Axel sat on the rain‑slicked ledge of Wayne Tower's rooftop, waiting tens of minutes without another assassin showing up. The rain ran cold down his neck, but not one more idiot dared test him.
He figured it out: assassins weren't stupid. If the target was an average person, even someone tough like John Wick, they'd at least try. But Axel wasn't average. No one who didn't already know he was nigh untouchable wanted to be the first fool to find out the hard way.
So Axel just sat and watched the storm roll in, shrugging like it was the most boring damn thing he'd ever done.
"Gotham now," Axel muttered to himself, "is definitely not Gotham in twelve years. Before the Bat showed up, this city was insane, sure, but it was small‑time chaos. Low‑level crimes, dumb fights, petty ass clowns. Now? Future Gotham with my antics would probably have the damn Pentagon blasting nukes at my feet. Or demon spawn. Barbatos cultists. Freaking all of them."
He smirked as thunder boomed above.
"Right now though?" he laughed to the empty air, "It's just a sad party with bad music."
Axel pulled on the shirt and overcoat he'd left on the rooftop ledge, straightening his clothes before stepping to the edge. He looked down at the streets with a grin like he was watching fireworks about to start.
Below, the Gotham police were finally arriving. Helicopters were grounded because of the storm, so Commissioner Gordon and his officers had charged in on foot, scrambling toward the elevators in the tower.
Gordon's face was set in that classic grim, exhausted look — the kind you get when the same uncatchable criminal has managed to wreck your day three times in eight hours. The assault on the rooftop had sent every Wayne Tower executive racing for safety, jamming the elevators tighter than a can full of bats. Gordon waited five minutes straight without even one elevator showing up.
Climbing the stairs wasn't an option. They were cops, not marathon runners, and Wayne Tower felt like a damn skyscraper designed by someone with a grudge against leg day.
So Gordon kept waiting, and after nine long minutes he finally squeezed into an elevator. They rode up to the middle floors, then had to transfer to VIP lifts and finally maintenance elevators to reach the roof.
But Gordon didn't know this: just as he was stepping into the elevator, Axel was already in motion.
He tested the air with his foot, breathed in, and without another thought leaned forward.
"Here goes nothing."
Axel launched himself off the rooftop.
His body plunged toward the street as rain whipped past him. He adjusted mid‑air like he was landing a stunt, and the assembled cops watched slack‑jawed as Axel crashed down onto the asphalt with an earth‑shaking impact.
Thud!
Axel's feet dug into the ground and his knees groaned like rusted hinges. He winced, then grinned wide.
"That was f*cking awesome!"
He tore his boots out of the cracked asphalt, dust flying, and waved at the stunned police officers below.
"Hey guys, you look shocked," Axel said, sarcasm oozing from his voice. "Don't worry, it's just a magic trick. I'm a f*cking magician!"
He walked up to the nearest officer, grabbed him by the shoulder, and leaned in like they were old friends.
"Listen, I gotta give props to you boys. Your timing was flawless. I was just getting mauled by a dozen mystery assassins, and you showed up just late enough for them to scatter. That's teamwork, that is."
Axel squinted at his own joke, then reeled back.
"Scattered! Like… east and west! Hahah! I'll write a thank‑you letter to the precinct. If you want anything fancy — like half a page praising your sweet uniforms — tell me later, alright?"
Before the officer could say anything, Axel grabbed him by the collar and threw him into the driver's seat of a parked police cruiser.
But before Axel could slide into the car himself, the late‑arriving gunshots rang out.
Axel tore the rear door off the cruiser with casual ease, then hurled it at the first shooter he saw.
Whoosh!
The door cleaved through the advancing attackers, and Axel, bullets rattling off him, dove into the passenger seat.
"Hey," he called to the stunned officer behind the wheel, patting his thigh, "What's your name, kid?"
"Benjamin," the officer replied, voice shaking.
"Alright, Benjamin," Axel said with a mischievous smile, "I need your help with something, and don't you dare say no, you hear me?"
Benjamin gulped. "I—I can do anything… I just don't want to die."
"That's the spirit."
Axel nodded approvingly.
"Do you know where Wayne Manor is?"
"Yes," Benjamin said, slowly finding his voice.
Slap!
Axel clipped him on the head:
"Great! Then step on the gas and drive us there! You big dummy!"
The cruiser sprang to life and roared off toward Wayne Manor, leaving the rest of the police force and Wayne Tower staff frozen like statues in the rain.
Nearby, Bruce Wayne, who'd been watching the chaos from a shadowed street corner, blinked in confusion.
"What did he just say he was doing?"
The question hit Bruce like cold water. Panic flickered in his eyes. He sprinted for a waiting motorcycle and dialed Alfred with urgency.
At Wayne Manor that night, Alfred was preparing a late‑night snack, having chosen seafood for a change. Shrimp tempura batter dripped from his fingers as the phone buzzed.
"Master, if that's you smelling tempura from here, come back soon," Alfred said calmly, catching the shrimp with a knife in one hand, phone clamped to his shoulder. "Gotham's in chaos, and until we have a solid plan for dealing with Axel, we observe, not plunge in. You promised me that."
Then Bruce's voice broke through with urgency.
"Alfred, get out of there. Axel's heading for Wayne Manor. Now. Be careful!"
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