A wet, tearing sound split the air as Locke's hand punched straight through the man's chest. His fingers curled around something warm and slick before he pulled back, blood spilling freely as the man's strength drained away. The victim's body trembled for a second before collapsing to his knees, his life already slipping through his grasp.
Gunfire erupted instantly.
Shots cracked one after another, the sharp flashes of muzzle fire lighting up the street in chaotic bursts. Bullets tore through the air from every direction as every criminal on the block opened fire at once, panic and rage driving their trigger fingers.
But Locke was no longer where he had been standing.
Only a fading afterimage remained, and the hail of bullets tore straight through empty space before slamming into the shooters across from them. Confusion turned to horror in a heartbeat as their own crossfire ripped through their ranks, bodies jerking and collapsing under friendly fire.
Screams mixed with gunfire, and the entire street plunged into madness.
Locke moved like a phantom through the chaos, his figure flickering in and out of sight as he closed in on a man frantically swapping magazines. Before the man could react, Locke's hand clamped down on his skull and drove it straight into the pavement with brutal force.
The impact was sickening, a dull explosion of flesh and bone that sent blood spraying across the ground like shattered fruit.
Nearby, a tall, heavyset white man dropped to his knees, his face drained of color as his entire body shook uncontrollably. The sheer brutality unfolding in front of him shattered whatever nerve he had left, leaving him frozen in place.
He didn't even have time to scream.
Locke appeared behind him in the next instant, his hand twisting sharply. There was a crisp snap as the man's head was forced around at an unnatural angle, his body going limp before crashing heavily to the ground.
Outside the street, the sound of gunfire and terrified screams drew attention fast. Pedestrians slowed, then stopped entirely, staring toward the chaos with growing unease.
A blood-soaked man stumbled out of the alley, his movements erratic as he rushed toward a group of bikers gathered nearby. His face was pale, his eyes wide with terror as he pointed back toward the street behind him.
"Fuck! He's killing us!"
His voice cracked into a near scream, desperation and fear spilling out in equal measure. Before anyone could react, his body suddenly jerked forward and slammed face-first onto the ground.
A machete jutted from his back, its blade buried deep.
"Shit!"
One of the bikers cursed under his breath, instinct taking over as he twisted the throttle and sped away. That single action shattered whatever resolve remained among the others, and in the next moment, the entire group scattered in all directions, engines roaring as they fled the scene.
Inside the block, the final gunshot echoed like a closing note.
Then silence.
Locke stepped out from the street slowly, his body stained with blood from head to toe. His expression remained calm, almost indifferent, as he flicked his hands lightly, shaking off the excess blood as if it were nothing more than water.
Even he couldn't quite explain what had driven him to act like this tonight. This level of slaughter hadn't been part of his original plan, and yet once it had started, he hadn't stopped.
His figure blurred as he moved, breaking apart into streaks of afterimages before vanishing entirely from the scene.
A moment later, the distant roar of an engine cut through the night.
A sleek black motorcycle tore down the road at high speed before skidding to a controlled stop at the intersection leading into the blood-soaked street. The rider dismounted in one fluid motion, dressed in a black leather jacket and a bat-shaped mask that concealed his face completely.
Bruce Wayne didn't hesitate as he moved forward, his pace quick and deliberate. Just before stepping into the street, he paused slightly, his gaze dropping to the ground beneath his boots.
Something wet clung to the sole.
His pupils shrank as the metallic scent hit him, thick and unmistakable. Slowly, he lowered his foot back down and continued forward, his expression hardening as he entered the alley.
Then he stopped.
The sight before him was enough to freeze even him in place.
Bodies lay scattered across the street in grotesque disarray. Some had fist-sized holes torn straight through their chests, others were riddled with bullets from multiple directions, and a few had their heads twisted completely around, their lifeless eyes staring into nothing.
There wasn't a single survivor.
Bruce's gaze darkened, deeper than it had ever been before, as the distant wail of sirens began to rise behind him. Without another word, he turned sharply, retracing his steps back to the motorcycle.
Within seconds, he was gone.
…
Inside a grand manor, soft symphony music filled the air, its elegance a stark contrast to the carnage that had just taken place elsewhere in the city. A man dressed in a tailored suit guided his dance partner across the polished floor, their movements smooth and perfectly in sync.
The woman's steps were light and graceful, her body moving with practiced ease as she spun beneath his arm. As she completed a turn, her gaze flicked toward an elderly man seated nearby in a wheelchair, a faint, knowing smile forming on her lips.
The old man watched quietly, his presence commanding even in stillness.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
Rod Sionis brought his hands together in slow applause, admiration clear in his expression, though there was something else beneath it—something harder to read.
"Master."
A middle-aged man dressed in a high-collared tuxedo stepped forward, his posture respectful as he moved behind the wheelchair. His hands settled on the handles, already preparing to move.
"A dangerous individual has appeared in the central district."
"Danger?" The old man let out a soft chuckle, as if the very idea amused him. "That's a bold word."
Under the butler's guidance, the wheelchair was turned and rolled away from the ballroom. Outside, several black cars were already waiting, their engines idling quietly in the night.
The old man was assisted into one of the vehicles, and within moments, the convoy was in motion.
Car after car followed in tight formation as they sped away from the manor, disappearing into the darker edges of the city. Eventually, the lead vehicle slowed as it approached an abandoned cemetery, its gates rusted and half-forgotten.
The group disembarked without a word.
Moving through the dense, shadowy woods, the butler guided the old man along a narrow path until they stopped in front of an unremarkable grave. At a subtle signal, mechanisms hidden beneath the earth activated, and the tombstone shifted aside to reveal a concealed passage descending into darkness.
Two men in suits stepped forward to flank them, and the four figures entered without hesitation.
Inside, the air grew colder as they moved deeper underground. The old man reached out and took a mask from the wall, lifting it calmly before placing it over his face.
An owl.
Beneath the cemetery, the hidden chamber opened into a vast marble hall dominated by a massive round table. Seated around it were several figures, each wearing the same owl mask, their identities completely concealed.
As the old man arrived, one of them rose slowly to his feet.
"Gentlemen," he began, his voice echoing faintly through the chamber, "Gotham is slipping from our grasp, piece by piece."
"Slipping?" Another figure scoffed sharply. "Even the Wayne family couldn't defy us."
A few others nodded in agreement, murmurs of confidence passing between them.
"Then tell me," an older woman's voice cut in smoothly, "what exactly is the cause?"
The standing man's gaze swept across the room, pausing briefly on each masked figure.
"Why is all of your attention fixed on that bat?" he said, his tone laced with disdain. "In my eyes, he's nothing more than a self-righteous fool clinging to his sense of justice."
He leaned forward slightly, his voice lowering.
"We have a far more dangerous problem now. Someone far more ruthless than any criminal. Unlike Batman, this one leaves no room for survival. Anyone he targets… dies."
The words settled heavily over the room.
"He's not acting randomly," the man continued. "He's hunting. And from what I can see… we may already be on his list."
Silence followed, thick and suffocating, as the members of the Court of Owls exchanged glances beneath their masks.
One name surfaced in all their minds.
"Judge?"
The single word broke the stillness.
A low chuckle followed as the speaker leaned forward, resting his hands on the table. His gaze shifted, landing briefly on Rod Sionis, who had remained silent until now.
"That man… he's no ordinary individual."
"Of course he isn't," a younger voice cut in quickly. The speaker leaned forward, his tone edged with excitement as his chest rose and fell. "My people just reported a riot on Thirteenth Street. The entire block was wiped out. Not a single survivor."
A pause.
"Is this… a warning to us?"
....
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