Chapter Text
He was watching.
Listening closely to every rustle, like a hunter studying his prey before sinking his teeth into its throat.
The truck rolled in at exactly 2:30 a.m., its engine coughing once before falling silent. Headlights swept across the warehouse wall, carving long, distorted shadows before snapping off.
Two men climbed out. One slammed the door harder than necessary; the other lingered, scanning the yard before leaning against the truck and taking out cigarettes. Bruce frowned. They were waiting for something.
Time passed, the wind seemed to grow stronger, but the Dark Knight remained hidden in the shadows. This was his only lead, and he had to find out who was behind it all.
The clock struck 2:45. Bruce clenched his jaw. In the morning, he had a meeting at Wayne Enterprises—one he would most likely postpone again. Alfred would be displeased, but that didn’t matter.
Gotham had sunk too deep into corruption and dirt, and Bruce had to clean it.
The warehouse door burst open with a metallic shriek, slamming against the wall hard enough to rattle the rusted frame. Light spilled out in a harsh, sickly rectangle, cutting through the dark.
Several masked men poured out, boots striking concrete in uneven rhythm. Weapons were already in their hands—cheap assault rifles, muzzles twitching as they scanned the yard, looking nervous.
Bruce catalogued them in a heartbeat. Posture sloppy. Fingers too close to the triggers. Eyes darting instead of observing. They were untrained. Just henchmen, flashed through Bruce’s mind.
With a wave of a hand, they signaled for the truck to be brought inside. It was time to act. Bruce spread his cape, grabbed his grapnel gun, and fired it at the warehouse roof. Before any of them could shout a warning, before muzzles could rise, small metal spheres fell from his hand, and smoke detonated midair.
Thick black clouds swallowed the yard, choking the light, drowning the men in darkness.
“What the hell?!” shouts erupted, followed by gunshots, but not a single bullet touched Bruce. He moved like a shadow, a few swift blows sending them crashing to the ground. One of them lunged with a bat. Bruce stopped it mid-swing.
His hand closed around the metal, wrenched it free, and in the same motion, he drove his fist into the man’s temple. The body went slack before it hit the ground.
Bruce let the bat fall.
Around him, the others lay scattered across the concrete, limbs twisted at wrong angles, breath coming in broken, wet gasps. No one tried to move. He stood among them, silent and watching.
Without a word, Bruce stepped toward one still conscious, crawling away from him. He saw the fear in the man’s eyes beneath the black mask, but Gotham was cruel.
And so was the Dark Knight.
Grabbing the man by the collar and slamming him against the wall, Bruce growled.
“Who are you working for?”
“He’ll kill me! He’ll kill me if I talk!” the criminal panicked, shaking his head and clutching Bruce’s wrist, trying to pry his hand away, but Bruce was immovable. As was his determination.
“Who says I won’t do the same?” Bruce pressed him harder against the wall, forcing out a terrified squeak. He was ready to do anything to clean Gotham.
Even stain his own hands.
“Um, excuse me, but murder—that’s bad. Pretty sure, anyway,” a voice suddenly came from the side, and Bruce spun sharply, locking eyes with a man nervously rubbing the back of his neck, glancing between the criminal in Bruce’s grasp and Bruce himself. “I’m sure the police are already on their way. So, how about we let him go?”
A thick, oppressive silence filled the warehouse.
Bruce froze, his gaze never leaving the stranger. He took in the wrinkled shirt, the mess of dark hair, and the eyes. Eyes that shone an unnaturally bright blue behind the lenses of his glasses.
Too clean a color for Gotham, Bruce thought.
Then he noticed the camera in the man’s hand. His expression darkened as he growled.
“Journalist?”
“Yes, I—” the stranger began, offering a nervous smile, but Bruce bared his teeth immediately.
“Get out.”
Bruce’s attention shifted back to the subdued criminal, who struggled to breathe, his chest heaving, terror widening his pupils. He no longer tried to escape; he clung to the hope of mercy instead.
