The night in Gotham was thick with fog, wrapping the city in its usual grim embrace. Streetlights flickered, casting eerie shadows on the crumbling walls of the alleyways, as the darkness concealed all manner of crime. For most, Gotham's streets were something to avoid at night, but for him, they were a training ground. Since mastering Dismantle, he had begun honing his cursed energy in real-world situations, testing his abilities against the city's worst elements.
Tonight, though, something was different. As he walked down a narrow, deserted street, his senses tingled. He wasn't alone.
The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. His cursed energy stirred, responding instinctively to the tension in the air. He could feel it—eyes on him, watching, waiting.
He turned a corner and found himself in a dead-end alley. Not by accident.
A group of men emerged from the shadows, dressed in dark, rough clothing, with the unmistakable look of street enforcers. Some wore trench coats, others had brass knuckles or bats slung over their shoulders. They radiated menace, their expressions twisted with the promise of violence.
"You picked the wrong night to be wandering around alone, pal," one of them sneered, stepping forward.
The leader of the group was a tall, heavy-set thug with a scar running down his cheek. He carried a switchblade in one hand, flipping it open with a sinister smirk.
"Yeah, you got no business being in this part of town," another one chimed in, cracking his knuckles. "Especially not when it belongs to the Penguin."
The Penguin. He had heard of him, of course—Oswald Cobblepot, one of Gotham's most notorious crime bosses. A ruthless kingpin with an iron grip on the city's criminal underworld.
"And what business does the Penguin have with me?" he asked, his voice calm despite the tension building in the air.
The thug with the switchblade laughed. "Doesn't matter. You're in our territory, and that means you pay up. Or we make an example out of you."
He could feel the cursed energy stirring inside him, waiting to be unleashed. These thugs had no idea what they were dealing with, no idea who they were threatening. But he wasn't going to give them a warning.
The leader took another step forward, raising the blade. "Last chance. Give us everything you've got, or we—"
His words were cut short by the sudden, invisible force of Cleave. The thug's eyes widened in shock as a thin red line appeared across his throat. For a brief moment, he tried to speak, but no sound came out. Then, in one fluid motion, his head slid off his shoulders, his body collapsing to the ground in a pool of blood.
The rest of the gang froze, their faces contorting in horror.
"What the hell—"
Another thug tried to run, but his body was instantly sliced in two by another wave of Cleave. The attack was silent, clean, and lethal. The cursed energy worked like an extension of his own will, cutting through the thugs as if they were nothing more than paper.
Panic spread among the remaining men as they scrambled to flee. But there was no escape. He moved through them with brutal efficiency, sending slashes of cursed energy into their bodies, severing limbs, splitting torsos, and leaving a trail of blood in his wake.
It was over in seconds.
Only one thug remained, cowering in the corner, his face pale with fear. He was a skinny, wiry man, and his entire body shook as he stared at the carnage around him. His comrades lay in pieces, their lifeless eyes staring up at the night sky, the smell of blood heavy in the air.
"P-please… please don't kill me!" the man begged, his voice trembling.
He stopped, lowering his hand as the cursed energy retreated back into him. There was no need to kill this one. Not yet, at least.
"Tell me about the Penguin," he demanded, his voice cold and unwavering.
The thug swallowed hard, nodding frantically. "I-I don't know much, man! I swear! We're just his street crew! We collect protection money, rough up people who don't pay, but… but you gotta believe me, the Penguin—he's gonna come after you for this!"
He stepped closer, looming over the terrified man. "Where can I find him?"
"I-I don't know, man! He's got clubs, bars, lots of places where he does business, but he moves around a lot. You won't find him unless he wants to find you!"
"Good," he said, eyes narrowing. "Then tell him I'm coming."
The thug nodded, his breath coming in shallow gasps as he struggled to stand. He backed away slowly, his eyes wide with terror.
"Go," he ordered, and the man didn't hesitate. He took off running, disappearing into the fog.
As the silence settled back over the alley, he stood there for a moment, surveying the aftermath. Blood pooled around the bodies, the air thick with the metallic scent. But he felt nothing—no remorse, no regret. These men had been nothing more than obstacles, distractions. They had stood in his way, and now they were gone.
What mattered now was the Penguin. The crime boss had sent these men to attack him, to assert dominance over his territory. But they had failed, and now the Penguin would know that someone new was in Gotham. Someone dangerous.
He wiped the blood from his hands, the faint glow of cursed energy still lingering around his fingertips. The city had been quiet for too long, and it seemed like it was finally waking up to his presence. But this was just the beginning.
The thug would run straight to Cobblepot, tell him everything—about the mysterious figure who had slaughtered his men with unseen force. The Penguin would respond. He was too prideful, too entrenched in Gotham's power structure to let something like this slide.
And when he did, he'd be ready.
-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-
Deep within his nightclub, the Iceberg Lounge, Oswald Cobblepot sat in his private office, a cigar clenched between his teeth. His office was lavish, full of trinkets and trophies from his various criminal exploits. The soft jazz music playing in the background did little to ease the tension in the air.
A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts, and one of his lieutenants stepped in, his face ashen.
"Boss, we've got a problem."
The Penguin removed the cigar from his mouth, raising a curious eyebrow. "What kind of problem?"
"Big problem. One of our street crews got wiped out tonight."
Cobblepot's eyes narrowed. "Wiped out? By who?"
The lieutenant hesitated. "We don't know… but one of the boys made it back. Says it wasn't no regular guy. Says this guy… he killed 'em all with some kind of invisible force."
The Penguin leaned back in his chair, his sharp, bird-like features twisting into a scowl. "Invisible force? What kind of nonsense is that?"
"I don't know, boss, but the kid's scared out of his mind. He says the guy left him alive to send a message."
Cobblepot's scowl deepened. "A message?"
The lieutenant nodded. "Yeah… he said he's coming for you."
For a moment, Cobblepot said nothing. Then, he let out a harsh, barking laugh. "Coming for me? Well, isn't that interesting."
He stood up, walking over to the window that overlooked the city. Whoever this newcomer was, he had made a big mistake. Gotham was the Penguin's city, and no one—no one—challenged him without paying the price.
"Let him come," Cobblepot muttered, a cruel smile spreading across his face. "I'll be waiting."