Clang.
The sound of spent brass hitting concrete echoed as Downton slammed a fresh magazine into his pistol. The gunfire had stopped—too suddenly. In Gotham, silence after a firefight was never good news.
He followed the tide of onlookers toward the scene of the clash. By the time he arrived, the gangs were long gone. Only GCPD officers remained, cordoning off the block, snapping photos, and bagging shell casings. Civilians pressed against the yellow tape, eyes wide, phones raised. In this city, death was spectacle—and gossip, currency.
Downton holstered his weapon with a sigh. No point drawing attention now. He peeled off his bullet-riddled shirt, revealing a torso crisscrossed with old scars and fresh grazes. Then he tapped the shoulder of a man in a rumpled suit hovering near the perimeter.
"What's your name?" Downton asked, voice low but steady.
The man turned, blinked at Downton's bare chest—then blanched. "Uh… I'm married."
"I didn't ask your marital status," Downton said, pulling his pistol just enough to press the cool steel against the man's ribs. "Name."
"J-Jerry!" the man stammered. "Jerry Lin! Look, I didn't see anything—I was just heading home from the pharmacy!"
"Good. Then tell me this: who was shooting at whom?"
Jerry swallowed hard. "Falcone's crew—Sabatini's boys—versus a bunch of Eastern Europeans. Russians. New players. They've been pushing hard into the docks."
"Any idea where they hole up?"
"The Iceberg Lounge is Falcone's usual spot. As for the Slavs? No idea. But they don't exactly hand out business cards."
Downton nodded, reholstering his weapon. "Smart man."
He turned to leave—but then Jerry blurted out, voice cracking with panic:
"Wait! You're not with them, are you? You look… I mean, you're Asian—you could be one of those new enforcers from Odessa!"
Downton froze. Odessa? He wasn't Russian. He wasn't even from Gotham. But in this city, suspicion needed no logic—only skin and circumstance.
Before he could respond, Jerry broke into a run toward the nearest officer, yelling,
"Officer! That guy—he threatened me! He was asking about Falcone! I think he's a hitman!"
Damn it.
Downton didn't hesitate. He sprinted after Jerry, shoving through the crowd. Three sharp cracks split the air—not aimed to kill. The first shot struck pavement near Jerry's feet as a warning. The second hit his calf. The third, his thigh.
Jerry collapsed, howling.
Downton dropped to one knee beside him, voice a razor's edge.
"You ran your mouth because you thought I was foreign trash. But you don't know who I am. And you definitely don't know what I'm capable of."
He stood, ignoring the man's sobs. "Next time, think before you label someone."
Then, without looking back, he melted into the alleyways—just as GCPD shouts erupted behind him.
"Stop right there!"
"He's armed!"
"That's the same guy from the Narrows last week!"
Some officers recognized Downton. After all, even in Gotham, it wasn't common for a man shot to death that morning to return—again—before sundown.
But most didn't. The moment he turned, rifles cracked. Bullets tore through the air, scattering the crowd. Screams erupted—sharp, panicked, human. Downton winced, hands briefly rising to his ears.
If they're so afraid, why come to a crime scene at all?
He barely had time for the thought before familiar voices cut through the chaos.
"Hold fire! It's him again!"
"Don't shoot—he just comes back!"
A wiry man in his forties, face lined but eyes sharp, shoved through the line of officers. Despite his age, he moved with startling speed—closing the distance in seconds.
"Stop!" the man barked.
Two shots punched into the pavement on either side of Downton's feet. Gravel stung his legs. He turned—and found a barrel already leveled at his hand.
Too fast.
Downton raised his own pistol, but the man fired first.
Bang!
White-hot pain seared through his right hand. The gun clattered to the ground, his knuckles split open.
"Hiss—damn. That was a good shot," Downton muttered, more impressed than pained.
Before he could react further, three more rounds slammed into his calf. He dropped to one knee, then collapsed entirely—not from defeat, but design. Let them think I'm down.
But the officers weren't taking chances. The gunfire ceased the moment they saw his leg twist unnaturally beneath him.
The wiry man was on him instantly, knee in Downton's spine, service revolver pressed hard against his temple.
"Cuff him. Now. And get a medic—there are civilians everywhere!"
A female officer rushed forward with a first-aid kit. As she knelt to stabilize his leg, Downton offered a strained smirk.
"Gotta say… your bedside manner's better than most."
She didn't look up. "Shut up and don't move—or I'll let the next bullet stay in."
Nearby, a cluster of veteran cops gathered around the man pinning Downton down.
"Commissioner Gordon," one said urgently, "this is the guy we told you about. Falcone's men put a dozen rounds in him yesterday. Yesterday. Saw his body burn to ash right in the alley."
"Like something out of a horror flick," another added. "And an hour later? He was walking down Cherry Street like nothing happened."
Gordon's mustache twitched. He studied Downton—bleeding, grinning, utterly unafraid—and exhaled slowly.
"In Gotham," he said at last, "I've stopped being surprised. But I do need answers."
Downton chuckled weakly. "Wish I could talk, Gordon. Really do. But my leg feels like it's on fire… and honestly? This won't stick."
He met Gordon's gaze, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
"Anything's possible here, right? So… don't be shocked when I show up again tomorrow. Or tonight. Hell—maybe even in your office."
Then, with a sigh, he let his eyes drift shut.
Loss of life. Loss of consciousness. Loss of freedom.
The three conditions.
He'd learned them the hard way that morning—when his original body died in some back-alley execution. Now, his power triggered: not resurrection, but relocation. A reset. A fresh start—elsewhere, unharmed, whole.
A breath later, he stood in an empty alley three blocks away, clothes torn but body intact. He flexed his right hand—no wound. His leg—steady.
"Hell of a talent," he murmured, sliding his pistol back into his waistband.
The two thugs who'd killed his first self were still out there. They'd pay. But first—practicalities.
The gun he'd borrowed came from a shop on 5th. It had served him well. Now, he owed its owner… and himself.
Money. Clothes. Then vengeance.
He glanced around—and grinned.
There, across the street, neon flickering over a cracked window: "Mendoza's Menswear – Open Late."
Perfect. No bullet holes. No bloodstains. Just a fresh suit… and a clean slate.