“I have a daughter, a little girl. Please, Batman,” the man croaked, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. His trembling hands gripped Bruce’s forearm—not to break free, but like a drowning man reaching for a final lifeline. His whole body shook with fear, and Bruce could feel it radiating through him. “I just transported the cargo. I don’t even know what’s inside. I’m only here for the money. My daughter…my daughter just started school.” He lowered his head, staring at the floor, voice falling to a whisper. “She has no one else. Please…”
But Gotham was merciless.
And so was the Dark Knight.
“You should’ve thought of that earlier,” Bruce said, tightening his hold. “Now talk. Who. Do. You. Work. For.”
It wasn’t a request. And Bruce intended to get his answer at any cost.
“Mister…Batman?” the journalist cut in, stepping forward. From the corner of his eye, Bruce saw him tilt his head slightly, as if listening to something silent and distant. The nervousness drained from his face, replaced by a faint look of relief. “I’m sure if we just wait for the police—”
“Where are you from?” Bruce interrupted again, squaring his shoulders, narrowing his eyes at the journalist. The man blinked in confusion.
“I’m sorry?” he asked, tilting his head. But when Bruce kept staring, unmoving and silent, the journalist cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck again. “I’m from Metropolis, but I—”
“You don’t belong here. Get out,” this time, Bruce threw the criminal to the floor. Turning his back on the journalist, Bruce closed the distance as the man clawed at the ground, trying to drag himself upright. He didn’t make it far.
Bruce drove his boot down on the man’s knee. Bone gave way with a dull, sickening crack. The scream tore out of the criminal—hoarse, animal, cutting through the warehouse and echoing off the metal walls. He collapsed forward, forehead slamming into the concrete as his hands scraped helplessly across the floor.
“I won’t ask again. Who’s your boss?”
“Batman, wait!” the journalist shouted behind in panic.
“Aah—! Stop! Stop!” the criminal roared, pressing his forehead to the concrete, scraping his nails across the floor until blood streaked his fingertips. “Black Mask! We…we call him Black Mask!”
The wail of sirens rose in the distance, immediately forcing Bruce to step away from the criminal. His dark gaze snapped to the journalist, locking eyes with him.
“Did you call them?” His voice was rough, irritation no longer hidden as he took a step toward the journalist. The man stayed where he was, though his posture betrayed his nerves.
“I…thought the police would handle—,” he hesitated for a moment, his eyes traveling over Bruce before settling on his face. He blinked a couple of times, then gestured vaguely around them, toward the criminals sprawled on the floor, “—the situation.”
Bruce frowned, but there was no time for pointless conversation. He had what he came for. There was no reason to stay and wait for the police.
He reached for his grappling hook, aiming it upward, intent on leaving the building unnoticed. But before his boots could leave the ground, a heavy hand clamped around his elbow.
“Wait!” the journalist tried to stop him, but it was already too late. They both began to rise. Bruce clenched his teeth and tightened his grip on the handle, feeling the journalist’s hold strengthen as well, his gaze fixed downward in unmistakable surprise.
Too heavy, Bruce thought as the rope strained under their combined weight.
The moment they reached the rusted ladder leading to the fire exit, Bruce released the hook, landing on the unstable platform. The thin metal plates shivered beneath his weight.
The journalist, still clinging to Bruce’s arm, dropped to his knees, immediately checking the camera lens before glancing down again anxiously.
“That was dangerous,” he said, finally looking up at Bruce. He made no move to stand, and his hand remained on Bruce’s elbow—if anything, his grip tightened against the Kevlar. Bruce shot him a dark, irritated look, but the journalist seemed oblivious. “I don’t think that was safe, Mister Batman. This structure doesn’t look very stable.”
Bruce pressed his lips into a thin line, saying nothing.
Something about this journalist unsettled him. The man’s tone was nervous, yet his face showed no real fear. Bruce could have blamed it on the excesses of the profession—journalists often went through hell for a story—but even so…
He shouldn’t have been this calm standing next to Dark Night, surrounded by guns and criminals.
At that moment, the police burst into the building without warning. Both men looked down, watching as officers moved lazily through the space, opening the truck filled with weapons.
“Take a look at this, guys!” one of them shouted. The others hurried toward the truck, peering inside. A pleased whistle followed, then laughter.
“Well, would you look at that. Lucky day. I’m sure we can sell this to Falcone.”
