Chapter Text
“ANDREA!” Someone’s voice rang sharp through the fog, cutting through the haze like a lifeline.
Her ears caught the warmth in the words, and for the first time that night, she tried to anchor herself. Her eyelids fluttered, her body shifting slightly, straining toward the sound. Clara’s voice, calm and insistent, wove through the delirium, tethering her to reality, keeping the darkness at bay.
Her limbs sprawled, nearly lifeless, her breathing shallow and ragged. Concussion fog and blood loss conspired to pull her into the void.
“Andrea!” Clara’s voice sliced through the haze again, closer this time, urgent and real.
Andrea’s head lolled to the side, lips parting in a whisper, some incoherent echo of her own name. She tried to respond, tried to find her hands, tried to focus—but the strength simply wasn’t there.
Clara… can’t… stay… awake…
Clara’s hands were suddenly on her, gentle but firm, lifting her slightly, pressing on her shoulder, stabilizing her. “It’s okay, I’ve got you. You’re not alone. You hear me? You’re safe!”
The words threaded through Andrea’s delirium, a lifeline amid the spinning darkness. Her eyelids flickered, head nodding slightly in response, and her shallow breaths synchronized with Clara’s commands.
Slowly, barely, Andrea’s body obeyed enough to let herself be tended. She was half-living, half-floating, caught between the edges of unconsciousness and the tug of Clara’s unwavering presence.
Clara gripped the steering wheel tighter, jaw set, eyes fixed on the familiar brick facade that marked Andrea’s small Crime Alley apartment. The streets were slick with rain, neon reflections scattering across the puddles, but she barely noticed. Her mind raced ahead, imagining Andrea slumped inside, bruised and exhausted, ignoring the world like she always did.
She’d finished a twelve-hour night shift at Gotham General, knees aching, feet throbbing, but she hadn’t hesitated. Five calls earlier that day—five—had gone straight to voicemail. Not once had Andrea answered. Not even a text.
And Clara knew those dark circles under Andrea’s eyes weren’t just from late nights or bad sleep. Something was eating at her, something heavy enough that even Clara’s constant nudging and playful questioning couldn’t pull it out of her.
She remembered the conversations they’d had over coffee, when Andrea would dodge the topic with a joke or a sarcastic quip. “I’m fine,” she’d say, eyes darting away. But Clara knew better. She’d seen it too many times—the tension in Andrea’s shoulders, the way her hands trembled when she thought no one was watching, the way she flinched at loud noises.
Clara had tried to talk to her, gently, teasing, and even pleaded at times. But Andrea was stubborn—stubborn and proud, and nothing would convince her to do something she didn’t want. Even now, Clara knew she was probably living in the shadow of crime, refusing comfort, refusing safety.
Clara’s own life hadn’t been easy. She’d worked her way through nursing school while keeping up with Andrew’s promotion at the precinct. He’d been supportive, proud even, but had also teased her relentlessly about bringing work home, about taking life too seriously. But tonight, none of that mattered. All she could think about was Andrea—her friend, the woman who had been like a sister since they first met at that high-end restaurant years ago, and who now seemed to be unravelling piece by piece.
Clara parked her car as close to Andrea’s building as she dared. A quick glance over her shoulder confirmed her tires were intact– only luck would decide how long they stayed that way. Her fingers fumbled with the spare key she had, the one Andrea had reluctantly handed over after Clara had begged for weeks.
She stepped out into the rain, boots splashing through shallow puddles. Each step toward the building tightened the knot in her stomach. She had to see her, had to make sure Andrea was alive and capable of talking.
She didn’t care about trespassing or social niceties—she had spent the last decade learning that Andrea had a way of disappearing into herself, and if she didn’t intervene now, who knew how long it would take before she surfaced again.
Clara fumbled with the lock, heart hammering. “Andrea?” she called, stepping inside. The apartment was dark, the only light a flickering neon glow from the street outside. Her eyes swept the room—nothing at first. Then a coppery, metallic scent hit her. Blood.
“Andrea!” she shouted, rushing forward, panic rising like a tide.
On the couch, Andrea slumped, half-conscious, body streaked with bruises and blood, one arm twisted at an unnatural angle. Her breathing was shallow, irregular. Her head lolled to the side, eyes barely open.
