Paul blinked.
Once. Twice. The message didn't disappear.
> [Slice them.]
It hovered in the air, burning bright red as if seared into the night itself.
The thugs exchanged confused looks.
"What the hell is he doin'? Is he tweakin' or something?" one of them muttered.
Another thug, annoyed, grabbed a dented garbage can lid from nearby and hurled it at Paul.
"Maybe this'll fix your head!"
Paul's instincts kicked in.
His arm moved in a flash—an effortless, fluid swipe of the Damascus blade. The edge passed through one of the glowing red lines stretched across the air.
Shhhhlick.
The lid was sliced clean in two.
Both halves hit the wet pavement with a dull clang, rolling to a stop.
The thugs froze.
"The fuck—" one started, eyes wide. "You think Houdini's bullshit is gonna save you now?!"
But Paul wasn't hearing them.
His hazel eyes had changed.
The dull brown was gone, replaced by a vivid, icy blue. At the center of each iris, a faint red aura pulsed and glowed like fire behind glass. Something ancient. Something terrible.
He looked up.
And that look alone made their hearts lurch with primal fear.
The first thug, driven by panic, lunged with a knife. But Paul moved like water, sliding to the side with surgical precision. The blade missed. Paul's didn't.
With a single clean stroke, he slashed across the thug's hand.
The man screamed and stumbled back.
Paul's next motion was even faster. A perfect cut across a red line—
—and the thug's head fell from his shoulders, eyes still wide in disbelief.
The others screamed.
Two rushed at him together, one with a metal pipe, the other swinging wildly with brass knuckles. Paul didn't flinch. The blade danced again—one stroke each.
One head. Two.
The last thug dropped his weapon and staggered back.
"No, no—please!" he cried, slipping in the rain-slick alley. He fell hard, scrambling on the wet pavement. "Take my money, my watch—look! I got jewels, man! I won't snitch, I swear to God! Just don't kill me!"
But Paul wasn't there anymore.
Only the eyes remained.
The thug's back slammed against a lamppost. His final cries echoed uselessly into the night. And then—
Slice.
His head rolled free, bouncing once before resting against the curb.
Blood poured like a fountain, splashing across Paul's uniform and drenching the rusted lamppost in crimson. The entire alley glowed red beneath the flickering streetlight.
Then the red lines began to fade.
A new message appeared before him.
> [Task Completed.]
[4 Points Earned.]
Silence.
The blade in Paul's hand lowered slightly. His breathing slowed. His eyes—those strange, glowing eyes—dimmed.
And then the world came crashing back.
He looked around at the massacre. Blood, limbs, bodies—pieces of men. His gaze caught the cracked, rain-streaked mirror on the alley wall. His reflection stared back at him.
Face soaked in blood. Eyes hollow with shock.
He staggered backward.
"No… no, it wasn't me… it wasn't me…"
He turned and ran.
Feet pounding through the alley. Rain soaking his skin. Blade still clutched in his trembling hand.
The flashing red and blue lights of Gotham PD cast long shadows across the alley.
Officers moved cautiously, stepping around pools of blood that had already begun to congeal. The air was thick with copper and rain. The scene was a massacre.
Some cops had seen it all—Joker gas attacks, Riddler's mind games, the aftermath of Killer Croc's rampages—but this?
This was something else.
One officer stepped away from the scene and leaned over a dumpster, vomiting into the rainwater below. Another just stared, pale and shaking.
The body at the lamppost was what broke most of them. Its head was missing, lying a few feet away in a perfect line of red. And the way the blood splattered on the wall? It didn't look random. It looked… clean. Methodical. Like someone painted the death in strokes.
Commissioner James Gordon lit a cigarette with shaking fingers. He exhaled slowly, trying to steel himself.
"In thirty years," he muttered, "I've seen what Joker did to that school bus in '99. I've cleaned up after Riddler's maze traps. Hell, I've even seen what Bane left behind in Blackgate…"
He turned to the forensic doctor crouched by one of the corpses.