“Why bother? Imagine how much we could squeeze out of Black Mask. He’s way more generous with treasures like this.”
“Good thinking, Frank. Alright, tie these guys up and let’s move,” one of the officers said as he climbed into the driver’s seat of the truck. The others began hauling the criminals up, shoving them toward the police cars.
“Who do you think they work for?” one of them asked casually.
“Who cares? All that matters is the cash. Let the mobs tear each other’s throats out,” another replied with a shrug.
Pain flared sharply through Bruce’s arm. He turned at once toward the journalist, who was still gripping his elbow. For the first time since they’d met, the man’s face was serious—so serious it made Bruce wonder if the nervousness had been nothing more than a mask, making him look innocent.
“Let go,” Bruce growled. The grip didn’t loosen. There would definitely be a bruise tomorrow.
The journalist seemed to snap back to himself and released Bruce abruptly, scrambling to his feet and staring at him with wide, guilty eyes.
“Oh—sorry!” he said with a light smile.
Bruce didn’t respond. Turning away, he headed toward the door leading to the roof. His footsteps were quiet, controlled, but the metal platform trembled faintly beneath his weight, adding to the sense of instability.
“Isn’t that…isn’t that wrong?” the journalist asked suddenly. Bruce stopped, though he didn’t turn around.
Below them, the officers began sweeping the perimeter, likely hoping to find more weapons. They wouldn’t. The warehouse was empty. It had never been a storage site—only a transfer point. Bruce hadn’t slept for nights trying to pinpoint the time and location of the shipment. The routes always changed. So did the people. New faces every time—some of them barely aware of what they were transporting, let alone who they worked for.
Too many people were clawing for power in Gotham. And the one thing they all shared was violence.
“Isn’t the police’s job to confiscate the weapons?” the journalist continued. Bruce could hear the genuine confusion in his voice. “To make sure they never reach the streets? Innocent people could get hurt if—”
“Reporter,” Bruce said quietly. The man fell silent at once, staring at him without blinking. Bruce cast him a dark, warning look. “Don’t interfere in things you don’t understand,” he said, keeping his voice low, “if you’d like to keep your head.”
The reporter frowned, tilting his head slightly, as if listening to something unseen.
“Is that a threat?”
Bruce didn’t answer.
Instead, he pulled a card from his belt. Slowly, he stepped closer to the stunned reporter and slipped the card into the breast pocket of his shirt. The man instinctively grabbed it, his eyes widening even further at the realization that it was his business card.
“A warning, Mister Kent,” Bruce said, turning back.
Because Gotham devoured naïve souls and left nothing behind. Not even bones.
Taking advantage of the reporter’s stunned silence, Bruce stepped off the platform and vanished into the city’s shadows.
Batman still had work to do.
“Master Bruce, it’s four in the morning,” Alfred said quietly. “Don’t you think you should get some rest before tomorrow’s banquet?”
He stood behind him, but Bruce could feel the weight of his gaze, calm yet concerned. Ever since Bruce returned to Gotham, Alfred had made it his duty to keep watching over him.
“Nothing has changed, Master Bruce. You are still my family,” Alfred had said the moment Bruce crossed the threshold of the cave.
And Bruce had felt the familiar weight of loss settle over him, suffocating him, not letting him breathe.
Because no matter how deeply he loved Alfred, the man was a living reminder of everything Bruce had lost.
“Not now, Alfred,” Bruce said grimly, his eyes fixed on the map glowing across the screen. Red lines mapped the routes of weapon transfers over the past few weeks. Something about them refused to sit right with him.
Every crime lord in Gotham had their territory. The borders between Black Mask and Falcone were clear to anyone born into the city. They were lines written in blood and fear.
But these shipments—they crossed those lines. Which meant only one thing.
Gotham was on the brink of a war for power.
“Master Bruce—” Alfred’s displeased voice pulled him from his thoughts, but Bruce cut him off sharply.
“Alfred.”
He turned to face him, jaw clenched, eyes dark and unyielding. For a brief moment, guilt pierced him when Alfred flinched, when the light faded from his eyes. But Bruce buried that feeling deep beneath his ribs.
