The helicopter whirled in the quiet night, its blades chopping through the air as strong winds blew across the faces of reporters. Sirens wailed in the distance, painting the streets in flashes of red and blue.
With a screech, the cop cars came to a stop—the road ahead was too damaged to drive any further. If they wanted to proceed, they'd have to do it on foot.
The helicopter had no such problem. It surged ahead toward the heart of the chaos. Something had awakened Gotham City. Citizens had poured out of their homes or peered through windows, watching as green and red lights clashed in the sky above.
Even those trying to sleep could feel the rumbling beneath their beds. The vibrations made rest impossible. Many had already guessed what was happening.
A powerful villain must have attacked the city. Heroes were fighting to stop them. Those closest to the scene ran to witness the spectacle firsthand—reporters, government officials, thrill-seekers, and vigilante wannabes.
Farther away, people pulled out their phones, recording the sky's violent display. Many caught sight of the hundred-meter sword that had materialized—only to be shattered by a green light moments later.
"Do you think Superman is fighting someone?"
"It might be Metallo."
Two kids ran toward the scene, talking excitedly. They were homeless—survivors of Gotham's underbelly—and their bond was unbreakable.
"Dummy, Superman would've ended it way quicker," one said.
"Plus, Superman doesn't make giant swords."
The other retorted, smirking at his friend's mistake.
"Look, there's people over there!"
The kids spotted a gathered crowd. Police officers stood nearby, weapons trained on a single masked figure. The streets were scarred—holes torn into the ground, fires still smoldering from an earlier battle.
"Hurry, let's get up front!" one of the boys said, slipping through the crowd.
"Hey, wait up!" the other called out, laughing—until the laughter stopped.
"I almost lost y—"
"You…"
The boy finally saw what had silenced his friend. Why did the police stand frozen in fear? Why did no one cheer? Why no hero stood triumphant.
Because there was no hero.
At least, not anymore.
Multiple heroes lay sprawled on the ground. Most were unconscious but unharmed. One of them, however, looked more dead than alive.
Batman.
Gotham's protector.
The man who never lost.
His battered body was crumpled on the ground, unmoving. Cuts could be seen as he bled through the mask. Only people at the scene could barely see the rising and falling of his chest.
And then—an anomaly.
A man stood at the center of it all. Not a hero. Not even close. His suit was pristine—untouched, as though he hadn't lifted a finger in battle.
In his grip was another man—one known across Gotham.
Scarecrow.
The master of fear now had snot dripping from his nose, body convulsing in terror. He clawed desperately at the hand around his neck, kicking and flailing like a trapped animal.
The masked man looked up. The helicopter lights illuminated him like a spotlight on a stage—a stage he had created with his own hands.
Gotham's citizens watched from their homes. They stared in disbelief at their defeated heroes. Crowds gathered around massive electric billboards that broadcasted the scene.
Solomon had done this—with a little help from a friend… or perhaps a minion. Penguin's connections had proved useful.
"Good evening, world," Solomon said, his voice calm but commanding. "Many of you don't know who I am—but that's not important. What is important… is what I'm here for."
He lifted Scarecrow higher, letting him dangle in the air. Not enough pressure to kill. Just enough to humiliate.
"These are the people you call villains," he continued. "To me? They're parasites. They prey on the weak, hide behind chaos, and laugh in the face of justice."
People leaned in. His voice gripped them like a vice. Everyone tried to guess what he was building up to.
"Not anymore."
"From this moment on, people like them won't just face justice. No more trials. No more second chances. No more convenient escapes."
"If you've built your name on fear… if you profit from pain… if you think you're untouchable—I will find you. And I will end you."
"Not even those in capes can save you."
"You will all fall. One by one."
Solomon's voice, distorted and laced with chaos energy, rang out across every speaker and screen in the city. Every word sent a chill down the world's spine.
Then—without warning—it happened.
A blue spark.
Then screams.
Scarecrow's body ignited in blue flame. His voice pierced the air as he howled in agony, his form writhing as fire consumed him. His screams turned raspy, then silent—as he continued to burn.
The cops stood frozen. Then a ginger-haired officer shouted—
"FIRE!"
Gunshots rang out. People ducked. Some screamed. Others covered their ears.
The masked man's arm blurred. Superhuman speed.
Every bullet fired was plucked from the air.
Each one clinked uselessly to the ground.
The officers stared in horror. Their weapons emptied. Their hope was gone.
Solomon didn't flinch. He didn't retaliate. These were just normal people doing their job. There was no reason to do anything to them.
No, he simply waited.
Waited for the Scarecrow to finish burning.
It didn't even take a minute.
The Scarecrow's body turned black. Then gray. Then dust.
And finally, nothing.
Not even ashes remained.
The scene went quiet, not just the people present, but Gotham itself went silent. One of Gotham's biggest villains had been killed. Many people expected someone to save him, but nothing happened.
Solomon looked at the reactions of the people, before deciding it was time to leave. He had gotten everything he wanted, so he no longer had a reason to stay. Just when he was about to fly off. His eyes lingered on his brother, and the rest of the heroes.
Solomon picked them up, as he disappeared from everyone's eyes. Leaving everyone stunned, trying to comprehend what had just taken place