"But this… this is different."
The forensic expert, pale beneath his glasses, gave a grim nod. "These cuts? Too perfect. No hesitation marks. No serration. Just—clean. Every limb, every joint… like they were drawn on a blueprint first."
Gordon dropped his cigarette and crushed it.
"Call him."
The Batmobile arrived moments later, its engine a low growl in the wet night. The armored shell opened, and Batman stepped out, cape billowing behind him, the rain hissing off his suit.
Robin followed, young and brash, eyes darting around the alley.
"Ugh, smells like hell," he muttered. "What the hell happened here?"
Gordon held up a hand. "Maybe… maybe he shouldn't go in."
Robin frowned. "What? Why? I've seen worse."
Batman turned, giving Robin a single sharp look. No words. Just that stare.
Robin backed off.
Batman moved through the alley, scanning with his cowl's sensors. His gauntlet blinked softly, connected to the Batcomputer. Data streamed in. Blood spatter trajectories, heat traces, weapon analysis.
"No blade I know of can cut like this," he said quietly. "No laser burns. No evidence of heat signatures. And no magic. Zatanna would've left a residue."
He paused.
"…What did this?"
Across the city, Paul Jackson moved quickly through narrow streets and back alleys, the rain washing the blood from his skin, his boots, even the Damascus blade tucked under his jacket.
He looked down at his uniform—still soaked in crimson.
"Damn it… I can't go far like this."
Then, in a side alley, he saw it.
A second-story window with laundry hanging in the rain—clothes fluttering slightly in the breeze. A red leather jacket. Black jeans. A plain gray shirt.
Bingo.
Paul climbed silently, grabbed the set, and slipped behind a dumpster to change. Somehow, they fit like a glove.
His old uniform lay on the ground behind him, a shredded, bloodied reminder of everything he wanted to forget.
He stepped back out into the alley, brushing water off his shoulders.
"Never been this lucky," he muttered with a chuckle. "Feels like a dream. Right? I must be dreaming."
He laughed to himself, but it sounded off—tight and nervous.
Still chuckling, Paul made his way across town until he reached a bridge near Gotham's industrial district. There, beneath the rusted steel supports, he found a dry patch of concrete and sat down.
The silence was comforting. He leaned back against the cold wall.
Then it appeared again.
> [Level 1]
Strength: 13
Dexterity: 11
Vision: 1
Mind: 6
You have 4 unspent points. Please allocate your stats.
Paul stared.
"…Yeah. I'm officially tweaking."
He pinched his forearm hard.
Nothing.
He sighed and looked again at the screen. "Thirteen strength? Eleven dex? What is this—an RPG?"
He scanned the bottom.
Vision: 1. Mind: 6.
"That explains the headaches… and the fact I didn't see that brick wall earlier," he mumbled. "Well… whatever this is."
He hesitated—then tapped the screen.
> Strength: 15
Dexterity: 12
Vision: 2
Mind: 6
The message faded. No level-up. No congratulations. Just silence.
"Well… I'll figure it out later," Paul said, pulling the red jacket tighter around him. "Right now, I just need a place to sleep."
The rain had stopped. For once, it felt like the city was taking a breath.
A few blocks later, Paul found what he was looking for—an abandoned apartment complex on the edge of Gotham's forgotten sector. Boarded windows, rusted locks, graffiti-covered walls.
But the door creaked open, and the room behind it was dry. Secure.
Better than Syria.
He locked it behind him, collapsed on the floor, and rested his head against the wall.
His eyes stared at the ceiling, trying to make sense of everything. The knife. The message. The blood. The eyes.
Was he losing it? Had he finally snapped?
He didn't notice the shadow on the rooftop across the street.
A man stood watching him.
One eye covered by a black-and-orange mask. Silent. Still.
He had seen it all.