The rain was relentless, a thousand needles falling from a sky that hadn't known mercy in years. Gotham didn't drizzle. It bled from above.
The apartment door creaked open, and Alistair stepped inside, dragging the storm with him. His messy white hair clung to his face, his dress shirt and slacks plastered to his skin. In one hand, he carried his coat, soaked through; in the other, the weight of another day.
He leaned Muramasa and Masamune carefully against the wall by the door, their steel gleaming faintly in the dim light. His pistols clattered onto the table, the sound dull against the backdrop of rain hammering the window. The cigarette in his mouth was still lit, though barely, smoke curling in tired, defiant spirals.
Without a word, he collapsed onto the couch, one arm over his eyes. The cushions seemed to swallow him whole, as if they were just as tired as he was.
Soft pawsteps padded across the hardwood. Snowy emerged from the shadows of the apartment, her fur pristine despite the chaos outside. She rubbed her head insistently against his damp hand, as if scolding him: You've been gone too long.
Alistair exhaled a quiet chuckle.
Alistair: I know, girl. I know. I'm sorry.
He scooped her up, pulling her against his chest. She hissed at first—offended by his wet clothes, his damp skin—but he only laughed again, a low rumble in his chest.
After a moment, she relented. Snowy's ears drooped, her body softening as she yawned and nestled against him. Her steady purring filled the silence like a lullaby, a fragile comfort in a city that had none.
For the first time in days, maybe weeks, it almost felt like there could be a break. As if, just for a moment, the world wasn't made of blood and shadows.
As if all was right with the world.
The hallway outside was silent except for the steady percussion of rain against rusted pipes. Nine men stood in tactical formation, faces hidden behind balaclavas, rifles raised, every movement sharp and rehearsed. They weren't GCPD. They weren't military. They were something in-between—private muscle, hired blades in black Kevlar.
The signal came.
The first man knelt by the lock, tools whispering against the metal. The click was barely audible over the storm. The door creaked open just enough for a shadow to slip inside. One by one, the squad moved in—fluid, disciplined, weapons sweeping across the corners.
Man 1 (low): Clear.
Man 2: Living room clear.
Man 3: Bedroom clear.
Each voice came clipped, professional. They tapped shoulders as they passed, spreading out until the whole unit was inside. Guns covered the apartment from every angle: bathroom, living room, kitchen, bedroom. Nothing.
The place was still. Too still.
The men regrouped near the living room, rifles lowered just slightly.
Man 1: (muttering) You think boss sent us to the wrong place?
The squad leader's head snapped around, voice like gravel.
Leader: Careful what you say, rookie. The boss doesn't forgive loose tongues.
The rookie stiffened, swallowing hard.
Man 1: …Yes, sir.
One of the veterans clapped him on the shoulder, half-smirking under his mask.
Man 2: Relax. Happens to everyone their first time. We'll find this bastard. Just keep your head on straight.
The tension thinned, just a little. Some of the men loosened their grips.
Man 5: I'll radio in. Let boss know the nest is empty. Maybe he'll want us to—
He trailed off, already stepping toward the door.
That's when the first drop of water hit the hardwood. Plink.
The rookie frowned, glancing up.
Man 1: …You hear that?
Another drop fell, darker this time. Not water. Something thicker.
Man 2: (snorting) Relax. Place like this? Leaky pipes, mold, cockroaches—whole building's probably a dump.
Man 1: (still staring up) Yeah, but—
He froze.
Because hanging upside down above them, hair dripping, eyes glowing faintly crimson, was Alistair. Silent as a shadow, a predator playing with his prey. Snowy dangled lazily in one arm, perfectly calm, as if this was her natural perch.
Alistair let another bead of water slide from his hair. It struck the rookie's mask.
The rookie's throat clicked as he whispered, almost reverent:
Man 1: …He's here.
Leader: Wha-
Before the rookie could even finish his stammer, a shadow dropped.
Steel screamed. Masamune tore itself free from the wall scabbard, spinning into Alistair's waiting hand. In a blur, the blade sank deep into the squad leader's skull—clean, surgical, merciless. His body went rigid, rifle clattering to the floor before he crumpled like a puppet with its strings cut.
Snowy leapt gracefully from Alistair's shoulder, tail flicking in irritation, and padded to the couch. She sat, licking a paw daintily as though the massacre unfolding was beneath her concern. She hated blood in her fur—bath time was always hell.
Man 1 (screaming): DAAAAAAD!
Alistair's grin froze. His crimson eyes flicked to the rookie.
Alistair: …Shit. He was your dad? Well now you go—
The sentence was drowned by a deafening chorus of gunfire.
BRRRRRT!