Clara’s stomach dropped. For a moment, the nurse in her panicked; then she forced herself to breathe, voice low, controlled. “It’s okay, I’ve got you. You’re not alone. You hear me? You’re safe!”
Andrea’s lips moved in a garbled whisper. “…Clara?… fuzzy… can’t… move…”
Clara paused, glancing around the dim apartment. The living room was small and sparsely furnished—an old sofa facing a low coffee table, remnants of takeout containers scattered across the floor, a few worn rugs dampened from the rain seeping through the cracked window frames. The fire escape door creaked slightly with the storm outside. A coppery smell still lingered in the air, reminding her of the blood trail leading from the door to the sofa.
“Andrea… can you point me to your medkit?” Clara asked gently, trying not to panic, voice firm but soft. Andrea groaned, struggling to lift a hand weakly. Her fingers twitched toward the bathroom. Clara moved closer, scanning the room, and noticed a small cubby beneath the bathroom sink.
The cupboard door was half-ajar. Clara knelt, reaching inside, pulling out a worn first-aid kit stocked with antiseptic, gauze, sutures, and a small roll of tape. She cursed under her breath, noting the blood smeared on the tiles by the fire escape—it looked like Andrea had stumbled there at some point. Clara forced herself to ignore the horrific possibilities, focusing instead on the task at hand.
Returning to the sofa, Clara knelt beside her, taking in the full scope of the injuries. Bullet wound on the shoulder, deep bruising across her ribs and arms, a nasty gash on her nape where she had been hit with something heavy, and a mild but concerning concussion. Clara’s hands worked quickly but methodically, her nurse’s instincts kicking in.
First, the bullet wound. Clara pulled on fresh gloves, grabbed the forceps from the med kit, and pressed a sterile cloth firmly against Andrea’s shoulder to slow the bleeding. The wound was messy, the torn flesh swelling around a pocket of blood. Clara steadied her shaking breath. “Okay… pressure, control bleeding, locate the round. Don’t rush.”
Andrea whimpered, her voice slurred. “…couldn’t… sa’e… him…”
Clara set the cloth aside and gently slid the forceps into the wound. Blood welled again, dark and hot, running down her wrist. She angled carefully, feeling for the fragment. When the metal clicked against something solid, she exhaled, tightening her grip. “Got you, you bastard…” With a slow, precise tug, she pulled the bullet free and dropped it into the metal tray with a dull clink.
Andrea twitched, a weak cry escaping her lips. Clara pressed her uninjured hand over Andrea’s trembling one, grounding her. “I’m right here. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”
She flushed the wound with antiseptic, dabbing carefully despite Andrea’s flinching, then packed sterile gauze around the torn tissue to control the fresh bleeding. Only when it slowed did she pick up the curved needle. Stitch by stitch, she closed the ragged edges—tight enough to hold, gentle enough not to tear further. Andrea’s breaths hitched with every pull, muttering incoherent fragments, her chest heaving.
“In through your nose,” Clara coached softly, her tone steady even as sweat beaded on her own forehead. “Out through your mouth. Steady. Just like that.”
Once the shoulder was secured and dressed, Clara shifted to the head trauma. She checked Andrea’s pupils—sluggish, uneven reaction to the flashlight. She noted the nausea, the dizziness, the way Andrea’s head kept tilting as if gravity was dragging her down. Clara propped a small pillow behind her neck, elevating her head, then pressed a cold compress gently to her temple.
“You’re concussed, but you’re stable,” Clara murmured, checking pulse and respirations in a steady rhythm. “Don’t close your eyes yet. I need you with me.”
Next, she assessed the bruised ribs and arms. Gentle pressure with an ice pack reduced swelling, while careful compression held muscles in place without causing further pain. She adjusted Andrea’s position on the sofa repeatedly, making sure she could breathe comfortably and that no part of her body was in an awkward angle that could exacerbate injuries.
