Arkham Asylum.

Inside a spacious office, a young man in an impeccably tailored suit—elegant, calm, exuding an almost scholarly air—watched the television screen where Alex was giving his impassioned declaration.

A faint, mocking smile curled the man's lips.

> "What a clown."

A few seconds later, that was his final verdict.

Click.

He shut off the TV and promptly dismissed the so-called "Homelander" from his thoughts.

The man rose from his chair, walked to the far corner of the room, and entered a code into a large safe.

But the safe didn't hold cash, gold bars, or any other valuables.

Instead, it contained a single mask.

A crude, ugly thing—stitched together from burlap, with a few ragged holes poked out for the eyes and mouth.

Primitive. Disturbingly so.

And yet that same mask had haunted the nightmares of countless people.

Even inside Arkham, more than a few patients had lost their sanity because of it.

The man picked up the mask, along with a small vial of a yellowish gas.

> "Now then…" he murmured softly. "Who shall be my next test subject?"

---

Somewhere in a shabby, run-down apartment.

A man in a bathrobe, his face painted with heavy white makeup, blackened eyes, and a grotesque red smile, sat at a cluttered table.

He was carefully assembling a chemical bomb, his every move deliberate, precise—almost scientific.

If you didn't know better, you might mistake him for a chemist conducting a delicate experiment.

Glug.

He pushed a few strands of greasy hair off his forehead, licked his lips habitually, and reached down for a bottle of rum by his feet.

He took a long, hearty swig.

Alcohol and explosives—the perfect blend of flavor and chaos.

> "I, Homelander, will not allow crime in Gotham!"

The man froze.

Slowly, his eyes turned toward the television.

On the flickering screen, a young man spoke passionately into the camera.

A grin spread across the clown's painted face.

---

Inside a luxurious villa.

A tall, broad-shouldered man with a thick black mustache sat on a leather sofa.

He wore a tight black combat suit, a sword across his lap—long and slender, the kind only ninja would use.

Around him stood several heavily armed guards, each one rigid and silent like statues.

The man watched the television news while methodically polishing his blade.

When Alex's image appeared and his bold declaration echoed through the speakers, the man's hand paused briefly.

Then, without a word, he resumed cleaning his sword.

Like the other super-criminals of Gotham, he didn't take Alex seriously in the slightest.

"Boss," one of his lieutenants asked cautiously, "should we… be concerned about that man?"

"No need," the man said coolly, without even glancing up. "Gotham will soon fall into chaos. No one can stop that—not him, not anyone. He's just another fish in the pond."

---

Penguin. Riddler. Mr. Freeze. Poison Ivy. Harley Quinn.

All of Gotham's infamous villains—those who would one day fill the cells of Arkham Asylum—were still free, alive, and thriving in the city.

And every one of them, upon seeing the broadcast, noticed Alex.

Some laughed.

Some scoffed.

Some grew… intrigued.

---

Meanwhile, Alex sat alone, listening.

Using his super-hearing, he could hear every sound in Gotham—every voice, every heartbeat, every whisper of laughter and mockery.

And he was… unimpressed.

> "So… twenty bodies on the ground, and that's it? That's all the fear they can muster?"

He frowned slightly, honestly surprised.

He hadn't expected Gotham's criminals to surrender overnight—but the lack of effect was still underwhelming.

Then again, it made sense.

Sure, the news had said that Homelander had killed the members of the Pink Powder Gang and the Skulls—but who actually saw him do it?

Who knew what really happened that night?

For all anyone knew, the police had just stumbled onto the aftermath of a gang shootout.

The dead dealers, the injured cops—it all fit the usual Gotham narrative.

And Alex?

Most thought he was just another showman—someone who'd bribed a TV station to fake a dramatic "superhero" stunt to make himself famous.

A clown among clowns.

Alex chuckled softly.

> "Fine. If that's how it is… I'll just let my actions do the talking."

He rose calmly to his feet.

This was only phase one of his plan—killing those two drug gangs and sending a warning to Gotham's underworld.

Now came phase two.

To eliminate those who ignored his warning.

To purge every last criminal from Gotham City.

He took a breath—and then unleashed his hearing once more.

Instantly, every sound in Gotham flowed into his mind like an ocean of noise.

Every gunshot.

Every whispered deal.

Every scream.

Within seconds, he found what he was looking for.

A weapons deal—two rival gangs exchanging military-grade arms in an abandoned factory.

> "Perfect," he murmured.

Whoosh!

In the blink of an eye, Alex vanished.

The next second, he reappeared outside a derelict factory on Gotham's outskirts.

From the outside, the place looked silent and deserted.

But inside—inside were men, guns, and blood money.

The kind of filth he'd sworn to burn out of the city.

"Who's there?!"

"Stop right there!"

The guards by the factory gate raised their weapons instantly, aiming straight at him.

"Wait—hold up. It's him!"

"The Homelander guy?"

Recognition dawned on their faces, followed by cruel grins.

This lunatic actually came here?

Was he seriously trying to stop them?

They laughed.

"Hey! You're the guy who said we can't commit crimes, right?" one man jeered. "Well, look around—we're doing an arms deal right now. What're you gonna do about it?"

Alex's expression didn't change.

> "This."

His eyes flared crimson.

Two blazing beams of heat vision shot forth—brighter than fire, sharper than steel.

The guards didn't even have time to scream.

Fzzzt—!

They were sliced clean in half before the sound of their own fear could leave their throats.

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