The suit felt more familiar now.
Bruce pulled the cowl over his head, securing it into place. The hardened leather stretched but held firm, the polymer weave reinforcing his jawline. He blinked once, activating the new contact lenses.
A flicker of data streamed across his vision, running diagnostics, adjusting contrast. The lenses were connected to the Batcave's high-level computers—systems that could access nearly every database in New York and beyond. Thanks to Wayne Enterprises' security networks, his father's legacy had given him access to the digital arteries of the modern world.
Tonight, he would put them to the test.
Bruce turned to one of the many screens in the Batcave. The news played on loop, showing grainy security footage of his attack on the drug factory.
"…several Russian gangsters were hospitalized after what witnesses describe as a 'bat demon' attacking from the shadows. Some say it was a hallucination caused by drug fumes, but others claim that something—or someone—is hunting criminals in Hell's Kitchen. The legend is already spreading. A bat who became human. A Batman."
Bruce smirked under his cowl.
It was working.
He turned toward the sewer entrance, where a hidden tunnel led to the city. He moved quickly, his boots splashing through shallow water, and reached a metal grate. With a silent push, he lifted himself up, emerging in a darkened alley.
Then he was gone—grappling into the night before anyone could see him.
Bruce perched on a rooftop overlooking the burned-out warehouse from last night's battle. The place was still crawling with cops, their flashlights sweeping through the debris.
He zoomed in with his lenses.
One of the mobsters—the one he had marked with the bat symbol—was being mocked by the officers.
"You expect us to believe that?" One of the cops laughed, shoving a notepad back into his pocket. "You're telling me a bat demon carved you up? What, you want an exorcism?"
The thug's face was pale, the symbol still fresh on his chest.
Bruce ignored the conversation and focused on the ground. He searched for something—anything—that might lead him to the Russian mob boss.
Then he saw it.
A faint blood trail. The police hadn't noticed it.
He followed it, leaping across rooftops, vaulting from fire escapes, tracking every drop. The red path led through alleys and empty streets, but eventually, it stopped.
Bruce narrowed his eyes. He got into a car.
He scanned the area, looking for security cameras. He spotted one perched above a liquor store.
Pressing a finger to his ear, he activated his comm link.
"Alfred."
A moment later, the old butler's voice crackled through. "Yes, Master Bruce?"
"I need you to hack into a security camera on the corner of 52nd Street. Find out where our friend went."
Alfred sighed, but within seconds, Bruce's lenses flickered. A new feed appeared in his vision—security footage from the liquor store's camera.
Bruce rewound it, watching the thug stumble into a black van.
A bear was painted on the side.
He zoomed in on the license plate.
"Run this plate," Bruce said.
Alfred typed in the numbers. After a brief pause, he responded, "It's registered to an Alexei Valkov. However, Mr. Valkov has been deceased for three years. Car theft, most likely."
Bruce clenched his jaw. That meant someone in the Russian mob was using old identities to cover their tracks.
He rewound the footage further, following the van's journey through hacked traffic cameras.
Eventually, it stopped in front of a strip club.
And it was still there.
Bruce shut off the feed and moved.
Bruce moved like a shadow, grappling between rooftops, slipping through the dark.
Within minutes, he arrived. The strip club's neon lights glowed red against the wet pavement, casting long shadows over the street. The van was parked outside.
Bruce crouched, scanning the building. There was only one entrance in the front, guarded by two men. No good.
Then he looked up.
A metal door sat on the roof.
That was his way in.
He grappled up, landing silently. The rooftop was empty. He approached the door and reached for the handle—
Then he heard footsteps.
Someone was coming.
Bruce quickly moved to the edge of the building, gripping the ledge and hanging just out of sight.
A girl stumbled onto the rooftop. She was young—sixteen, maybe.
And she wasn't alone.
Behind her, a tattooed man followed, tall and muscular, a lustful grin on his face.
Bruce's blood ran cold.
The man grabbed the girl's arm. "No one's gonna hear you scream up here, little one."
Bruce moved.
He launched himself over the ledge and slammed a front kick into the man's face.
CRACK.
The sound of breaking bone echoed as the thug's nose exploded in blood. He stumbled backward, cursing.
Before he could react, Bruce was on him. He grabbed the man's head and slammed it into the concrete floor.
The thug groaned, dazed.
Bruce ground his boot into the man's skull. "Where's your boss?"
The thug spat blood, laughing weakly. "Screw you."
Bruce pressed harder.
"You think I won't break something?"
The thug laughed again. Then Bruce stomped down, snapping his arm like a twig.
The man screamed.
Bruce knelt beside him. "Last chance."
The thug whimpered, pain in his eyes. "Boss ain't here. Just me, some guys, and the right-hand man."
Bruce didn't say anything. He just punched the thug in the jaw, knocking him out cold.
Then he turned to the girl.
She was trembling, eyes wide with fear.
Bruce stepped closer, his voice softer now. "Stay here. Stay quiet."
She nodded quickly, pressing herself against the wall.
Bruce turned back toward the metal door.
His fists clenched.
It was time to go inside.
Bruce moved down the stairs silently, his steps precise and calculated. The music from downstairs throbbed through the walls, drowning out the faint creaks of the wooden floor beneath his boots. The air was thick with the stench of alcohol, cheap perfume, and cigarette smoke.
He reached the second floor.
The first room he checked was filled with seven Russian mobsters, all seated around a table, gambling. A pile of cash and poker chips sat between them, and half-smoked cigars lay in nearby ashtrays. They were relaxed, unaware.
Bruce's eyes flicked upward.
A massive chandelier hung directly above them. Ornate. Heavy. If it fell, it would take them all out in an instant.