Throughout the procedure, Andrea muttered delirious fragments, sometimes laughing softly, sometimes gasping, “....Please…don’t….lea’e..me..” Clara kept her calm, repeating grounding instructions: “Stay with me… breathe… I’m right here…”
After nearly an hour, the sutures were complete, shoulder bandaged, bruises iced, ribs stabilized, head supported, and Andrea’s breathing more regular. Clara allowed herself a brief pause, surveying the apartment—the small living room now littered with bloodied towels, antiseptic bottles, gloves, and blood stains. The fire escape remained slightly ajar, neon light casting erratic shadows.
Then, just before her eyelids finally gave in, a faint whisper broke through: “Clara…” Her voice was barely audible, ragged, a thread of awareness cutting through the fog. Clara leaned closer, holding her hand, whispering reassurance. Andrea’s lips quivered, a weak nod, before she finally drifted fully, letting the storm outside and the scent of antiseptic and rain cradle her into a fragile rest.
She cleaned blood off the sofa cushions, placing folded towels underneath Andrea for support. She ensured all surfaces were sanitized as she moved around the apartment—pulling out additional gauze and tape from the medkit as needed, keeping everything within arm’s reach so Andrea wouldn’t have to move.
Clara shut the bathroom door behind her, the sound of the latch clicking far too loud in the quiet apartment. She stripped off her bloody gloves, dumped them in the bin, and turned on the tap. Red swirled into the sink as she scrubbed her hands, nails raw, skin trembling. When she looked up at the mirror, a pale, wide-eyed woman stared back. She could’ve stepped out of a horror show—or an emergency OR, depending on who you asked.
She sighed, splashed water over her face, leaned on the washbasin for support, and pulled out her phone. Her thumb hovered for a second, then she dialled.
The line clicked almost instantly. “Clara? Where are you? Your shift ended an hour ago—I was—” Andrew’s voice was tight with worry.
Clara’s chest seized. All the panic she had shoved down while working on Andrea came rushing back. Words spilled out too fast, her breath hitching. “I—I went to Andrea’s, she—she hasn’t been answering—she’s been exhausted for weeks, Andrew, dark circles, dodging me every time I ask, and today I—I called five times, nothing, so I came here, and she—she was on the couch, bleeding—bullet wound—shoulder—she was barely conscious, she—she—”
Her voice cracked, words stumbling over each other.
“Clara,” Andrew cut in gently but firmly. “Stop. Breathe. In and out. Like you tell your patients. Do it. Now.”
Clara sucked in air, exhaled shakily, then gave a humourless snort. “God—yeah. Funny. That’s exactly what I was telling Andrea an hour ago.”
“Good,” Andrew said softly. “Now tell me. What’s her condition?”
Clara steadied herself against the sink, voice still fast but more focused. “I sutured the shoulder, cleaned the gash on her side, compressed her ribs—she’s concussed, I’ve kept her awake as much as possible. She’s stable, but she’s weak. I’m spending the night here. I’ll call in sick tomorrow.”
“I can come over right now,” Andrew offered immediately.
“No,” Clara said quickly, shaking her head even though he couldn’t see it. “We can’t both vanish from work. She’s stable for now. I’ll monitor her, make sure she doesn’t slip.”
There was silence for a moment, then his voice came softer, steadier. “Alright. Just… take care of yourself too, Clara. Please.”
Her throat tightened. “I will.”
“I love you.”
Clara closed her eyes, leaning heavily on the sink. “Love you too.”
The call clicked off. She stayed there another long moment, staring at her own reflection, blood still streaked faintly along her hairline despite the wash. Then she squared her shoulders, turned off the light, and went back to Andrea.
Andrea came to slowly, a dull ringing filling her ears. Morning light leaked pale and cold through the blinds, stabbing at her eyes. She groaned and pressed a hand to her temple—wrong move. Pain shot down her shoulder, ribs protesting with every breath. Her whole body was one bruised nerve, stitched flesh pulling tight when she shifted.
She tried to sit up on the couch, but her body screamed in protest. Shoulder burned, ribs stabbed sharp, head pounding like a drum. She gritted her teeth, inching herself upright until her back hit the cushions.
Her gaze wandered the room, catching on small, out-of-place details. A soft cardigan draped over the armchair—Clara’s, light blue, faintly smelling of lavender soap. On the coffee table, her med-kit sat open, its contents lined up in perfect order. Gauze folded, antiseptic bottle capped, needle kit sealed again. The rug beneath the couch was too clean, scrubbed raw in spots where last night’s blood should have stained. Clara’s work lingered everywhere, a quiet ghost of care.
