The night had fully swallowed the coastline.
The salty tang of the sea breeze, thick with diesel and rust, swirled through the open car window.
Locke glanced at the GPS—only 800 meters to the meeting point.
"Phew," he exhaled, relieved.
Dio should be safe at the Luthor estate by now. Just a little longer, and he'd be in the clear.
Click.
Locke touched the blue ladybug pendant on his chest, feeling a bit more at ease. He flicked on the car radio, letting a cheerful voice fill the cabin:
"Good evening, Metropolis! This is your friendly neighborhood Fletcher Francis, coming to you live from Metropolis Radio. It's a crisp, refreshing night out there. Let's kick things off with a song perfect for a night like this…"
Why don't we sing this song all together~
Open our heads, let the pictures come~
"Oh!" The DJ's voice crackled with excitement. "This one's from The Rolling Stones' 1972 album, Their Satanic Majesties Request!"
Satanic Majesties?
The familiar psychedelic intro made Locke pause. Honestly, that album title felt like some kind of bad omen right now—
Vroom!
Two blinding headlights exploded in the rearview mirror, momentarily blinding him.
Locke's brow furrowed. A pitch-black SUV materialized like a ghost tearing through the night, closing in on his Lamborghini from less than fifty meters away. Without a moment's hesitation, its tires roared—a low, feral growl—and it surged forward like an arrow, barreling toward him with crushing intent.
"So, you finally showed up," Locke muttered, a sly grin tugging at his lips.
For three days, he'd felt it—that cold, venomous sensation of being watched. At the quiet antique shop, the fragrant steakhouse, the bustling tech expo—those eyes, hidden behind a mask, never left him.
That man had been observing, calculating, like the most seasoned hunter waiting for the perfect moment to strike without alerting certain… entities.
And this dimly lit riverside road to the docks? It was perfect for an ambush.
"Wanna play? Let's play."
A cold glint flashed in Locke's eyes as he slammed his right hand onto the paddle shifter behind the steering wheel.
Clank!
A sharp metallic snap echoed from the engine bay.
The RPM needle shot up like a startled viper, slamming toward the redline's edge.
BOOM!
Raw power flooded the rear wheels like a bursting dam. The Lamborghini let out a deafening roar, lurching forward. The sheer force pinned Locke into the composite-fiber seat as streetlights and the coastline blurred into a streaking ribbon of color outside the window.
The speedometer climbed wildly: 180… 220… 230… 260!
Pictures of us beating on our drum~
Never stopping 'til the rain has come~
The screeching wind noise clashed with the Stones' upbeat vocals and that eerie, psychedelic intro.
The Lamborghini's tachometer hovered at the redline, veins bulging on Locke's hands as he gripped the wheel.
But then—
"What the hell? No way!"
Locke's jaw dropped.
In the distorted rearview mirror, that black SUV clung to him like a leech. Not only had it kept up with his insane acceleration, it was gaining ground! Its massive frame showed impossible stability at these speeds, its roaring tires drowning out the Lamborghini's engine and the radio's music. It was like the breath of death itself—clearer, heavier, closing in.
Bang!
A violent jolt sent the Lamborghini spinning out of control.
Clank!
Locke slammed the paddle shifter again, snarling. The engine screamed, pushing the car to its absolute limit, trying to squeeze out every last drop of power.
But it was no use. Those piercing headlights loomed larger in the mirror, like the eyes of death itself. The icy pressure seemed to pierce through the glass, chilling the back of Locke's neck.
The SUV's front end, like a predatory shark, closed in again, nearly kissing the Lamborghini's low-slung rear wing.
Then we will see where we all come from~
Mick Jagger's voice mocked him over the screech of tearing metal.
The SUV's searing engine heat licked at his tail.
A steely resolve flashed in Locke's eyes.
BOOM!
The music cut off.
The Lamborghini shot through the guardrail like a meteor, tumbling toward the beach twenty meters below. The moment it hit—
BOOM!
A massive fireball erupted, painting the sea blood-red. The scorching shockwave toppled nearby palm trees. In the firelight, a tall figure in a ceramic mask stepped slowly to the edge of the guardrail.
He peered down at the blazing wreckage, his pupils trembling faintly behind the mask.
No screams. No struggle.
Just the twisted, collapsing car frame groaning in the flames.
Burning cash—Lionel's emergency stash—floated up from the inferno, turning to ash in the sea breeze.
"…"
A low, muffled wheeze came from behind the mask.
"Why…" The man's voice trembled, broken, as if choked by some unseen force. "If Bane could survive… you could…"
It was like he was questioning fate—or trying to convince himself.
But then—
"Are you ready?" A cold, gravelly voice cut through the night, dripping with unmasked killing intent. "Ready to pay for ruining my son's birthday gift, you stalking creep?"
"Now—" The voice growled, "I'm gonna use my tree-trunk legs to kick your balls into next week."
"?!"
The man, Durans, froze, but before he could turn—
WHAM!
A whip-like kick, strong enough to snap a steel pipe, arced upward like a battle axe.
Time froze.
Before Durans could collapse, a fist crashed toward his face like a meteor.
Crack!
The ceramic mask shattered, revealing half a twisted face.
"Ora!"
A second punch slammed into his gut, sending his insides reeling from the shockwave.
"Ora! Ora! Ora!"
A purple meteor of relentless blows hammered into his spine like a pile driver.
Voom!
Time resumed.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
The sound of snapping bones cut through the silent night. Durans's massive frame twisted like a ragdoll, the force of the blows sending him skidding across the pavement, carving a twenty-meter trench. The shattered embankment exploded into a shower of stones, glinting like silver rain in the moonlight.
But it wasn't enough to quench Locke's fury.
Star Platinum gleamed with cold purple light under the moon. Locke stepped closer. "Got anything to say for yourself?"
"Tch… thank… you…"
A raspy, distorted voice squeezed out from the man's shattered throat, hollow and chilling.
Thanking me? For nearly killing him?!
The eerie gratitude didn't bring any warmth—it sent a shiver crawling up Locke's spine.
"Not… dead… good… thank… you…"
The man's muttering continued, tinged with a sick, almost relieved tone, like he'd cheated death.
As if Locke's brutal attack wasn't pain… but salvation?
What, some kind of twisted thrill I don't get?
Locke's mind reeled, and in that moment—
"Hrr… hrk hrk hrk…"
The gratitude dissolved into pained, beastly gasps.
"Argh… AHHH!" A guttural, inhuman scream tore from the man's throat—not anger, but pure, unbearable agony.
His broken, mangled body, which should've been done for, began to move. Driven by some incomprehensible, terrifying force, it defied physics, inching upright, as if an invisible hand was violently stitching a shattered doll back together.