The buckles tightened with a relentless grip, the thick leather digging deeply into his skin, creating an uncomfortable sensation that he couldn't ignore. Each tug of the straps felt like a vice closing in around him, a constant reminder of his helpless state. His head was cleanly shaven and smooth to the touch, resting against the cold, unyielding surface of the chair—a stark contrast to the chaos swirling in his mind.

His gaze was fixed on emptiness, lacking any glimmer of hope or thought. Secured against his jaw, a gruesome device gripped tightly, immobilizing his head and neck, rendering him a mere spectator in his own fate.

A tube penetrated through his skin, its cold surface a shocking intrusion that felt like ice against the warmth of his body, and was held loosely by a man whose physique was a testament to relentless training and discipline.

Every muscle appeared to push against his snug black attire, undulating with force and threat, as if longing to escape the confines of his outfit, yearning for some release from the tension that enveloped them both. The man's aura radiated a formidable might, heightening the unease in the atmosphere surrounding them; it was palpable, thickening the air with dread.

"Continue," commanded the speaker, their voice resounding with authority and finality. The muscular man responded with a subtle nod, an acknowledgment that seemed almost ritualistic in its execution.

Applying a needle to the tube, a viscous black fluid was injected, moving smoothly as it gradually infused itself into the man's body, a dark tide washing over him. The man's veins stood out sharply, their vibrant hue replaced by an ominous black as if the very essence of his life force was being siphoned away.

The blood that once sustained him had become a tainted elixir, a sinister substance gnawing at his essence and threatening to extinguish the flickering flame of his existence.

His body convulsed violently, trembling uncontrollably, his eyes reddened and filled with desperation, a silent scream echoing in the void around him. His fingers contorted in unnatural ways, grasping at air, reaching for something—anything—that could pull him back from the brink. Ultimately, all movement came to a jarring halt, the stillness settling heavily in the room like a shroud.

"Nathaniel King, twenty-seven years old, male, has been put to death by lethal injection. His offenses included five counts of murder, two counts of rape, and possession and distribution of narcotics," the aged man intoned, his voice steady yet tinged with an emotion that belied the gravity of the moment.

The deep bags under his tired eyes accentuated the weight of his years as if each crease told a story of sleepless nights and burdens borne, a testament to the harsh realities of justice in a city plagued by darkness.

With that, another criminal was sent to death in Gotham's Blackgate Penitentiary, and another person's story had come to an end, swallowed by the relentless tide of the city's grim narratives.