Lex Williams found the Penguin on the second floor of the Iceberg Lounge—and immediately regretted it.
He blamed television for that mistake. Shows like Gotham had cast the Penguin as some wiry, twitchy schemer. A skinny guy in a tailored suit. The kind of villain you could drop with a clean headshot and move on.
That lie almost got him killed.
The thing standing at the end of the blood-smeared corridor wasn't skinny. It wasn't twitchy. It wasn't even entirely human anymore.
He was enormous—close to seven feet tall, built like a swollen linebacker. Thick neck. Slab shoulders. Massive arms that bulged against shredded suit fabric. He looked like a decayed, bloated version of Shaquille O'Neal if someone had pumped him full of embalming fluid and rage.
Even before the virus, Oswald Cobblepot had been big.
Now he was a mountain.
The hallway was littered with bodies. Not intact bodies—pieces. Arms ripped clean from sockets. Torsos opened like butchered cattle. The walls were painted in arterial spray.
When Lex found him, the Penguin was chewing.
A woman's leg—still in a high heel—was clutched in his hand. He gnawed through muscle with slow, grinding bites. Bone snapped. Tendons stretched and tore.
The wet sound nearly made Lex vomit.
The Penguin lifted his head.
Blood soaked his chin. Bits of meat clung to broken teeth.
And then—
He smiled.
Lex's stomach tightened.
Zombies weren't supposed to smile.
They shambled. They lunged. They devoured. They didn't grin like they were sharing a private joke.
Which meant one thing.
Mutation.
The first wave of infected had been mindless. But some had changed—evolved. Their bodies adapting. Their brains knitting back together just enough to spark something behind their eyes.
Not humanity.
But awareness.
This thing in front of him wasn't first-generation.
It had leveled up.
That also meant it had probably regained some instinct—maybe even tactical response.
Still chewing, the Penguin stared at him like a predator sizing up a smaller animal.
Lex exhaled slowly.
"Okay," he muttered to himself. "Let's do this."
He raised his pistol and fired.
The shot cracked through the corridor.
And the impossible happened.
The Penguin jerked his arm up and used the severed thigh as a shield.
The bullet punched into dead flesh instead of skull.
For the first time since the outbreak began, Lex Williams missed a headshot.
The Penguin let out a warped, gurgling shriek and started forward.
Despite the virus boosting his strength, the massive body wasn't built for speed. His right leg dragged slightly—an old injury that had survived even death. He limped heavily, each step cracking tile.
But that didn't make him less dangerous.
The thigh was still raised in front of his face, blocking the clean angle.
Lex backed up, steady.
"Fine," he said under his breath.
He lowered his aim and fired at the right knee.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang bang bang—
Each shot slammed into the joint. Bone splintered. Cartilage exploded.
He emptied the magazine.
Click.
The Penguin's leg finally gave out. His body tilted sideways and crashed into the wall hard enough to dent drywall and shake dust from the ceiling.
The severed thigh dropped.
For a split second, his head was exposed.
Lex moved fast.
Magazine out. Spare in. Slam. Rack.
He didn't think. He fired.
Bang.
Bang bang bang—
He kept shooting until the skull caved in and blackened matter splattered the floor.
Then—
Pop.
Pop.
Pop pop pop—
Translucent bubbles rose from the corpse like drifting soap spheres.
Lex lowered the gun.
"As expected," he murmured.
Floating in the air were rewards.
A Penguin-style multi-functional umbrella.
A sealed box of Penguin collectibles.
Stamina +30.
Experience +200.
And more.
He stepped forward and absorbed them.
The stamina boost hit instantly.
Warmth flooded his muscles. Fatigue evaporated. The ache in his shoulders vanished like it had never existed. His lungs felt bigger. His limbs lighter.
Thirty points.
Against a normal person, brute force alone would be enough now.
He picked up the umbrella.
