Crunch!

Inside the Batcave, the sound was so sharp and sudden that it echoed through the chamber like the snap of breaking steel. Alfred—who had been calmly monitoring the field feed from his workstation—froze, his hand hovering midair above the keyboard.

For a moment, his mind went blank.

Master Wayne had fought dozens of criminals these past months, but never—never—had one of them known who he really was.

And yet, here they were.

The man Bruce was facing out there on that rooftop… not only knew Batman's secret identity, but had casually mentioned Alfred too. His name. His role. His very existence in this operation.

It felt like a nightmare.

No one outside of Bruce and a few encrypted files buried in the deepest corners of the Batcomputer even knew Alfred assisted him. The man's very life had been built on shadows and secrecy.

But this—this stranger had peeled that all away as if he'd simply read a list.

"What… in heaven's name…" Alfred whispered, his pulse pounding. "Who is this man?"

Even his calm, unflappable demeanor cracked, just a little.

And across the screen, Batman himself—held effortlessly in Alex's grasp—was equally stunned. His mind was spinning, his heart hammering behind the armor.

He knows about Alfred?!

The realization hit like a punch to the gut. For someone as private, as meticulously paranoid as Bruce Wayne, that was the ultimate violation.

This guy had dug everything up.

Before Bruce could even speak, Alex moved.

Whoosh!

With the ease of flicking away a piece of lint, Alex hurled Batman straight off the rooftop—

—aiming perfectly for the dumpster below.

BANG!

The metal groaned under the impact.

Batman landed hard, shoulders slamming into the piled trash, his cape folding awkwardly around him. The breath was knocked out of his lungs, and for a second, stars danced in his vision.

Alex watched from above, hands in his pockets, entirely calm.

He'd calculated the throw. The building wasn't high. The dumpster was packed full of refuse soft enough to cushion the fall. The armor would absorb most of the force.

He wouldn't die.

But oh, he'd feel it.

Hard.

Alex could practically picture him down there, dizzy, disoriented, maybe trying to sit up and realizing he didn't even have the strength to climb out yet.

Well… until Alfred came to fetch him.

Alex smirked faintly. Rest well, Dark Knight. Consider it… a forced vacation.

He turned, about to leave, when something occurred to him.

He paused mid-step, then blurred back into motion—vanishing from the rooftop and reappearing beside the dumpster below.

Batman was still there, half-buried in trash, glaring daggers upward.

"You know," Alex said thoughtfully, crouching beside him, "your identity's kind of… sensitive. If the cops find you like this, that'd be awkward, wouldn't it?"

He smiled—warmly, almost cheerfully. "Don't worry. I'll handle it."

He reached down and began scooping up handfuls of garbage—old paper, rotting food, some unidentifiable sludge—and tossed it over Batman with unhurried precision.

A few handfuls later, Gotham's greatest detective was completely buried.

Batman just lay there in silence.

"…Thanks," he muttered flatly in his mind.

Really. Thanks a lot.

"All done!" Alex clapped his hands, satisfied like a man who'd just finished a good deed. "You're safe now. No need to thank me."

He gave a jaunty little wave and straightened up, strolling off down the alley. His expression was light, almost refreshed, as if he'd done the city a personal favor.

Now then—time to get back to work.

The job Batman had interrupted earlier was still unfinished.

Two gangs were about to make a deal.

Time to finish what he'd started.

Whoosh!

With a blur of motion, Alex disappeared into the night.

---

At Gotham's waterfront, the old docks stretched into darkness, silent and rotting beneath the weight of decay.

The waves slapped rhythmically against the wooden pylons, carrying with them the tang of salt, oil, and rust. The air was damp and heavy—so thick it seemed to cling to the lungs—and the faint stench of rotting fish made it worse.

No one came here anymore.

Which made it the perfect meeting place for criminals.

Tonight, the dock belonged to two crews: the Pink Powder Gang and the Skullheads.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Three car doors slammed almost in unison.

From one side stepped Tyler Sheridan, a lean, sharp-eyed lieutenant from the Pink Powder Gang, leading a half-dozen armed thugs. The flicker of the dock lamps gleamed off their pistols and the muzzles of submachine guns.

On the other side waited Martin Starr and his Skullheads—stockier men with tattoos creeping up their necks, each carrying enough firepower to flatten a police van.

"Tyler, my man!" Martin greeted, flashing a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Finally! I thought you'd chickened out on me."

The two men met halfway, all rough charm and false camaraderie, slapping each other's backs in the way gangsters do before they try to kill one another.

But when Martin pulled Tyler close, something cold and hard pressed against his ribs.

A gun.

Typical.

Tyler smirked faintly, returning the gesture with his own well-hidden weapon.

That was the nature of their business—trust was a luxury, and a handshake often doubled as a threat.

"Brother, we'll toast later," Tyler said quietly. "Let's just finish this fast. Things are… tense lately."

Martin nodded, his grin fading. He didn't need to ask why.

Batman.

Six months ago, the city had been theirs—a playground for smugglers, dealers, and syndicates. Now, half their associates were in Blackgate or hiding underground. The Bat had turned their empire into a minefield.

Not that prison scared them.

But it was inconvenient.

And right now, inconvenience meant lost profits.

"Batman, huh?" Martin spat, his lip curling. "If that freak shows up, I'll feed him a full magazine."

The gangsters around him laughed, brandishing their weapons, their voices echoing across the water.

Their bravado was loud, desperate—the laughter of men who knew fear too well but refused to show it.

"I believe you would," Tyler chuckled, though his tone carried a hint of unease.

The men got to work. Cases were opened. Money counted. The exchange was smooth, mechanical—product for payment, no tricks, no sudden moves.

Clap!

The two leaders shook hands again, grinning with relief.

"Good deal, brother," Martin said. "Next time, drinks on me."

"Count on it. Tell Boss Smith I'll have another shipment soon."

"Actually…"

A voice cut through the damp air like the edge of a blade.

"…you won't be seeing anyone again."

Both men stiffened.

"Who's there?!"

Their heads snapped toward the sound—

—and saw a figure standing casually beside a dark sedan at the edge of the dock.

A young Asian man.

He looked utterly out of place amid the grime and shadows—hands in pockets, posture relaxed, as if he'd been waiting for them to notice.

Clang! Clang! Clang!

Dozens of safeties clicked off. Barrels turned.

Every gun in the area was suddenly trained on him.

"Who the hell are you?" Tyler barked. "Who sent you?"

Alex sighed softly, almost disappointed.

"Pointless question," he said.

He lifted a hand—just slightly—and twisted his wrist.

Crack!

Tyler's head snapped sideways at an impossible angle. The sound was sharp, wet, final.

His body dropped instantly.

For a heartbeat, the entire dock fell silent.

Then the realization hit.

He'd killed a man—without even touching him.

Every eye widened. Every jaw went slack.

Was that even possible?

Apparently, yes.

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