lazily against the dash. She was filing her nails with an expression of complete apathy.
A faint, satisfied smile appeared at the corner of her lips, even as the low buzz of energy from the van's interior washed over her.
Tala climbed into the passenger seat, arms stiff.
"It iz done," she said flatly. "Let uz go."
Cheshire didn't look up. She reached to the center console and grabbed a clipboard.
"Relax, T," she murmured as she clicked the pen. "Just a few more to go and we're done."
She ticked off names on a list:
Hamilton Hill Jr. — Ties to Black Mask. Approved citywide surveillance program that funneled data directly to Falcone's private network.
Leo Montese — Funded by Hush. Greenlit demolitions in the Narrows to clear room for criminal expansion.
Eldon Trask — Gotham Sanitation Commissioner. Helped Joker dispose of bodies in exchange for experimental nerve agents.
Councilwoman Daria Vance — Bribery from Iceberg Lounge. Sold building permits for known trafficking hubs.
And the list went on…
Each name had a photo beside it. A few already scribbled over with thick black Xs. A few still pristine.
Cheshire tilted the clipboard, humming to herself.
Tala crossed her arms, scowling.
"Zhis iz beneazh me," she muttered. "Tala can do zo much more for zee mazter."
Cheshire glanced at her with a smirk, clearly unbothered.
"I'm sure you'll get your chance."
She tossed the clipboard onto the dash with a soft clatter, then turned the ignition.
The van rolled forward, its tires crunching over the gravel driveway as they slipped away from the mansion.
Behind them, the lawn remained still.
The guards wouldn't wake for hours.
And the city wouldn't know it was missing part of its rot until it was far too late.
—
Gotham City Hall — 9th Floor, Mayor's Office
Mayor Sebastian Hady sat behind his oversized mahogany desk, his fingers gently massaging the cleft in his chin like he was trying to unlock wisdom through friction.
A half-empty decanter of aged whiskey sat nearby, alongside a crystal glass that caught the room's amber lighting just right.
His smile?
Stupid. Full and smug.
The kind of smile that only appeared when the man smiling didn't realize someone else was already writing his obituary.
Across from him, his secretary—a young woman with legs longer than her résumé and eyes that had mastered the corporate nod—poured the whiskey without spilling a drop.
Her uniform blouse was pristine, her skirt professional enough to avoid lawsuits but tight enough to keep the mayor attentive.
"You seem to be in a good mood today, sir," she said, pouring with care. "Especially considering… well, everything going on outside."
Mayor Hady chuckled, a low, greasy sound that stuck to the corners of the room like cigarette tar.
"Why wouldn't I be?" he asked, swirling the glass. "For once, I'm not the one getting chewed out for the circus this city's become. The Justice League's tripping over itself, the President doesn't know what the fuck he's doing, and every network's running around screaming 'terrorist threat' about Markovic"
He leaned back, tossing the whiskey down his throat with one practiced gulp. Clink.
"Best part? I've already filed for emergency funding. Should be a nice fat check headed my way by the end of the week. Oh—and speaking of public disaster," he added with a lazy wave, "prepare me something heartfelt I can read at the press conference. Tragedy, unity, resilience… you know the script. Something with a violin playing behind it."
He laughed at his own cleverness. No one else did.
The secretary forced a smile, nodding awkwardly. "It will be done, sir."
She turned to leave.
"Keep up the good work," Hady added, his eyes now fully resting where they shouldn't. "And there'll definitely be more gains coming your way, darling."
Before she could roll her eyes or vomit, the office doors exploded open with a thunderous **CRACK**.
"Ah!" The secretary screamed and stumbled back, nearly dropping her clipboard.
The mayor shot up from his chair, whiskey glass rattling on the desk.
"What the—!?"
Smoke lingered in the doorway.
And through it stepped Slade Wilson.
Not masked. Not armored.
Wearing a tailored slate-gray suit—three-piece, high-collared, with subtle gold trim and a double-breasted cut favored by Gotham's new-wave elites. A sleek Leviathan pin rested where a pocket square might've gone.
Cigar in his mouth.
Smug smile on his lips.
Slade stepped forward, slow and measured. He took the cigar out, puffed once, and exhaled a long stream of smoke across the room like a man christening his new office.
Mayor Hady gaped, horror slowly rising behind his eyes.
"Wh-What is the meaning of this?!" he asked, trying to muster some authority that hadn't been there in years.
Slade grinned.
"This, my friend," he said smoothly, "is a hostile takeover."
Hady blinked.
Stunned. Then angry. Then terrified.
"You can't do this—"
"Watch me," Slade replied, not missing a beat.
He turned to the suited men standing behind him—each one dressed in sharp black, wearing mirrored shades, earpieces, and the expressionless professionalism of men who moved bodies for a living.
"Get him out of my office," Slade said casually, gesturing with the cigar.
The agents advanced.
"No—no, you can't—don't you dare!" Hady shouted, stumbling backward. His words fell apart as the men reached him, gripped his arms, and began dragging him away like oversized luggage.
"Unhand me! I'm the elected mayor of—!"
"You were," Slade cut in, now circling the desk. "Now you're just a walking pension liability."
"YOU WON'T GET AWAY WITH THIS—SLADEEEEEEE—!"
The office doors swung shut behind him with a satisfying thud.
Silence.
Slade turned back to the secretary, still standing by the wall, clipboard clutched to her chest like it might save her.
His eyes met hers.
She straightened, unsure whether to flee or curtsey.
He smiled.
"You can stay," he said.
She blushed.
And smiled back.
Slade took Hady's chair. It fit him better.
He leaned back, exhaled smoke into the high ceiling, and reached for the whiskey.
"I could get used to this."