This was more important.
“I’ll handle it,” Bruce said coldly. “You’re dismissed.”
And despite the fact that this man had raised him, despite the fact that this man had taught him how to throw a punch, how to handle a weapon, how to survive—
In the end, he worked for the Wayne family.
He couldn’t disobey.
“Good night, Mister Wayne,” Alfred said, bowing his head before pivoting on his heel and moving toward the cave’s exit. Each step echoed softly against the stone walls.
Bruce remained alone with the glowing map and the burning weight of guilt pressing against his chest. He clenched his hands into fists and turned back to the evidence.
Feelings only interfered with reason.
Gotham didn’t need Bruce Wayne.
Gotham needed Batman.
The sound of fingers striking keys filled the room. Somewhere nearby, a printer jammed with an irritated whine. Someone spilled a cup of coffee, the sharp, bitter scent cutting through the stale office air.
He couldn’t escape the noise. It pressed in on him, tightening with every second, crawling under his skin. Clark stared at the blank document glowing on his monitor, unmoving, not even trying to type a single word.
All his thoughts were still trapped in the previous night.
He never would have guessed that a simple lead on illegal weapons would end with a face-to-face encounter with Batman. And now, Clark had no idea what to do next.
Calling their meeting unpleasant would have been generous. Batman had looked at him like he might pull the trigger himself.
The Knight of Gotham wasn’t a public vigilante. He emerged from the shadows and vanished just as quickly—gone the moment someone blinked. No photographs. No evidence. Nothing solid to prove he even existed. Only criminals, left half-dead and trembling, could confirm that the Dark Knight wasn’t a ghost story, but Gotham’s living nightmare.
If Clark had known how that night would end, he would have thought twice before setting foot in Gotham. But he couldn’t ignore the trail that led him there.
Weapons from Gotham had found their way onto the streets of Metropolis. Over the past few weeks, too many innocent people had been caught in the crossfire of escalating gang violence. And now Clark finally had a name.
Black Mask.
The question was—what now?
Batman clearly didn’t like outsiders.
“Don’t you have a deadline today?” Jimmy’s voice broke through his thoughts. Somehow, even with his hearing, Clark had missed the moment Jimmy appeared beside him, dropping into the chair and turning toward him with a frown. “You haven’t written a thing, man. You’ve been way too quiet today. Something wrong?”
Clark took a slow breath, adjusted his glasses, and laced his fingers together, leaning back against the chair.
“No, it’s just…” He hesitated, then suddenly looked up at Jimmy. “You’re still going to the Wayne Foundation Gala tonight, right?”
“Yeah. All the elite will be there. Even guests from Metropolis,” Jimmy snorted. “I’d get fired if I skipped something like that.” Clark nodded in understanding. He liked the job, but sometimes it asked for too much. “Why?”
“Nothing,” Clark said lightly. “I just thought…it wouldn’t hurt to get out for a bit.” He smiled carefully, tucking his unease neatly out of sight.
Jimmy raised an eyebrow, studying him as if he didn’t quite recognize the person sitting there.
“Get out?” he echoed. “At a banquet for the elite of the elite?” He leaned closer. “You sure someone didn’t swap you out while I wasn’t looking?”
Clark shrugged, but the motion felt stiff.
“I just need a change of scenery, Jimmy. Inspiration,” he gestured toward the empty page glowing on the screen. “You know how it is.”
Jimmy followed his gaze. The document stared back—blank, save for the date at the top. After a moment, he exhaled through his nose.
“Be my guest,” he said. “But don’t blame me if they fire you.”
“I’ll figure something out,” Clark replied with a soft chuckle.
But his thoughts refused to follow the sound of his own voice. The truth pressed heavily in his chest.
This wasn’t about inspiration. Or deadlines. Or journalism.
It was about Batman.
About the violence that man carried like armor, and the blood he was willing to spill in the name of justice.
Clark had spent his life believing that power existed to protect—to stand between the innocent and the darkness.
Batman didn’t stand between. He chose to become it.
And if Gotham’s blood was already staining the streets of Metropolis, then Clark couldn’t stay away.
But first, he had to find Batman.