Andrea dragged herself to her feet, every movement stiff and ragged. She shuffled a few steps before gripping the kitchen counter for support, chest heaving. Her eyes flicked downward, cataloguing damage like a cruel inventory: shoulder stitched, ribs bruised, hip aching where the pole had caught her, skin mottled in purples and greens. Her head throbbed in dull waves, concussion fog pressing in. She cursed herself under her breath. Stupid. Careless. Getting hit, getting shot—weakness she couldn’t afford.
She leaned harder against the counter, fingers fumbling for the cabinet above. The aspirin bottle rattled when she pulled it down. She twisted the cap off with trembling hands, shook two into her palm, and swallowed them dry. The chalky bitterness clung to her tongue, throat working hard to force them down.
With a groan, she pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes, digging deep like she could force out the exhaustion and shame. Clara’s cardigan still hung in her mind. Clara’s hands on her wounds. Clara, who had scrubbed the floor clean and laid out her kit like a lifeline.
Clara knew now. She’d seen the blood, the wound, the mess Andrea left behind. If Clara kept digging, if she pushed… she’d start connecting pieces. Andrea pictured her gentle insistence, her stubborn voice: Let me help, Andrea.
Andrea exhaled a long, ragged sigh. That was the problem. If Clara tried to “help” with this truth, she wouldn’t survive it. And Andrea couldn’t let that happen.
Andrea stood at the stove, the hiss of butter in the pan mingling with the steady drip of the coffeemaker. She moved carefully, mindful of every pull and sting along her battered body, but she forced her motions to look casual, deliberate. A spoon scraped softly against the skillet as she folded scrambled eggs, sliding them onto two plates. The bitter, comforting smell of coffee filled the small apartment.
Behind her, a door creaked open. Andrea glanced over her shoulder just in time to see Clara step out of the guest room, hair a mess, eyes still heavy with exhaustion. Clara’s gaze went instinctively toward the couch, as though she expected to find Andrea still collapsed there. Before she could fully cross the room, Andrea spoke.
“Good morning,” she said evenly, setting the plates down on the table.
Clara’s head snapped toward her, disbelief flashing across her face. Then she rushed forward, arms wrapping tight around Andrea before Andrea could react. Andrea stiffened, then let her chin rest lightly against Clara’s shoulder, one arm patting her back awkwardly. But the hug only grew tighter, squeezing her injured shoulder until pain flared hot. Andrea winced, pressing her lips together.
She didn’t shove Clara away. Instead, she tapped her gently on the back of the head and murmured, “Go easy. Shoulder’s still tender.”
Clara gasped and sprang back, her hands hovering helplessly. “Sorry—I’m sorry, I didn’t—”
Andrea waved a hand, dismissing it. “Don’t worry. Sit. Eat before the coffee gets cold.”
But Clara didn’t move to the table. Instead, her eyes began scanning Andrea up and down, sharp as a scalpel. She stepped closer again, fingers already lifting Andrea’s arm slightly, checking the bandages beneath the shirt. “You shouldn’t even be standing, Andrea. You could’ve torn half these stitches. Do you feel dizzy? Any nausea still? God, your bruises look worse in the light—”
Andrea allowed it, lips tugging into the faintest of smiles at the flurry of concern. “You sound like you’re still on shift, Clara.”
Clara ignored the jab, tugging at Andrea’s sleeve, checking another dressing. “Don’t joke about this. You shouldn’t even be moving around. Scrambled eggs? Coffee? With a concussion and a bullet wound? You’re supposed to be in bed, not playing host.”
Andrea tilted her head, amused despite herself, voice low. “Relax. I can still crack an egg without bleeding out.”
Andrea waved Clara’s fussing away and sat at the table, wrapping both hands around her coffee. The warmth stung her palms, but at least it gave her something to hold. She sipped slowly, gaze fixed on the steam.
Clara didn’t move. She just stood there, staring. Andrea sighed. “Aren’t you gonna sit?”