Bullets ripped the room to shreds. Plaster exploded. The TV died in sparks, consoles shredded, glass windows burst outward. Even the little rat-hole where Jimmy the Rat had lived splintered apart.
For a moment, the storm of lead hammered into the body sprawled on the ground. They didn't stop until their clips clicked dry.
Man 1 (sobbing, cradling the body): Dad… Dad, no…
Then—
Step.
Alistair rose. Head cocked. Not a scratch. Red eyes glowing like coals.
He brushed imaginary dust off his shirt. His voice was calm, almost bored:
Alistair: Rude. You didn't even let me finish my sentence.
The mercenaries froze. A collective shiver ran through them as the weight of the impossible settled in. They hadn't missed. He just didn't die.
Behind him, Masamune quivered where it had been stabbed into the floor, humming with a faint light. But it wasn't alone.
Muramasa rattled violently in its sheath, hungry, jealous, the steel trembling like an animal scenting blood. Alistair sighed, shaking his head.
Alistair: Fine. Don't get your edge twisted.
He pulled Masamune free, then drove it deliberately into the wooden floorboards. Sparks of red light spider-webbed outward.
With a shriek of steel, Muramasa ripped free from its sheath on its own, hurling itself into Alistair's other hand. The cursed blade pulsed, black lightning laced with red crawling up its edge.
The men opened fire again, panic eclipsing strategy. The apartment became a hurricane of muzzle flashes. But Alistair was gone.
He blurred through the room, every bullet carved in half midair before it could reach him. Slugs split and fell harmlessly to the ground. He was faster than their fear, slipping through blindspots, his silhouette flickering in their periphery like the devil they whispered about.
Wood splintered. Sparks rained. The mercs shredded their own kill zone, turning the apartment into Swiss cheese.
Then a voice cut through the chaos.
From behind them.
Alistair (mocking, loud): …Who the hell are we shooting at?
They spun, rifles jerking in all directions—until they saw him lounging casually on the dining table, one leg crossed over the other. Muramasa rested across his lap, its edge humming with anticipation.
Alistair's grin stretched ear to ear, devilish and patient.
It finally sank in.
They weren't hunting a man. They were trapped in a room with something else.
The Devil.
The apartment exploded into motion.
Alistair moved as if the room itself had bent to his will—no wasted motion, no theatrics, only lethal economy. Masamune slid from its sheath and found his hand like water finding a channel. The first man stepped up with the cocky swagger of someone who thought numbers and guns were safety. One clean, practiced motion later the man was on the floor, gone—gone with the sick, final thud of a body that will not rise.
There was no scream that lasts. There was only impact, a breath cut off mid-word, and then silence swallowing the sound.
Man 2 lost his head before his body realised it was dead. The crimson mist caught the air as Alistair pivoted around the weightless corpse, drew the blade across a second man's gun, splitting it down the barrel and burying the point through his mouth — steel pushing bone until it scraped the back of his skull.
Muramasa burned deeper scarlet.
Alistair: Relax, you glutton. There's plenty to go around.
Man 4 screamed as his arms dropped from his shoulders. Blood jetted in grotesque pulses.
Alistair: My neighbours already hate me, and now you're making noise? Unhelpful.
He slid backward under another volley, spine almost horizontal to the ground, rising behind Man 6 with impossible speed. The man tried to grapple, but Alistair didn't even resist.
Masamune whistled through the air from its stand — cutting clean into the man's temple — pinning him to the wall like an insect specimen.
A shot rang out. Man 3 fell, clutching the perfect apple-shaped hole in his chest.
Man 1, still with tears streaming, raised his weapon again. Alistair casually plucked each bullet from the air — catching them between fingers, dropping them to the ground like grains of rice.
The blade dragged a thin line across the floorboards as he approached, red light painting the wood. It was a question and a promise all at once.
Man (barely a whisper): Fuck off. You killed my father. You think I'll tell you anything?
Alistair stepped closer, his smile small and almost amused.
Alistair: Tell me, and I'll end it quick. Lie, and I'll take whatever keeps you standing until you're nothing but a breath.
Fear scoured the man's face raw. The name came out ragged, choked between coughs and sobs.
Man (gasping): Black Mask. He said… he said you outlived your usefulness.
Alistair let the syllables settle like a dropped coin. For a heartbeat the world narrowed to the sound of one man's confession. He had all the time in the world. Then, as if closing an account, he finished it—fast, uncompromising—leaving the man still and finally silent on the floor.
Snowy hopped down from the couch and settled into a chair, grooming a paw as though she'd merely missed her nap. The cat never showed disgust at him. She only disliked wet fur and baths. Tonight she blinked and ignored the human panic.
