The biting cold made Scorpion Mike shiver. He opened his eyes groggily, only to find himself bound tightly to the ground, his head resting on something cold and unyielding.
The nearest light source was a dim, orange-yellow lamp dozens of meters away. In its faint glow, he could make out layered lines beneath the light, like zebra stripes. No—not zebra stripes. Train tracks. His head was lying on a subway rail!
A sharp gust of wind howled through the tunnel.
Mike's limbs turned to ice. He thrashed desperately, trying to rise, but dark, silken threads stretched from the shadows, pinning him in place.
"Hey! Can someone let me go?" he shouted. "Is anyone there?"
His voice echoed through the empty subway tunnel. At first, his words were clear, but as the sound carried, it blurred into eerie, inhuman whispers.
A low hum began to rise in the distance. It wasn't coming from the air but from the tracks beneath Mike's head, vibrating directly into his skull. A deep, relentless drone, like the earth itself growling.
The rails quivered faintly, the tremor spreading through Mike's bound body. A prickling sensation made his hair stand on end.
"Hey!"
His shout carried a note of despair this time. He knew that sound. A subway train was barreling toward him.
A rush of air surged ahead of the train, thick with the metallic tang of rust, engine oil, and the damp, earthy scent of the tunnel's depths. It washed over Mike as he struggled harder, twisting with all his might. His hands strained with a strength he'd never tapped before, clawing at the dark webbing. But the silk was unyielding—tougher than steel. His frantic efforts only made it dig deeper into his flesh, pain flaring so intensely his vision darkened.
A pinpoint of light appeared at the tunnel's end, growing brighter by the second. The subway was closing in fast, its speed promising to crush Mike's skull in an instant. The tracks' trembling grew violent, and his teeth chattered uncontrollably.
He opened his mouth to scream for help again when a figure emerged in the train's headlights—cloaked in black, with two sharp, pointed ears. The sight nearly snapped Mike's already frayed nerves.
"I want to know everything about Kingpin," the figure said.
"You can choose to talk—or not."
The low voice cut through the subway's roar. Then the demonic silhouette began to fade into the shadows, as if abandoning Mike to his fate on the tracks.
The train's lights seared his eyes, tears streaming down his face. The air compressed by the approaching cars made his body sway. In seconds, it would be upon him.
Mike's control shattered. His legs trembled, and a warm trickle soaked his suit pants.
"I'll talk! I'll tell you anything you want! Just save me!"
"Please! I'll spill everything!"
The subway roared closer, its wind battering him. Mike's body stiffened, eyes wide as the black-clad figure yanked him upward at the last moment, his nose grazing the train's surface. Another second, and his face would've been scraped to ruin.
Mike had no doubt now: if he'd stayed stubborn, this vampire-like demon would've let the train crush him.
"Now talk," the figure said as the subway's rumble faded, a cool breeze brushing Mike's face.
Batman's voice was unmistakable.
Mike didn't hesitate. He spilled everything: Kingpin's daily training with elite fighters from across the globe, battling ten at a time and ending each fight in under twenty seconds. His own role in Kingpin's organization. Kingpin's scheme to entangle himself with the Osborn Group. Mike racked his brain, pouring out every detail he knew, not daring to pause. He feared that any hesitation would anger this mad vigilante, who might toss him back onto the tracks.
Batman listened, expressionless, cataloging every word. He scrutinized Mike's micro-expressions, breathing, and body language, gauging the truth of each statement.
After more than ten minutes, Mike's throat was dry, his voice hoarse. He'd exhausted every scrap of knowledge about Kingpin. Desperate, he pleaded, "My lord—Dracula, I swear I've told you everything. Please, let me go. My blood's no good, full of booze…"
His mind flashed to Walker, his partner from the pickup truck, now likely in Batman's clutches too. "Drink Walker's blood! He's Kingpin's driver and bodyguard—his blood's better than mine!"
A dull thud cut him off. Batman's fist slammed into Mike's stomach, and he crumpled, unconscious from the pain.
After securing Mike to the side, Batman dragged up Walker—Kingpin's driver and bodyguard—who'd been out cold. He repeated the process, binding him to the tracks.
The next train hadn't yet arrived. The rails, still hot from the last subway's passage, jolted Walker awake. Like Mike, he shouted for help, but no one answered. The dark webbing held him fast, tightening with every struggle.
Unlike Mike, whose body showed no signs of training, Walker's physique told a different story. The skin below his hairline was thicker, rougher, glinting with a sheen his face lacked. Calluses coated his elbows and knees—hallmarks of a Muay Thai master.
Batman's mind worked swiftly, piecing together Mike's information. Walker's injuries suggested an attacker using fists and blunt weapons. That matched Mike's account: Daredevil had taken Walker down the previous night.
"Kingpin's making bold moves in Hell's Kitchen," Batman mused. "It clashes with the low profile he needs to transition from the underworld to legitimate business. But if Walker's his driver and bodyguard…"
"Then tonight's actions make sense."
The distant rumble of the next subway grew louder. Walker, still bound on the tracks, let out a scream, his Muay Thai discipline crumbling.
Batman employed the same intimidation tactic, waiting until the last possible second to pull Walker from the train's path.
With the information from Kingpin's two most trusted men, Batman began plotting a comprehensive assault—targeting Kingpin's empire on every front: commercial, criminal, psychological, and physical.
He would dismantle the underworld emperor before he could take root.
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