It looked elegant—black, polished handle, silver detailing. But the moment he tested the weight, he realized it was anything but decorative.
Heavy. Solid. Reinforced.
Information flickered through his mind as the system cataloged it.
Hidden poison gas sprayer.
Umbrella ribs concealing hundreds of micro-throwing blades.
Ballistic-resistant canopy.
Miniature rocket launcher integrated into the shaft.
"This isn't an umbrella," Lex muttered. "It's a war crime."
It had clearly been custom-built for the Penguin's massive height. In Lex's hands it felt oversized, but manageable—barely. Without the stamina boost, lifting it repeatedly would've been exhausting.
Next: experience.
He converted the 200 experience points into gold coins.
Two coins materialized in his inventory.
A soft electronic chime sounded in his mind.
"The system has detected existing gold coins. System shop unlocked."
Lex blinked.
"Well," he said. "That sounds promising."
The world around him dissolved.
In its place appeared a vast, brightly lit supermarket.
Endless aisles. Infinite shelves. Everything arranged with sterile perfection.
Food section.
Medical supplies.
Weapons.
Vehicles.
He didn't have to walk. A thought rotated the space. A gesture shifted categories.
And then he saw the scale.
Tanks.
Fighter jets.
Missile systems.
Rocket launchers.
Entire satellite arrays.
His jaw tightened.
"You've got to be kidding me."
He skimmed further.
High-end combat suits.
Experimental tech.
Alien artifacts.
And sitting behind reinforced glass—
The Infinity Gauntlet.
Yes. The one from Avengers: Infinity War.
Lex zoomed in.
Price: a number so long it scrolled off the interface.
He let out a short laugh.
"Right. Sure. I'll just skip lunch for a few billion years."
After comparing items, he realized the conversion rate was brutal.
One gold coin equaled one U.S. dollar.
Two coins.
Two dollars.
He sighed.
"All right. Let's shop like a normal person."
He bought a thick ham sandwich—real meat, fresh bread—and a crisp organic apple.
Two coins gone.
Back in the real world, the items appeared in his hands.
The smell alone nearly made him close his eyes.
Fresh food had become myth. Canned rations and scavenged scraps were the norm now.
He took a bite.
Juice from the apple ran down his fingers.
For the first time since the outbreak began, Lex felt something close to human again.
After finishing, he opened the collectibles box.
Inside—
Paintings.
Signed art pieces.
Rare jewelry.
Gold bars.
High-end watches.
Even without expert appraisal, he could tell it was worth hundreds of millions in the old world.
Financial freedom.
He gave a humorless chuckle.
"What a time to be rich."
Currency had lost meaning. Cities were graveyards. There was nowhere to retire.
Still, assets were assets.
He stored everything.
With renewed energy, Lex searched the rest of the Iceberg Lounge.
He didn't find the main vault—if it still existed—but he did find something else.
An armory.
Two golden Desert Eagles rested in a velvet-lined case.
Collectors' pieces.
Fully functional.
He checked the chambers.
Loaded.
He grinned slightly and added them to his inventory.
Further inside—
Heavy machine guns.
Rocket launchers.
Crates of ammunition.
Explosives.
Military-grade hardware stacked like party supplies.
"This guy was ready for a small war," Lex muttered.
Ironically, despite all the firepower, there wasn't a single bulletproof vest in sight.
"Gangsters," he said, shaking his head. "All offense. No defense."
System storage opened.
One by one, he swept the room clean—ammo, launchers, grenades, spare parts. Everything useful vanished into inventory space.
When he finally stepped back into the hallway, the second floor was silent.
The Penguin lay motionless against the wall.
The once-mighty crime lord of Gotham reduced to loot drops and experience points.
Lex adjusted the massive umbrella over his shoulder.
"Boss cleared," he said quietly.
But as he turned toward the stairwell, he couldn't shake the feeling that if monsters like that were evolving…
Then the city wasn't just infected.
It was leveling up.