"The chief is shot, the chief is shot!"
Panic erupted within the FBI's fourth branch office as the shocking cry echoed through the precinct. The sharp crack of a gunshot had sliced through the air, and now chaos reigned. George, the staff holding the smoking gun, let out a maniacal laugh, his face twisted into a grotesque grin. Officers around him were frozen in horror, their eyes wide with disbelief. They watched as George, seemingly in slow motion, began to swivel his arm, the barrel of his gun moving as if searching for the next target. But before anyone could react, the lights flickered and then failed entirely, plunging the precinct into an abyss of darkness.
The oppressive silence that followed was broken only by the quickened breaths of those who remained. Then, out of the suffocating blackness, a flash—brief, violent, and blinding. It was the muzzle flare of George's gun as he fired again. The room was illuminated for an instant, casting long, sharp shadows that danced across the walls. In that fleeting moment, George's face was lit up—a twisted mask of glee. Another officer cried out as the bullet found its mark, and just as suddenly as it had appeared, the light was swallowed by the darkness once more.
Chaos gripped the precinct. Officers scrambled to draw their weapons, their hands shaking as they aimed blindly into the void. But the darkness was all-encompassing, disorienting, making it impossible to know where to aim. The officers' hearts pounded in their chests as they realized that George, somehow, was navigating the blackness with eerie precision, as if he could see through the pitch darkness with unerring clarity.
His laughter began to echo through the precinct, a chilling sound that bounced off the walls and surrounded the terrified officers. It was everywhere and nowhere, coming from all directions at once, making it impossible to locate the source. It felt like the walls themselves were closing in, amplifying the sound and pressing down on their minds, driving fear deeper into their bones.
One officer, desperate for any source of light, fumbled for his phone, his fingers trembling as he swiped at the screen to activate the flashlight. But as soon as the faint, bluish glow illuminated his face, another flash erupted from George's gun. The bullet tore through the officer's body, splattering blood across the phone screen, cracking it as the device fell from his grasp and clattered to the floor, the light extinguished once more.
"Over there!" a voice shouted in desperation. One of the officers, driven by fear, fired in the direction of the gunfire, his hand shaking as he pulled the trigger. But instead of stopping the threat, the only sound that followed was a scream—an agonized cry from another officer. The bullet had found a mark, but it was the wrong one.
George's laughter grew louder, more mocking. "Ha! Nice shot! That must've been you, Mark! But you missed again..."
"God, I didn't mean to... no, please!" the officer whimpered in the darkness, his voice trembling. But his pleas were met with a sickening sound—the unmistakable noise of a blade slicing through flesh. Mark's voice was cut off abruptly, replaced by the wet, gurgling sounds of a man choking on his own blood. George's laughter, now almost inhuman in its intensity, filled the void left by Mark's death.
Then came the dull, heavy thud of a body hitting the cold, hard floor.
Mark's final scream seemed to linger in the air, echoing in the minds of every officer who heard it. The small precinct, once a bastion of safety and law, had been transformed into a nightmare, a place where the familiar had become terrifyingly foreign. It was as if they had been trapped inside a cage with a monster, and there was no way out.
The darkness fed on their fear, amplifying it, turning their own minds against them. Death seemed to be lurking in every shadow, brushing past them, waiting to strike. Every time another officer fell, the survivors were pushed closer to the edge of madness, the line between sanity and insanity blurring until it almost didn't exist.
It was only a matter of time before one of them snapped.
"Go to hell!" Inspector Richard bellowed, his voice a mix of rage and desperation. He fired his gun wildly into the darkness, each shot a burst of light that briefly illuminated the room. But George was nowhere to be seen. Instead, the bullet grazed the cheek of one of Richard's colleagues, drawing a sharp cry of pain.
"Stop, Inspector!" someone shouted, their voice tinged with fear. "You're going to hit one of us!"
But Richard was beyond reason. He had lost himself to the terror that gripped him. He spun around, firing in every direction, his eyes wide and wild as he cursed into the void: "You think I'm afraid of you? Come on, show yourself! I'm right here!"
The laughter didn't stop. It grew louder, more mocking, as if George was toying with them, relishing their fear.