Clara slowly sat and watched her from across the table, hands clenched tight in her lap. Andrea pretended not to notice. Pretended the silence didn’t weigh more than her wounds. Pretended she could sit here, sip her coffee, and not see Clara’s pleading eyes.
Finally, Clara broke. “You can’t just… sit there like nothing happened. You almost died last night, Andrea. If I hadn’t come—”
Andrea’s jaw tightened. The truth dug into her: Clara had to save her. Again. She forced her lips into a line, swallowing down the tremor. “Then what do you want me to do?” she said, too cool, too sharp.
“Talk to me!” Clara’s voice cracked, anger giving way to pleading. Then softer, almost a whisper: “I want you to talk to me. What have you gotten yourself into? Why don’t you sleep? Why don’t you answer my calls?”
Andrea leaned back in her chair, masking the spike of shame that hit her ribs harder than any pole. Keep her out. Push her away. That’s the only way she’ll stay safe. She smirked faintly, cruelly. “Oh, please. It’s not like I’ve never been shot before. I can handle myself.”
Clara’s eyes widened with disbeleif. “Handle yourself? You’d be on that couch right now if I hadn’t been here. Before, even when you were in danger, you still talked to me, you still let me in. Since Gotham… you’ve shut me out. What changed?”
Andrea’s chest constricted. She wanted to say everything. How the blood wouldn’t wash off her hands, how the mask was suffocating her, how every night she heard her father’s voice and every morning she woke more alone. Instead, she pressed her nails into her palm, hard, and said flatly, “You got married. You have your own life. I can’t drag you into mine anymore.”
Clara shook her head violently. “Don’t you dare put this on me. Marriage didn’t change how much I care about you. It didn’t change that I’d help you no matter what. You think I don’t know what you’re doing? You think I can’t see it?” Her voice trembled, but her gaze held steady. “You’re pushing me away to protect me. But I’m not leaving. I won’t let you shut me out of your life, Andrea.”
Andrea’s throat burned. For a second, the mask slipped—she wanted to reach across, to clutch Clara’s hand, to apologize for everything. But then the memory of Clara’s cut palms, of her frantic voice as she cried herself asleep in Andrea’s arms, slammed back. She couldn’t let Clara bleed for her again. She had to make her walk away.
So she breathed in, let the cruelty drip from her mouth like poison. “It was a mistake to ever involve you in this.”
The words landed like a blade. Clara stiffened, blinking as tears welled and spilled silently down her cheeks. Andrea felt each drop like a brand on her skin.
Clara opened her mouth, shut it again, then whispered, broken but resolute, “When you get your head straight and you’re ready to talk, you know where to find me.”
She rose, collected her cardigan with trembling hands, and paused at the door. Her eyes lingered on Andrea—hurt, furious, loving all at once. Then she was gone.
Andrea sat frozen, coffee cooling at her elbow, heart sinking into her gut. Her body screamed from her wounds, but it was nothing compared to the hollow ache spreading inside. She had protected Clara. She had cut her free. She had hurt her more than any bullet ever could.
And she hated herself for it.
Buzz sat hunched in the backseat, chewing the corner of his thumb raw. The Cadillac rattled over Gotham’s cracked streets, headlights cutting through sheets of rain. Two more cars followed close, full of his muscle, but the extra steel didn’t calm him—it just made him twitch harder.
“A week,” he muttered, low at first, then louder, like he needed to hear himself over the storm. “A week since Chuckie got turned into hospital meat, two days since my whole warehouse lit up like a damn bonfire. You think he’s done? Nah. That freak’s out there. Watchin’. Waitin’. He wants me next.
The driver flicked his eyes to the rearview but said nothing. The man in the passenger seat—thick neck, scarred knuckles—shifted uneasily, like he could already feel where this was going.
“It means he’s watchin’,” Buzz snapped, jabbing a finger at the glass, at the blur of rooftops rushing by. “That freak’s sittin’ up there right now, grinnin’, waitin’ for me to slip. You think he’s done? He’s never done.”
The passenger cleared his throat, trying to keep steady. “Boss, if it was the Bat, he would’ve hit again already. Maybe he’s—”
Buzz exploded forward, spittle flying. “That’s what he wants you to think! He plays us like rats in a trap, lettin’ us sweat before he snaps our necks.” His voice boomed off the car’s roof, making the driver flinch.
