John's gaze shifted from the man barking orders at him to the police cruiser. As the traffic light flickered to a steady green, the officers didn't intervene, instead, the cruiser simply accelerated, its taillights fading into the distance as they left the sedan to the wolves.
"Floor it," John said, his voice calm.
Cherry didn't hesitate. She slammed her foot onto the gas, but the roar of the engine was punctuated by the sharp crack of a gunshot, which ceased Cherry's action. The gunman had circled the vehicle with surprising speed, and as the car lurched forward, he shoved his arm through the jagged remains of the rear window, the barrel of the pistol inches from John's head.
"Welcome to Gotham, rich boy!" the man spat, his eyes wild behind the mask. "If you want to survive long enough to tell the tale, you do exactly as we say. And that starts with her taking her foot off the gas. Now!"
The car screeched to a halt as Cherry obeyed, her eyes fixed on the rearview mirror, waiting for the signal.
Suddenly, the cold, stoic mask John had worn for days crumbled. His expression shifted into one of pure, wide-eyed terror. He began to nod frantically, his hands trembling as he held them up in a universal gesture of surrender.
"Please... please don't kill me!" John stammered, his voice cracking like a terrified child's. "I have money! So much money! Please, I can give you anything you want... just don't hurt me!"
Behind the wheel, Cherry felt a chill that had nothing to do with the broken window. She knew who he was, she knew who had sent him. Seeing him play the part of the helpless victim was unsettling even more so how quickly he changed face.
The man let out a jagged laugh, stepping back as he jerked the door handle. "We know you do. Now grab him, boys! We've wasted enough time already."
One of the thugs lunged forward to swing the door wide, but John moved with a sudden, violence that defied his previous whimpering. Before the man could touch the handle, John kicked the door from the inside. The heavy metal slammed into the thug with unexpected force, sending him stumbling back directly into the gunman.
In that heartbeat of chaos, a shadow detached itself from the floor of the backseat. Dog, who had been coiled and hidden by John's frame, launched himself through the open door with a guttural snarl. His powerful frame was a blur of fur and teeth, aiming straight for the gunman.
John stepped out of the vehicle in the same fluid motion, his terrified facade vanishing as if it had never existed. He stood tall, his eyes cold and calm.
The mob, stunned by the sudden shift from "fresh meat" to retaliation, stood frozen in shock. The silence was shattered by a high-pitched, raw scream as Dog's jaws clamped down on the gunman's arm, the sound of tearing fabric and crunching bone bringing the reality of the situation crashing back down on them.
John didn't wait for them to regroup. He stepped toward the nearest man, who was still raising a heavy hammer. Before the blow could descend, John's hand shot out, seizing the man's throat and thumbing a pressure point that turned his vision white. As the man sagged, John caught the hammer-arm, twisted it until the elbow popped loudly, and sent the weapon clattering to the asphalt.
The man with the cutlass swung wildly. John dipped his head beneath the blade, the steel whistling inches above his hair. He drove a short, brutal punch into the attacker's ribs, three distinct snaps echoed and followed through by grabbing the man's head and slamming it into the sedan's door frame. The metal dented, the man slumped into a heap.
Another thug lunged with a jagged knife. John parried the thrust with his forearm, his other hand locking onto the man's bicep. With a sharp, rhythmic jerk, he tore the muscle from the bone and used a leg sweep to send the man spiraling onto his back. John stepped onto the man's trailing ankle, the sound of the joint splintering muffled by the man's own gasp of agony.
The street was a mess of flailing limbs and frantic breathing. John moved through the center of it. He caught a wrist here, snapping it backward to drop a weapon, he delivered a stinging kick there, shattering a kneecap to ground a runner. He made sure every strike landed on bone or joint, avoiding the heart and the temple.
Beside the car, Dog let out a final, bone-chilling snarl. The gunman's arm was no longer a limb, but a red ruin of shredded leather and muscle. The man had stopped screaming, falling into a state of shock-induced silence as he stared up at the animal.
John stood amidst the groaning bodies. He looked down at his sleeve, brushing away a small shard of glass that had clung to the fabric.
"Cherry," John said, his voice flat and devoid of the terror he had mimicked moments ago. "The window is broken. We'll need a replacement."
Cherry watched as he settled into the passenger seat, followed closely by Dog. The door thudded shut, sealing them in a tense silence.
"Drive," John commanded, his voice clear that he was annoyed. "This time, you stop for no light and no one. Any obstacle in the way, you run it over." He leaned back, closing his eyes to once again shut out the outside noise.
Cherry stole a lingering glance at him, a split second of hesitation before she buried her foot into the gas. The engine roared, and the car lurched forward into the gray sprawl of Gotham.
In the backseat, John let his mind drift back to the moments ago. The moment he had watched those squad cars peel away from a blatant daylight robbery, the reality of the situation had clicked into place. This was a test.
The city was gauging him. He had felt it the second their car hit the streets, aconstant sensation of being watched. It wasn't just the pedestrians, it was the eyes hidden in the soot-stained shadows and behind the cracked glass of high-rise windows.
The whole city at the moment to John was watching and waiting for his reaction.
Anything less than the cold, decisive violence he'd just displayed would have been the wrong answer. Gotham didn't respect mercy, it only recognized predator and prey. John knew with certainty that if he had reacted any other way, he wouldn't be waking up in his hotel room tomorrow. Someone else out there, someone with more "ball" and less conscience, would have seen the weakness. They would have walked right through the front lobby, snatched him from his bed, and disappeared into the fog without a single witness raising a hand to stop them.
He had to respond to them in a language they understood, the only dialect Gotham truly respected. Anything less, and the predator's gaze he felt on his back would become a permanent fixture of his stay, a constant threat lurking in every alleyway.
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