Just as Black Mask was trying to regroup from his recent setbacks, more trouble came knocking—literally.
At the front doors of the Sionis building, a group of suited men barged in without warning. They weren't subtle—they kicked the doors open and marched in like they owned the place.
"We're with the IRS! Everyone freeze and step away from your desks!" the young man leading the group barked, flashing his badge.
Security began to move in—ready to throw them out—but the moment they heard "IRS," they all hesitated. No one in the U.S. willingly crosses the IRS, an agency more feared than most law enforcement units combined. Originally built to fund the Civil War, it had become one of the most powerful organizations in the country—even more feared in certain circles than the CIA or the Department of Defense.
"According to recorded statements from one of the criminals recently captured by Batman—Weaver, the Arkham branch director—there were illegal financial dealings involving Roman Sionis, aka Black Mask," the lead agent continued.
But this wasn't your typical IRS agent.
It was Zsasz.
Clean-shaven, dressed in an expensive suit, barely recognizable without his usual shirtless, scar-scrawled look—he walked with total confidence. Gone was the wild man. Today, he played his part flawlessly.
"I'm not here for your drama," he added, bored. "But if you've got income, it had better be taxed."
The bodyguards weren't sure how to proceed. Their instincts told them to throw these people out—but logic reminded them that the IRS had the power to freeze assets, shut businesses down, and send people to jail with just a few keystrokes.
Meanwhile, Zsasz moved toward an accountant's desk with purpose.
Just before the mission, Adam had pulled Zsasz aside and given him one specific piece of intel, "Look for account numbers that start with an 'F' and end in 'K'. Those lead to Penguin's shared transactions. That's the leverage. Use that to stir the pot."
Sure enough, Zsasz began pointing out discrepancies almost immediately—numbers he didn't understand himself, but which, thanks to Adam's clues, exposed multiple tax fraud flags in record time.
"You've been cooking these books for years, haven't you?" Zsasz barked, throwing printouts at the stunned accountant. "Tell me—how much are you hiding? How many taxes have you evaded? You trying to get all of Sionis Group sent to Blackgate?"
It was quick. It was loud. It was effective.
By now, even the staff who'd once sneered at Zsasz's odd look or laugh now stood silent, stunned by this so-called "agent's" confidence and results.
"I want to speak to your boss. Now," Zsasz shouted. "Get Roman Sionis down here. Let's see what story he spins this time."
Upstairs, Black Mask was sipping dark liquor in silence when his phone rang. It was his assistant, panicked.
"I-IRS agents just broke into the lobby," he said. "They're demanding to see you."
Black Mask's face twisted in disbelief. "The IRS? What the hell do they want from me now?"
"You might want to come down, sir," the assistant whispered nervously. "They're… not backing off. And if they dig too deep…"
"Tell them I'm not here!" Black Mask barked. "Tax inspectors shouldn't bother me over small paperwork!"
But his finance team rushed into his office moments later.
"Sir, this is serious," one of them said quickly. "We're already facing pressure from Penguin's crew. If we piss off the IRS too, things could spiral fast."
Another added, "And the IRS just doubled their whistleblower rewards program. If someone inside turns on us, they'll get millions. We can't afford to have enemies on that front."
That last line hit differently.
Years ago, a Swiss banker had blown the whistle on wealthy tax cheats and walked away with over $100 million in reward money. There were people who'd betray their bosses for a lot less.
"For crying out loud…" Black Mask groaned, swallowing the last of his drink. "Fine. I'll see them."
When he arrived in the lobby, the first thing he saw was Zsasz sitting in one of his chairs looking far too relaxed.
Zsasz didn't look like a killer. He looked like a smug bureaucrat.
"Gentlemen," Black Mask started, voice tense. "There's clearly been a misunderstanding. I'm just an honest businessman—"
"I'm so glad you came," Zsasz interrupted, standing slowly and flashing a deranged grin.
"You're exactly who I was looking for."
Black Mask's gut twisted immediately. Something wasn't right. He backed up slightly. "What... exactly are you talking about here?"
Zsasz didn't answer with words—just action. He slammed his glass water cup onto the table, shattering it into pieces.
Cold glints of sharp glass scattered across the desk.
"Security!" Black Mask barked, glancing behind him.
Too late.
Zsasz lunged forward, grabbing the largest shard and slashing Black Mask across the throat with practiced precision. The Gotham crime lord gasped, stumbling backward, blood spreading down his shirt like ink in water.
He reached for his hidden gun, but Zsasz was quicker.
Another slice. This one deeper.
"I studied everything about you just so I could enjoy this moment," Zsasz whispered.
Black Mask's eyes widened. "Who… sent you…?"
But Zsasz only smiled.
"You're not worth the answer."
By the time the guards rushed in, it was chaos. Blood had spilled across marble floors. Shouting filled the walls.
Zsasz didn't run. He didn't flinch. Instead, he took off his jacket, found a smooth spot on his chest, and calmly dragged a fresh cut across his skin—another tally added to his twisted collection.
"I finally got to kill someone famous," he said, smeared in crimson. "And it felt amazing."
Then the thugs slammed into him.
Zsasz dropped to the floor under a hail of fists, but he kept grinning—even as blood poured from his mouth. "Just me," he coughed. "No one else. My kill."
The operation, in plain sight, had worked brilliantly.
Black Mask was dead.
And no one—not even his enemies—could link it back to Adam.
—
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