He clawed at his tie, collar soaked with sweat despite the cold. His pistol sat heavy on his lap; every few seconds, his thumb flicked the safety back and forth, metal clicking over the engine’s hum. Every rooftop that the headlights caught made his eyes dart, expecting a cape to come tearing down. Every alley shadow looked like a figure. Every splash in the gutter made his whole body jerk.
The driver risked another glance in the mirror. “We’re almost at Sal’s, boss.”
Buzz leaned back hard, but it wasn’t comfort—it was coiling tighter, leg bouncing like a piston. “Good. Let’s see how Sal likes it when the Bat comes knockin’. He thinks he’s safe? He ain’t safe. None of us are safe. He’s waitin’ for me, and when he comes, I’m takin’ him down first.”
The convoy turned toward the waterfront, neon signs bleeding through the rain, the pier ahead glowing in sickly pink and green light. Buzz’s paranoia filled the Cadillac like smoke—thick, choking, inescapable. By the time the tires squealed into the lot, he was already half-shouting, ready to rip into the first poor bastard who gave him the wrong look.
The waterfront safehouse smelled of damp wood, cheap whiskey, and too many cigarettes. A long table dominated the centre, its surface scarred with burn marks and knife gouges. Around it sat Gotham’s fractured underworld: Salvatore Valestra at the head, cane propped against his chair, puffing his cigar like it was an after-dinner mint; Buzz hunched down the table, jittery as a live wire. Their muscle lined the walls—Valestra’s men in sharp suits, Buzz’s in street leathers, glaring across the smoke-filled room.
Sal lifted his cigar, his voice smooth and almost grandfatherly. “Gentlemen, we know why we’re here. The Bat. He’s been busy. Broke a few bones, tossed a few crates. But let’s have perspective. Nobody’s in the ground. This is still business, and business keeps movin’.”
Buzz’s laugh came harsh, too loud. “Business?” He shoved back in his chair, wood creaking. “Tell that to Chuckie. He’s been laid out with his jaw wired shut, pissin’ soup through a straw. Half my warehouses are rubble. My boys, they jump at every damn shadow. And you—” he jabbed a finger at Sal, sweat shining on his bald scalp under the yellow light—“you’re sittin’ here puffin’ smoke like nothin’s changed.”
One of Sal’s men, a heavy with slick hair, muttered from the wall. “Bat ain’t touched our side. Maybe your boys don’t know how to handle themselves.”
Buzz snapped around, pointing. “Say that again.”
The goon stiffened but didn’t move. Another of Buzz’s men leaned forward from the table. “Boss is right. We’re takin’ hits while they sit pretty. Somebody explain that.”
Sal’s grin tightened, but he didn’t lose the act. He tapped ash neatly into the tray. “Boys, boys. Paranoia don’t build businesses. The Bat’s a showman. He hits where it makes noise. Headlines. Scares the civvies. Maybe Buzz just happens to make better headlines.”
A murmur rippled through the room—some chuckles, some nervous shifting. Buzz slammed his fist on the table so hard the glasses rattled.
“You think this is funny? You think it’s a joke? Every time I roll out, I see him. On rooftops. In alleys. Watching. Waiting. That freak’s gonna come down on me ‘til there’s nothin’ left.”
From Sal’s end, one of his lieutenants spoke up, smirking. “Maybe he don’t like your face.”
Buzz surged half out of his chair. His own men rose behind him, hands on their guns. The air went tight, the kind where a single twitch could bring a storm of gunfire.
Sal raised his hand, calm as ever, but his eyes were sharp now. “Sit down, Buzz. You’re loud enough the whole river’s listenin’. The Bat’s bad for all of us, but you accusing me of makin’ deals? Of cuttin’ you loose? That’s a line you don’t cross.”
Buzz leaned over the table, spittle flying, voice raw. “What else explains it? My men in hospitals, my warehouses in flames, and you still sittin’ in silk? Maybe the Bat leaves you alone ‘cause you’re feedin’ him scraps.”
That landed like a gunshot. Even the rain against the windows seemed to pause. Sal’s men stiffened, reaching subtly into jackets. Buzz’s crew mirrored them, eyes wild, fingers twitching.