Then, another gunshot rang out—not from George, but from one of the other officers. Unable to stand Richard's reckless behavior any longer, the officer had taken aim and fired. The bullet struck Richard in the chest, and he crumpled to the ground, his face a mask of disbelief.
George's laughter reached a fever pitch, a maniacal cackle that reverberated through the room, filling every corner with its chilling sound. It was as if he was feeding off their fear, growing stronger with every moment of chaos.
It was a tragic irony—officers who had fought side by side now turning their weapons on each other in a desperate attempt to survive. The bonds of trust that had held them together had been shattered by fear, leaving them isolated and vulnerable.
George reveled in their misery, his laughter echoing off the walls like a twisted symphony. But then, suddenly, the laughter stopped, as if he had sensed something in the darkness.
When he turned, he found himself face-to-face with a towering figure—a black bat that loomed over him, its presence dominating the space. Batman had arrived, silent and imposing, his eyes glowing faintly in the darkness.
George reacted instinctively, raising his arm to fire, but it was already too late. A bat dart flew through the air, slicing into George's arm with deadly precision. The blade cut deep, tearing through muscle and bone and sending a spray of blood into the air.
The force of the impact sent George flying backward, his body crashing through a desk and shattering it into splinters. Even as he fell, a twisted smile remained on his face. "Ha, it's you..." he began, but before he could finish, Batman was upon him, moving with the speed and precision of a predator.
Charlie had switched to Batman, knowing that he was the fastest and most capable hero for the situation. He had considered all his options, but none were as quick or as lethal as the Dark Knight.
While Batman's gliding cloak and grappling hook were impressive, it was the Batmobile that had made the difference tonight. More than just a vehicle, it was a weapon of justice designed to strike fear into the hearts of criminals. With its immense horsepower and jet propulsion, the Batmobile could outpace anything on the road, scaling walls and rooftops with ease. In just a matter of minutes, Charlie had used the Batmobile to cross the city, reaching the scene in record time.
As George hit the ground, he scrambled to raise his gun, firing wildly in a desperate attempt to fend off his attacker. But Batman was already gone, disappearing into the shadows like a wraith.
When George managed to get to his feet, Batman was behind him once again, gripping his arm with the strength of a vice. George twisted, trying to aim his gun at Batman's head, but the Dark Knight was faster. He dodged the shot with a swift motion, wrenching George's arm and delivering a brutal knee strike that sent the gun flying from his grasp. In one fluid motion, Batman dislocated George's arm, leaving it limp and useless.
But George, infected and devoid of pain, wasn't done yet. He lashed out with a kick, but Batman countered with a powerful strike that shattered George's leg. Not giving him a moment to recover, Batman followed up with a relentless series of kicks, each one driving George further back. The final kick connected with George's chest, sending him crashing into another set of desks, the impact scattering papers and debris like confetti.
The remaining officers, still in shock from the chaos, quickly moved out of the way, not wanting to get caught in the crossfire.
Even with his body broken and battered, George's deranged laughter continued to echo through the room. He began to crawl, his mutilated limbs dragging across the floor as he tried to stand, his mind consumed by madness. It was clear he still intended to fight, to cause as much destruction as he could.
But before he could make another move, Batman raised his hand and launched a gel bomb. The bomb exploded at George's feet, and the thick gel expanded rapidly, engulfing him and hardening around him, trapping him in place like a grotesque statue.
At last, George was immobilized. His laughter finally ceased, leaving only the heavy silence of the aftermath.
The precinct was deathly quiet, the air thick with the scent of gunpowder and blood. The officers who had survived the ordeal stood in stunned silence, staring at the immobilized figure of George, their minds struggling to process the horror they had just witnessed. The nightmare was over, but the memories of what they had endured would haunt them for a long time.
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[TL Note - I think the author made the FBI look a little pathetic, don't you think. Not to mention, they shouldn't be a stranger to supernatural events, as mentioned in previous chapters where they sent files of supernatural cases to the ninth division; even if they aren't capable of handling it, they should at least have a protocol that they should follow in case of such incident... me personally I do not like this chapter.]
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