Bruce reached into his utility belt, pulling out a batarang. He flicked his wrist, sending the sharp metal projectile spinning through the air. It struck the chandelier's supports, slicing through the aged chains—
CRASH!
The entire fixture came plummeting down.
The Russians barely had time to scream before the weight of the chandelier slammed into them, shattering the table, crushing bones, and knocking them unconscious. A few moaned in pain beneath the wreckage, but none were getting up.
Bruce turned and left the room.
Then he heard the doors of the other rooms creaking open.
Some of the remaining Russians had heard the crash. They stumbled out, some half-dressed, others still buckling belts or pulling on shirts. Strippers screamed, hidning in the rooms, heels clicking against the floor.
Bruce counted them.
Eleven men.
Some held knives. A few had bats or machetes.
No guns.
Bruce smiled under his cowl. Good.
One of them, still shirtless, sneered and pointed at him with a switchblade. "You should've stayed away, freak."
Bruce lunged forward.
The first man swung his knife—too slow. Bruce caught his wrist, twisted it until he heard the snap, and then drove a knee into the man's ribs. The Russian collapsed, gasping in pain.
Another rushed him with a baseball bat. Bruce dodged, stepping to the side, and slammed his armored gauntlet into the man's throat. The Russian staggered, choking, and Bruce finished him with a spinning kick to the jaw.
The next one slashed at him with a machete. Bruce raised his left arm, catching the blade on the reinforced gauntlet bracers. Sparks flew. He twisted his wrist, locking the machete's edge between the metal grooves—then wrenched it free from the Russian's grip.
Before the man could react, Bruce punched him in the temple with a taser-charged glove.
The Russian convulsed, then dropped.
The fight became a blur. Bruce was relentless.
A broken nose here. A shattered kneecap there. One Russian took a punch to the jaw so hard that a tooth flew out, spinning in the air before landing in a pool of blood.
Bodies hit the floor one by one.
Then, a sudden BANG BANG BANG BANG!
A new Russian had entered the hallway, from one of the doors wearing nothing but boxer shorts—holding an AK-47.
Bruce barely had time to react.
The first bullet hit his chest armor, sending a shockwave of force through his ribs. The second hit his shoulder. The third slammed into his stomach plating. The fourth grazed his arm.
His suit held. But damn, he felt it.
He grunted and stumbled backward, ducking into one of the rooms. He heard the Russian chuckle.
"Looks like I got you, demon."
Bruce waited, controlling his breathing. The man stepped inside cautiously, his rifle raised.
Bruce struck fast.
A batarang whipped through the air, slicing across the Russian's hand, making him drop the gun.
Bruce exploded forward, spear-tackling the Russian onto the bed, sending feathers and fabric flying.
The man gasped, dazed, but Bruce wasn't done. He straddled him and rained down punches—one, two, three, four—until blood splattered onto the bedsheets.
He stood, breathing heavily.
The floor was littered with broken bodies and bloodied Russians.
Bruce wiped a trickle of sweat from his brow. He needed to move.
---
He searched for another way down. He wasn't going through a door again.
Then he spotted it—an air vent on the ceiling.
Bruce reached for his grappling gun, aimed, and fired. The hook latched onto the vent's metal cover, and with a yank, he pulled it free. The grate crashed to the floor.
He jumped, caught the edge of the vent, and pulled himself up.
The metal tunnel was cramped, but it would do. He crawled forward, the sound of his armored suit scraping softly against the surface.
A downward slope appeared.
Perfect.
Bruce let himself slide, controlling his descent with his hands.
Seconds later, he landed silently.
Now he was above the first floor.
---
Bruce moved carefully, peering through the gaps in the vent.
Below, he spotted a group of mobsters sitting in a VIP lounge. One of them was the man he was looking for—Vladimir, the right-hand of the Russian mob boss.
Bruce listened.
"The boss is at the docks," Vladimir said, exhaling cigar smoke. "Tomorrow, we move the shipments before any more bat demons come after us."
Bruce clenched his fists. Got it.
He was about to leave when he heard something else.
A cry.
Bruce turned his head, looking through another part of the vent.
A girl. Young, no older than 14.
Vladimir had her by the arm, a gun pressed against her head. She was sobbing.
Bruce's heart pounded.
No time to wait.
He kicked the vent cover off and dropped down.
Vladimir barely had time to react.
A batarang sliced through the air, striking his wrist, making him yelp as he dropped the gun.
Bruce landed behind him and locked an arm around his throat in a chokehold. "Tell them to leave," he growled.
Vladimir struggled. "W-what?"
Bruce squeezed harder. "Tell everyone who isn't a mobster to leave. Now."
Vladimir gasped, but nodded. "E-everyone get out!"
There was hesitation—then, the civilians rushed for the exit, desperate to escape.
Now, it was just Bruce and the Russians.
Bruce reached into his belt.
A smoke pellet hit the floor.
The world turned black.
The beating began.
A bottle smashed into a man's skull.
A jaw broke under the force of a reinforced punch.
A Russian swung a pool cue—Bruce caught it, snapped it over his knee, then drove the jagged edge into the man's thigh.
He ripped a stripper pole out of the floor and swung it like a staff, caving in ribs and knocking Russians unconscious.
Blood stained the club.
Bodies slumped against furniture.
Vladimir tried to crawl away.
Bruce grabbed him by the hair, lifted his head, and drove a fist into his face. Over and over. Until Vladimir was nothing but a broken mess, coughing blood.
Bruce pulled out a batarang.
Carved the bat symbol into his forehead.
Vladimir screamed.
Bruce let him drop.
He stood in the ruins of the club, blood dripping from his gloves, breathing hard.
The docks were next.
And he wouldn't be merciful.