Sal took one long drag on his cigar, exhaled smoke, and said softly, “Careful, boy. You don’t know how close you are to diggin’ your own grave.”
Buzz’s voice cracked into a shout, echoing off the walls. “Fuck you!! You sit here laughin’ while my men bleed out! You think the Bat’s just gonna skip you, Sal? You think you’re untouchable? You ain’t safe! None of us are safe!”
Chairs scraped as his goons scrambled up, trying to keep pace as Buzz stormed out, cursing under his breath, rain and headlights swallowing him back into the night.
The room stayed tense a moment longer, the sound of the Cadillac engines outside fading. Sal didn’t move. He sat slouched, cigar burning down between his fingers, watching the smoke curl.
Finally, he exhaled slowly. “Hothead’s gonna get himself killed.” His voice was low, more to himself than to his men. “But maybe that’s the way. Let the Bat chew on him first.”
One of his lieutenants shifted uneasily. “Boss… you think he’ll stop there?”
Sal’s eyes narrowed, the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth betraying his own dread. “He won’t. I know it. My turn’s comin’ sooner or later.” He tapped ash into the tray, steady now, like a man forcing his hands not to shake. “But I’ll be damned if I let him pick the hour. If someone’s gotta be the goat, better Buzz than me.”
The room went silent. Outside, thunder cracked over Gotham.
The rain never stopped in Gotham. It came down in sheets, clattering on metal, soaking through coats, dripping from the brim of hats until the whole lot smelled of wet leather and cigarettes. Three of Buzz’s men huddled under the awning beside the cars, smoke passing between trembling fingers. Nobody wanted to be out in the open tonight.
One finally broke. “Man, this ain’t right. Chuckie’s crew—what’s left of it—those boys look like they got chewed up and spit out. Bones in splints, jaws wired shut. Ain’t no message in that, that’s slaughter.”
The second leaned closer, eyes darting at the shadows. “And maybe it ain’t the Bat. Word from the docks is it’s somethin’ else. One of the guys swore he saw it—mask, metal, like a skull with red eyes. Moved wrong. Not the Bat. Worse.”
The third flicked ash, voice tight. “Worse, better—doesn’t matter. To us? It’s the same. We’re just bodies between bosses and nightmares. And when the bosses fall, we’re the first ones bled dry.”
Their words hung in the rain, heavy, dangerous.
Then the footsteps came. Heavy, unsteady, but fast—like someone dragging their fury with every stride. Buzz emerged out of the dark, rain slicking off his coat, eyes fever-bright. He’d heard everything.
“What the hell you just say?” His voice wasn’t a question. It was a death sentence waiting to be carried out.
The first man stammered, “Boss, I was just sayin’—”
Buzz moved before the sentence even formed. His fist cracked into the man’s mouth with a sound that cut through the storm. Teeth and blood sprayed, and the goon folded. Buzz didn’t stop. He needed this. Boots slammed down again and again, each impact a grotesque echo, every stomp another declaration: I’m scarier than him. I’m the monster here. Not the Bat. Me.
The man’s screams dissolved into choking gasps. The other two froze, horror-struck.
Buzz straightened only long enough to spit, then roared at them, voice raw: “You think you can walk away? You think you can run from this? He don’t let rats run. He hunts you down. But me—” He jabbed a finger at his chest, then at the broken body under his boot. “Me, I’ll end you right here if you even whisper about leaving. You hear me? Me!”
One of his drivers scrambled forward, trying to hold him back. “Boss, please—he’s one of ours!”
Buzz hurled him aside like a rag doll, chest heaving, spit mixing with rain on his lips. His voice was shredded now, half-scream, half-plea. “Nobody leaves. Nobody breathes unless I say so. The Bat wants us scared, wants us weak—well, I ain’t weak. You don’t fear him. You fear me!”
With one last vicious kick, he turned and stormed into the downpour, shoulders twitching, muttering curses to ghosts only he could see.
The men didn’t move. They didn’t even help the groaning heap at their feet. The fear was too thick, choking. And somewhere under it, a thought none dared speak: Batman didn’t need to kill them. Buzz was already doing it for him.