Gotham—called the city of sin even within the world of the DC Universe—is where madness isn't an exception, it's the rule.
The streets breed criminals the way other cities breed ambition, and the deeper you go, the more it feels like the city itself is alive, rotting from the inside out.
This is where the broken minds gather.
Not ordinary criminals, but the truly unhinged—masterminds, psychopaths, and twisted geniuses who turn chaos into art.
Names like Joker, Scarecrow, and Two-Face aren't just criminals; they are reflections of Gotham itself—distorted, unpredictable, and impossible to fully control.
And when they fall, they aren't sent to normal prisons.
They're thrown into Arkham Asylum—a place less like a hospital and more like a cage for nightmares. It doesn't fix them. It contains them. Barely.
Watching over all of it is Gotham's own nightmare—its boogeyman made flesh.
Batman.
Not a savior. Not really. Just another product of Gotham's madness, refined into something sharper, colder, and far more dangerous. If the city creates monsters, then Batman is the one it perfected—the most disciplined madman to ever rise from its shadows, a man whose mind is as relentless as the darkness he walks in.
"Yeah… Batman," Daniel muttered.
Out of everyone in the DC Universe, he knew exactly who to be careful around.
Because Batman didn't need powers.
His paranoia alone made him terrifying.
This was a man who had contingency plans for gods—for beings who could shatter planets without effort. He studied them, understood them, and prepared for the day they might fall. And if they did, he would be ready to bring them down.
Daniel had no intention of ending up on that list.
Because if Batman decided you were a threat, then it wasn't a matter of strength anymore.
It was only a matter of time.
Even Darkseid—a being who ruled over worlds and crushed entire civilizations—acknowledged him. Not out of fear, but out of something far rarer.
Respect.
Not for his power.
But for his mind.
"Let's hope this is the movie version… not the comic version of Batman," Daniel muttered.
His figure blurred, vanishing from the rooftop as if swallowed by the night itself, only to reappear in the narrow throat of an alley a few blocks away, drawn by the sharp edge of raised voices.
The alley was dim, lit only by a flickering streetlamp that cast uneven shadows across cracked brick walls and overflowing trash bins.
Two men stood near the center, their silhouettes jagged in the broken light.
One of them had a knife.
The other gripped the woman's wrist hard enough to make her wince, dragging her closer as she struggled, her back hitting the wall with a dull thud.
"Give us your purse," the one with the knife sneered, his voice low and threatening, "and maybe we'll let you walk away."
The second thug laughed, a rough, careless sound that echoed too loudly in the tight space.
"Or don't," he added, tightening his grip. "Makes things more interesting."
The woman tried to pull free, panic clear in her movements, but they had her boxed in—no space to run, no one around to hear.
"There's another option," a voice cut through the alley, calm and unhurried. "You let her go… and walk away before I make you regret staying."
The words didn't carry force, yet they settled over the scene with a quiet weight.
Both thugs turned.
A man stood a few steps behind them, half-hidden beneath the flickering light.
A brown trench coat hung loosely over him, unmoving despite the faint wind that slipped through the alley. His hands were empty. No weapon. No visible threat.
Which somehow made it worse.
For a second, neither of them spoke.
Then the one holding the knife scoffed, the tension breaking into a crooked grin.
"Look at this guy," he said, nudging his partner. "Thinks he's some kinda hero."
The other thug tightened his grip on the woman's wrist, dragging her slightly forward as if to prove a point.
"Hey, go deal with him," the thug holding the woman snapped, shoving her roughly against the wall. "And check his pockets while you're at it."
The other one smirked, flipping the knife in his hand as he stepped forward.
"Pretty boys should stay at home," he sneered. "Not wander into places like this."
He lunged, raising the knife to strike.
Daniel didn't move.
Not until the last instant.
Then—
A slight turn of his head.
His hand lifted, almost lazily.
Smack.
The sound cracked through the alley.
The thug's entire body lifted off the ground as if something had snapped inside reality itself. He spun midair like a loose wheel, the knife flying from his hand and skidding across the pavement before he crashed down hard.
For a moment, he didn't move.
Then his body twitched.
He staggered up halfway, swaying, eyes unfocused as if his brain hadn't caught up with what just happened. He turned in a crooked circle, completely disoriented, before bending forward and vomiting onto the ground.
A second later, he collapsed sideways and went still, the alley falling silent from a single slap as the second thug froze.
For a split second, his mind failed to process what he had just seen—the way his partner had been dropped with a single casual strike. Instinct took over. His grip loosened.
The woman didn't hesitate.
She tore free and ran, footsteps echoing out of the alley as she disappeared into the night.
"Too late," Daniel said.
The words hadn't even finished echoing when he moved.
One moment he stood several steps away.
The next—
He was right in front of him.
The thug's eyes widened in pure shock before a hand clamped around his throat and lifted him clean off the ground, his feet kicking uselessly in the air as his fingers clawed at Daniel's wrist.
"P-please… spare me…" he choked out, voice breaking under the pressure.
"Spare you? I remember—she begged too."
His grip tightened slightly—not enough to kill, just enough to remind.
"Did you listen?"
The thug's struggles grew frantic, panic flooding his face as the question hung in the air.
"By your logic," Daniel continued, his voice quiet and steady, "why should I listen to you?"
A sharp sound sliced through the air.
Fast, something spun toward his hand—meant to force a reaction, not kill—but Daniel didn't even look as his free hand moved and caught it.
The spinning blade stopped dead between his fingers—a bat-shaped shuriken, its edges gleaming faintly under the broken streetlight.
A Batarang.
Daniel's grip on the thug didn't loosen, but his eyes shifted slightly, gaze lifting toward the shadows above.
"...Batman," he said, almost amused. "You came."
*****
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