The silence afterward was monumental. It did not comfort. It pressed into the bones. Alistair stood amid overturned furniture and shattered glass—Muramasa's glow receding, the apartment buzzing with the aftertaste of violence. He took a long, steadying breath and holstered what remained of his tools.
Outside, the rain hammered the city like a reminder. Inside, the floor was littered with ruined lives and the small, legal things that marked the end: spent shells, a splintered chair, a phone face-down. Alistair bent and left a tiny pulse of hemokinetic signature in the floor where the last man had cried out—an unreadable seal for anyone but him—and then walked to the window.
Alistair: Black Mask.
The name the man had coughed up sat in his mouth like a new wound. Useful. It was enough to strike at. Enough to answer every small thing that had been gnawing at him lately.
He straightened, glanced at Snowy, and for a breath something like pity—quick, private—flickered across his face before he smoothed it away. The machine was primed. He had the name; now the city would pay for the answer.
The door opened.
Man 5 stepped inside, gun raised.
Man 5: "The boss sa—"
He froze. His words caught in his throat as he took in the scene. The apartment was a ruin of overturned furniture and bodies. Red gleamed across the floor. Alistair stood in the center, calm, Masamune pulsing faintly in his hand.
The man's legs shook. He wet himself.
Alistair: "If you're smart, you walk out of here. If you're dumb… I'll send you back in a bag. Now—where is Mask?"
Man 5 swallowed, trembling.
Man 5: "I… I'm not paid enough for this shit, man."
Alistair: "Ain't that the truth."
He tilted Muramasa slightly, the red glow bathing the man in cold light.
Alistair: "Start talking. Muramasa's still hungry."
Man 5's voice cracked.
Man 5: "His office… Sionis Industries… meat factory."
Alistair: "Good. Leave the phone, and get out."
Man 5 obeyed immediately, setting the phone down and retreating. Alistair closed the door behind him with a soft click.
Silence reclaimed the apartment.
Alistair stabbed Muramasa into the ground and locked up the phone. He called the only number on the burner.
The office was dark, lit only by the glow of multiple monitors. Black Mask sat at his desk, fingers flying across the keyboard. A gun rested on the table within easy reach.
The phone buzzed.
Black Mask: "Is it done?"
Alistair's voice came smooth, calm, cutting through the silence.
Alistair: "I'm pretty sure I told you… if there's one thing I hate, it's being played."
Silence. Too quiet.
Black Mask: "So… you're not dead. No matter. I'll just send more after you."
Alistair: "Really, Masky? And here I was thinking we were besties… but you broke my heart."
Movement flickered in the shadows behind him. Alistair's tone sharpened.
Alistair: "Enough games. I did enjoy our dance…"
The windows shattered. A bullet slammed near his head, missing by inches.
Black Mask roared, feeling pain unlike anything before. No casing fell, but the bullet tore through him. His shirt began to darken as it drank the blood he was leaking.
The doors burst open. Guards rushed in, shouting orders.
Alistair: "I missed, Mask. I missed on purpose. I nearly hit your heart because I wanted you to live… to know that at any moment, on a whim, I could end it. You're not the first fool to play this game, and you won't be the last. Now, instead of chasing me… I suggest your men take you to the hospital—or you die, Roman."
The line cut.
Black Mask slumped in his chair, the last lights of consciousness fading from his eyes.
Alistair stood across the street on the roof of a crumbling building, the city rain still dripping from the edges of his white suit. The top button of his blue dress shirt hung open, a cigarette resting between his lips, its ember glowing faintly in the dark.
Below, Snowy sat perched on the hood of the Ford Torino Cobra, her tail curling lazily as she purred, unbothered by the chaos that had nearly unfolded a block away.
Alistair knelt, methodically disassembling the rifle in his hands. Every click of metal sounded deliberate, almost ritualistic. The weapon came apart like a secret being unmade. He carried the pieces to a rusted bin and tossed them in, followed by a small red capsule that hissed faintly before dissolving into smoke. No evidence. No trail.
He strolled down the stairwell, cigarette smoke trailing behind him, and slid into the driver's seat. Snowy was already curled in the back of the Cobra, her green eyes half-lidded, tail twitching at the sound of the engine.
The car roared awake, a low, guttural purr that matched the feline's.
Alistair: "Well, Snowy… I guess we need to find a new place. Something bigger. No rats this time."
Snowy lowered her head onto her paws, giving him a look that spoke clearer than words: about damn time.
Alistair smirked, put the car in gear, and rolled out into the Gotham night. The city swallowed him whole, but not before the faint hum of the Cobra's engine left a mark in the silence, like a promise yet to be collected.