Roman Sionis's Point of View – Black Mask
Pain was a constant companion now, a faithful dog that coiled around my broken bones and licked the wounds with its rough tongue. I felt every bone fragment in my right arm rubbing against the titanium pins the doctors had driven into my flesh during emergency surgery—an operation that lasted seven hours and left me with a tube in my throat and a metallic taste in my mouth that wouldn't go away even with water.
My left arm was worse: my collarbone shattered, my humerus fractured in three places, my elbow pulverized as if someone had hit it with a wrecking hammer. My legs… ah, my legs were a personal insult. My left tibia in pieces, my right fibula twisted like a bent nail, my left knee needing total reconstruction with plates and screws. I couldn't even move my toes without a wave of agony rushing up my spine and exploding at the base of my skull. The painkillers — morphine, fentanyl, ketamine, whatever those clowns in white coats were injecting into my veins — made the pain recede like a wave, but it always came back, sharper, hungrier, as if my own body were punishing me for having been humiliated.
I, Roman Sionis, the Black Mask, king of the streets of Gotham, was strapped to a hospital gurney in an isolated wing of Gotham General, bound like a pig to slaughter. Thick leather straps, reinforced with metal handcuffs, bit into the swollen, purple skin on my wrists and ankles. The room was a cold, white cube: smooth walls with nothing I could use as a weapon, bare windows without curtains, fluorescent lights buzzing like mosquitoes on the ceiling. Everything clean, sterile, designed to keep me alive and harmless.
The doctors had explained in calm, professional voices: "Comminuted fractures in the upper and lower limbs. Surgery necessary for internal fixation. Prognosis of partial recovery with intensive physiotherapy." Partial prognosis. I, who had already broken men with my bare hands, now needed pins and plates to hold a gun again. The rage wasn't just physical—it was a poison coursing through my veins, stronger than any drug I had ever sold.
How had I gotten here? That question was like a knife twisting in my stomach, cutting through layers of fury and disbelief. I had built an empire in the bowels of this rotten city: rising from a bankrupt heir to the lord of the underworld, crushing rivals like the Falcones and Maronis under my heel, controlling the flow of drugs, weapons, prostitution—everything that made Gotham pulse like a vein clogged with poison. I was the balance. I kept things organized: taxes paid, territories respected, business flowing. Without me, it was chaos: daytime shootouts, bombs in markets, innocents dying for nothing. And now? Now I was there, trapped like a rat in a mousetrap, while my business bled out. All because of those damned hooded figures.
Batman—that flying rat with his obsession for "justice" that seemed more like personal revenge—had been the beginning of the end. He and his bratty sidekick, Robin, with those acrobatic leaps and batarangs that looked like they came from a circus from hell. Millions lost in intercepted shipments, destroyed sales points, thugs crippled or imprisoned. I saw the numbers in my head: 15 million evaporated in a single operation at the east docks three months ago, when the Bat took down an entire convoy of premium goods.
And now, these two new ones—a blonde brat with a bow and arrows that looked like they came out of a twisted fairy tale, and a gray hooded figure with a shield that hit like a living hammer. They were screwing everything up: night patrols that appeared out of nowhere, destroying my shipments, crippling my men. Who were they? Copycats? New vigilantes thinking they could play heroes? It didn't matter. They were costing me dearly — another 8 million last night when that shipment turned to ashes because of them.
But what truly burned me wasn't the lost money. I could recover money—always recover it. What consumed me was the loss of relevance, of prestige. I was Black Mask. My name made men tremble, my henchmen obey without question, my enemies think twice before crossing my path. Now? Trapped here, crippled, humiliated by two vigilantes whose names I didn't even know.
If I fell completely, the power vacuum would be filled by hungry sharks: the remnants of the Falcones, the Maronis rising from the ashes, Penguin or Two-Face seeing an opportunity. A gang war that would turn the streets into rivers of blood, with civilians caught in the crossfire. And I would lose everything: the fear I inspired, the respect I demanded, the feeling of being the absolute king of corruption. Without that, I was nothing. A broken man on a hospital gurney, waiting for surgeries that might not even give me back full control of my body.
The door creaked, interrupting the cycle of hatred. Gordon entered—gray mustache, tired eyes, uniform impeccable as if it were a moral armor. He looked at me with that contained contempt I knew so well, as if I were a stain he needed to clean. "Your lawyer has arrived," he said, his voice hoarse from smoking too much. "I'll leave you two alone. But don't try anything, Sionis. There are two guards outside."
I didn't answer. He left, and my lawyer came in: impeccable gray suit, leather briefcase in hand, eyes as cold as a shark sniffing blood. He closed the door, the click of the lock echoing in the empty room.
"Sionis, the doctors said you'll need surgery on your arms and left knee—pins, plates, physical therapy for months. But legally, we're in a good position. I can argue excessive force on the part of the guards, maybe sue the GCPD for failure to provide protection. We'll sort this out."
I interrupted him, my voice hoarse and venomous: "Shut up. I don't want to deal with this now. The first thing you're going to do for me right now is put a bounty on those two's heads."
He blinked, adjusting his glasses. "The new guards? Sionis, you know that—"
"I know what I want," I growled, bloodshot eyes fixed on the cracked ceiling. "A girl with blonde hair, green clothes, wielding a bow. And the other: gray helmet, all-black clothes, wielding a shield. These two have been messing with my business for weeks. Lost shipments, crippled henchmen. Put 10 million on each of their heads. Spread the word in the underworld—I want the best. Deathstroke, Lady Shiva, whoever it takes. I want them dead."
The lawyer hesitated, but nodded, making a note in his folder. "Alright. If that's what you want, I'll take care of it. But a reward of that size is going to attract attention. Batman might—"
"Batman my ass," I spat, feeling the anger bubbling stronger than the pain. "He and his kid already cost me millions. And now these two new ones... they think they can take me down? I am Black Mask. If I fall, I lose everything: relevance, prestige, control. My contacts dry up, my suppliers flee to the bigger sharks. Without my name at the top, I am nothing. So do what I said: 10 million on each head. And call the best. I want them bleeding in the streets as a lesson to anyone who thinks of challenging me."
He slammed the folder shut with a sharp click. "Consider it done." He left, leaving me alone with the pain and fury.
I closed my eyes, but the hatred wouldn't let me rest. Those two... I could see them in my mind: the blonde with the bow, arrows flying like vipers; the hooded figure with the shield, striking like a living hammer. They were going to pay. And when I got out of there—with pins in my bones or not—Gotham would remember why I was the king.
Read the chapters in advance: patreon.com/cw/pararaio