The alley was deep and suffocating, its narrow walls swallowing what little light the city still offered. Snow had piled thick along the ground, untouched and undisturbed, as if the world itself had abandoned this place. Silence lingered heavily in the air.
Then something moved.
A blurred afterimage streaked through the darkness, cutting across the alley in an instant. Boots sank deep into the snow as the figure slowed, the faint crunch marking his presence before stillness returned.
"Wait!"
The voice came sharp and urgent.
A second figure stumbled into the alley, her breath uneven and fast. She bent forward slightly, hands braced against her knees, chest rising and falling as she tried to steady herself. Her leather jacket clung tightly to her frame, outlining a figure that would have turned heads anywhere else—but here, in the freezing dark, it only emphasized how hard she'd pushed herself to keep up.
Patrina lifted her head, eyes locking onto the man standing ahead of her.
"Why did you kill them?" she demanded, her voice cutting through the cold air.
The man didn't turn.
"Kill?" His voice was low, steady, carrying easily through the alley. "Their bodies reeked of blood and sin. For people like that… death is mercy."
The words settled into the silence, heavy and absolute.
He stood facing the darkness, as if everything behind him—her included—barely registered. But his awareness told a different story. He could hear her heartbeat clearly, each pulse echoing in his mind.
It was wrong.
Too slow. Too steady. Too powerful.
That wasn't the rhythm of an ordinary human heart.
A flicker of memory surfaced in his thoughts, something buried from another life. Fragments of names, of people who didn't belong to this world—or at least, not the one he had expected. One figure, in particular, almost fit… but not quite. The details didn't align.
A long time ago, after seeing a completely unfamiliar version of Bruce Wayne staring back at him from a newspaper, he had already realized something important.
This wasn't the world he remembered.
It only looked like it.
The rules were different here. The players were different. Even the lines between good and evil had blurred into something indistinguishable. It wasn't a story he could predict—it was something far more chaotic.
He had stopped trying to interfere with it a long time ago.
"Killing doesn't solve everything," Patrina said, her tone firm now, though a hint of restraint lingered beneath it.
For a moment, there was no response.
Then—
Nothing changed.
Her words didn't reach him. Not in any way that mattered.
He wasn't driven by bloodlust. That much was true. But every kill brought him closer to something else—something tangible. Power. Energy. The ability to break through the limits of this world.
If that meant getting his hands dirty with the blood of those who deserved it…
So be it.
"What about them?" Patrina pressed, shifting her gaze slightly.
A faint movement came from the shadows.
Three girls stepped forward hesitantly, their bodies pressed close together as if separating even for a second would make everything fall apart. Their eyes were fixed on the masked man in front of them, filled with a confusing mix of gratitude and fear.
They had seen what he did.
They had seen how easily he killed.
To them, he was both savior and nightmare.
"Give them to you," he said simply.
Before she could react—
He was gone.
No warning. No transition. One moment he was standing there, the next he had vanished, leaving behind nothing but disturbed snow and fading traces of motion.
Patrina's eyes sharpened instantly.
Her vision tracked the movement—every step, every shift, every fragment of motion left behind like a ghost imprint in the air. Unlike ordinary people, she could see it clearly. She could follow it.
But it didn't matter.
He was too fast.
Too far ahead.
After a few seconds, she exhaled quietly and let her gaze fall.
There was no point chasing.
She turned back toward the three girls, her expression softening slightly as she took them in. Fear clung to them like a second skin, their bodies trembling even now.
"I'll get you somewhere safe," she said.
Her voice was calmer now.
Warmer.
But as she led them away, her mind remained elsewhere.
Sooner or later… she would find out who he really was.
…
Three hours passed.
By the time the police arrived, the alley had returned to silence. Snow had covered most of the tracks, erasing evidence as if nothing had ever happened there.
A convoy of police vehicles rolled in, engines idling as officers moved quickly into position. Inside one of the larger units, several officers worked at connected systems, pulling in nearby surveillance feeds through the internal network.
George stood at the center of it all, eyes fixed on the screens.
"I didn't expect there to be another one," the older detective muttered beside him, pointing toward a figure on the footage. "Who's this?"
On the monitor, a slender silhouette moved through the city—tracking the same path the masked man had taken.
George didn't answer immediately.
His focus shifted to another clip—Patrina, guiding three girls through the streets. He watched it twice, then a third time, before finally marking a location.
"Move," he said.
The vehicles roared to life.
…
Minutes later, they surrounded a small café that had only recently opened. Lights still glowed faintly inside, the warm atmosphere a stark contrast to the tension outside.
"Go!"
The door burst open.
George stepped in first, gun raised, sweeping the room with sharp, practiced movements.
"Police! Nobody move!"
Screams broke out instantly. Customers froze in place, fear flashing across their faces as officers flooded in behind him.
George's eyes scanned each person quickly, searching for anything out of place.
"Officer… what's happening?" an elderly woman asked, her voice trembling as she stepped forward.
"Routine search for wanted suspects," George replied curtly, signaling for the team to spread out.
Moments later, a shout came from upstairs.
"Second floor—bathroom window's open!"
"Damn it," someone muttered.
They were too late.
Again.
Frustration settled heavily over the group as they regrouped downstairs.
In the corner, the three rescued girls sat huddled together, wrapped in blankets. George approached them, lowering his voice slightly.
"Did you see their faces?" he asked.
All three shook their heads immediately, their expressions pale and shaken. Their fear hadn't faded at all.
George exhaled quietly.
Another dead end.
…
Back at the station, the atmosphere turned volatile.
The girls' parents had arrived, and their anger filled the halls.
"What kind of police force is this?" one man shouted. "You can't catch criminals, but you're chasing the guy who saved them?"
"That's right! If you people actually did your jobs, the city wouldn't be like this!"
"My daughter almost died!" a woman cried, clutching her child tightly. "Thank God for the judge—thank God he was there!"
"Go to hell!"
The words hit hard.
By the time they left, the damage was done.
Silence returned to the station, but it wasn't the same as before. This time, it was heavy, suffocating.
No one looked comfortable.
"We should just drop it," one officer muttered finally, his voice low. "That guy… he's worse than Batman. The Central District's already pretending he doesn't exist."
George didn't look away from the screen.
"Don't compare them," he said flatly.
On the monitor, the blurred footage played again—the moment the masked man pulled the girls from the truck, the moment everything changed.
His jaw tightened.
Then—
Clap. Clap. Clap.
The sharp sound of applause cut through the room.
Heads turned.
The station chief stood at the entrance, a broad smile plastered across his face as he escorted a man inside. White hair. Impeccable suit. Confidence radiating from every step.
"Our East District police are truly dedicated," the man said smoothly, clapping his hands together. "Working this hard before sunrise… impressive."
George stood slowly, recognition flashing in his eyes.
"Alan Grayson."
His voice carried across the room as he stepped forward, expression hardening with every step.
Leon moved immediately, placing himself in front of the visitor, his face dark with warning.
"Detective George," he said coldly, "what exactly do you think you're doing?"
....
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