"Hello? Manhattan Police Department?"
The voice on the phone was trembling, half-crying, half-laughing.
"Can you come arrest me? Please. I rob people, I steal, I'm a criminal. Come take me away!"
Before the dispatcher could even respond, another call cut in on the neighboring line.
"And me! I cheated a rich guy out of money years ago! That's a crime, right? I'm guilty too! Take me away!"
"Please—please—send officers now! I want to go to jail!"
Inside the Manhattan Police Department headquarters, the atmosphere was absolute chaos.
Phones rang nonstop. Operators shouted coordinates. Officers ran in and out with files and radios pressed to their ears. The electronic call board kept lighting up faster than anyone could clear it.
Chief George Stacy had not sat down once all night.
"Tomorrow's schedule—change it all," George said, rubbing his temples as he stood in the middle of the operations floor. "Ogg, find me a psychiatrist. We need a full psychological evaluation for Norman Osborn."
"Yes, sir," Ogg replied immediately, though sweat had already soaked through the back of his shirt.
"And one more thing," George continued, lowering his voice. "Prepare the paperwork for Dr. Otto Octavius's release. Clear a detention cell in advance."
Ogg hesitated, then laughed weakly.
"Chief… even if we clear one cell, it won't matter."
He gestured around the room.
"Look at this place. We've had more voluntary surrenders tonight than in the last six months combined."
George followed his gaze. Every operator was busy. Every radio channel was filled with voices begging to be arrested.
"And the strange part?" Ogg added. "Their locations are all over Manhattan. Uptown. Downtown. Harlem. Queens border. It's like they all decided—at the same time—to turn themselves in."
George exhaled slowly.
"I'm starting to think they're connected to Kingpin."
Ogg frowned. "Trying to get locked up together so they can break him out?"
"If that's the plan," Ogg said flatly, "then Kingpin has lost his mind."
Before George could respond, one of the operators suddenly stood up.
"Chief! We've got something!"
George turned sharply. "What is it?"
"The caller mentioned a name," the operator said, covering the receiver with one hand. "He keeps screaming about Batman."
George was already moving.
"Put him on speaker. Ask him what happened."
The operator swallowed and did as told.
Moments later, the operator's face drained of color.
"He says he's surrounded by… a group of Batman. He says he'd rather go to prison than stay where he is."
The room fell quiet for half a second.
Then George straightened.
"Get his exact location. Dispatch everything. Patrol units, Major Crimes, whoever's closest. Pick up every single one of these people first."
"Yes, sir!"
Within minutes, the sound of engines roared outside.
Police cars flooded the streets of Manhattan, sirens screaming as they tore through the night.
George returned to his office, closing the door behind him. His gaze fell on the object resting quietly on his desk.
A black, sharp-edged weapon.
A Batarang.
It had been removed from Norman Osborn's damaged equipment earlier that day, cataloged as evidence.
George had once thought Batman was just another masked vigilante—another tight suit, another ego, another Spider-Man.
Tonight shattered that assumption completely.
Batman wasn't just a person.
It didn't feel like one.
It felt like a force.
An idea.
A system.
Maybe even something inhuman.
Otherwise, there was no explanation for what was happening across Manhattan.
---
Woo-wah. Woo-wah.
The night sky was split open by sirens.
From rooftops to fire escapes, curious faces peeked out of windows. In Downtown Manhattan, where paranoia and firearms were family traditions, people clutched guns while listening to the chaos outside.
Something was wrong.
Very wrong.
In Washington Park, headlights cut through the darkness as a patrol car sped toward the scene.
The sudden light startled a cloud of bats, which exploded into the sky in every direction, their wings flapping wildly—like something straight out of a vampire movie.
On the grass beneath them lay a broken man.
Cornet.
His eyes were wide open, staring at the night sky as if hell itself had descended.
Below his waist, his body was shattered. Bones crushed. Muscles torn. His pants were soaked with filth and blood.
But Cornet didn't feel shame.
He didn't even feel pain anymore.
He felt terror.
When the siren echoed through the park, a spark of hope ignited in his eyes.
He dragged himself forward with his hands, crawling toward the approaching police car.
"I'm here! I'm here!" he screamed, sobbing. "I'm a criminal! I tried to assault a woman! I'm a rapist! Arrest me! Please—take me away!"
"This place is cursed!" he shrieked. "There's a demon here!"
Cornet would never forget what happened tonight.
He had nothing—no job, no family, no money. Desperate and angry, he targeted a waitress walking alone and dragged her into Washington Park.
She was weak. Helpless.
It should have been easy.
But just as he was about to succeed—
She vanished.
A foul wind swept through the park.
In her place stood a figure darker than the night itself.
Cold.
Silent.
Unmoving.
The thing didn't speak.
It didn't threaten.
It simply reached out.
And crushed Cornet.
Every bone shattered—arms, legs, ribs… even places that made his soul scream.
Cornet fought with everything he had, but he couldn't move the figure even an inch.
He was beaten unconscious.
Woken up.
Broken again.
Three times.
By the third time, his mind collapsed.
---
Across Manhattan, similar scenes unfolded.
Criminals tied up in black silk like grotesque sculptures.
Gang members left screaming in alleyways with shattered bones.
Some swore they saw demons.
Others claimed vampires.
Werewolves.
Ghosts.
Madmen.
But every report shared one detail.
The Bat.
---
High above the city, at the peak of the Empire State Building, a lone figure stood against the roaring wind.
Batman.
Four hundred meters above the ground, his cape snapped violently behind him. The damage from the Green Goblin still showed—ragged edges fluttering like torn wings.
He watched the police lights below weave through the city.
Manhattan looked alive.
Boiling.
After leaving Queens, Batman had used the Batmobile's underground access to move through subway tunnels, emerging wherever crime appeared.
With radio signals, surveillance, and Peter Parker's enhanced senses working together, no scream escaped his notice.
"I know you're a good kid…"
Aunt May's voice echoed in his mind.
Batman closed his eyes briefly.
Then he stepped off the building.
The wind howled as he fell.
His cape snapped open. The Batarang anchored. He landed smoothly and disappeared into the night.
Hells Kitchen awaited.
Kingpin was already behind bars—but his empire wasn't finished.
Walker and Mike had confessed.
Two names remained.
Shulman.
Bullseye Lester.
Batman would not let another Kingpin rise.
---
Meanwhile, in Hells Kitchen—
Bullseye rolled a small tracking device between his fingers, a lazy grin on his face.
He had plucked it earlier from the fluffy white collar of a certain thief.
He looked up, eyes sharp.
"Black Cat," he said lightly, "care to explain what this is?"
The night wasn't over yet.
And the sky was still boiling.
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