The motel room smelled faintly of cheap soap and mildew, but Matthew didn't care. After the warm shower and a decent meal from a nearby diner—a hearty burger with fries and a steaming cup of coffee—he felt reinvigorated. His body, lean and hardened from years on the street, craved movement.
He pushed the small table to the side of the room and started with light workouts: push-ups, sit-ups, and shadowboxing. The exercises weren't much, but they kept him sharp, his mind focused. He needed to be in peak condition if he wanted to stay ahead of the gang hunting him.
Checking the Phone
After finishing his workout, he sat back down on the bed, pulling out the burner phone. The screen flickered slightly, the cracks making it difficult to read, but it still worked. He navigated to the messages app and refreshed it.
A new thread had appeared, this time between "Duke" and another contact named "Jay."
Jay: "Boss is pissed. Ray's crew got hit last night. You hear anything?"
Duke: "Yeah, some guy. Big, fast. Took 'em out like nothing."
Jay: "Boss says lock everything down. No more stashes left out. Bring everything to HQ at 5th and Bane. Tonight."
Duke: "Got it. You coming?"
Jay: "Hell no. Not until I know that freak's dealt with."
Matthew smirked, his white eyes glinting in the dim light. They were scared. Good. Fear made people sloppy.
"5th and Bane," he muttered, committing the location to memory. It wasn't far from the East End—a larger, more secure base, no doubt. If the boss himself was involved, this wasn't just a stash. This was an operation hub.
The Plan
Matthew leaned back on the bed, staring at the cracked ceiling. This wasn't just about hitting the gang anymore. If he could cripple their headquarters, he'd not only secure more resources but also send a message.
But it wouldn't be easy. A place like that would be heavily guarded, likely with lookouts and multiple layers of security. He'd need to approach carefully, scout the area, and strike when they least expected it.
He rolled the burner phone in his hand, thinking. The gang was already rattled, and they had no idea who he was. He could use that. Fear was a weapon just as much as the pistol at his hip.
The Next Move
Matthew stood, grabbing his gear: the backpack filled with cash, the pistol with its suppressor, and the ski mask. He slid on his bulletproof vest under his hoodie, tightening the straps until it fit snugly.
He glanced at himself in the cracked mirror. Tall, imposing, his white eyes gleaming against the dark fabric of the mask.
"They wanted a freak," he said softly, his voice cold and even. "I'll give them one."
With one last check of his equipment, he slipped out of the motel and into the Gotham night.
Next Stop: 5th and Bane.
____
The streets of Gotham grew darker as Matthew made his way toward 5th and Bane. The sun had long set, and the city's underbelly began to stir. The cold air bit at his skin, but he barely noticed. His mind was focused entirely on the task ahead. The gang's headquarters was just a few blocks away now, and Matthew's heart rate remained steady. The calm before the storm.
The Approach
When he reached the corner of 5th and Bane, he slowed his pace, slipping into the shadows. The area was quiet, but that only meant the guards were good at what they did. Matthew took in his surroundings: a run-down warehouse surrounded by high, barbed-wire fences, with a single entrance heavily guarded by two men standing at the door.
The lights inside the building flickered through the grime-covered windows. It looked like a fortress. Matthew wasn't concerned about the exterior. What mattered was getting in and finding the heart of the operation.
He checked his phone again, reading the last message from Duke. They'd be moving whatever was left of their stash into the warehouse tonight, meaning there was likely something big inside. Weapons, drugs, or perhaps cash—whatever it was, Matthew needed it.
The guards at the front entrance were a problem. But Matthew had never been one to rely on brute force alone. He slipped off to the side, finding an alleyway that ran behind the building.
The Plan of Infiltration
His first instinct was to wait, observe. He crouched behind a pile of debris, watching the guards as they shifted between looking down the street and speaking to each other in low tones. Their attention wasn't on the building itself, but they weren't careless either. The timing would need to be perfect.
He pulled the suppressor from his bag, attaching it to his handgun. Silent, efficient. If things went wrong, he needed to be ready for a fast escape.
But Matthew wasn't one to make mistakes. He'd bide his time until the right opportunity presented itself.
The Moment
As the guards turned their backs to speak to each other again, Matthew moved. He was quick, slipping between the shadows, his movements fluid, silent. He reached the rear of the warehouse and found the rusted steel door. It had a small window, but it was cracked, obscured by dirt and grime.
Peering inside, Matthew saw three more men inside the warehouse—moving boxes, unloading supplies, and speaking in hushed voices. There was a lot of activity, more than he expected. He'd need to move fast.
His fingers brushed against the lock, testing its give. It was old, barely holding on. He didn't need tools to get through this. Just a little muscle. He gave the door a quick shove, and it creaked open.
Inside the Lion's Den
Matthew slipped inside, his eyes darting around the dim interior. The air smelled of dust, rust, and stale sweat. The warehouse was cluttered with stacked crates, old machinery, and heavy shipping boxes. In the far corner, he saw the stash—duffel bags filled with something.
But there were too many guards for him to make a clean grab.
He crouched behind a stack of crates, watching as the men worked, murmuring to each other. He needed to act before they moved the rest of the stash to another location.
As he scanned the room, his eyes lingered on a single, small box tucked underneath one of the larger crates. It was out of place—likely something valuable. Matthew didn't hesitate.
He stood, moving toward the box. The first guard was still facing the opposite direction, and the others were distracted by the movement of crates. Matthew reached the box in seconds, his pulse steady as he carefully lifted it.
It was heavy—too heavy to be nothing but a decoy.
The Tension Rises
Suddenly, the second guard turned. His eyes met Matthew's in an instant.
"Hey!" the man shouted, pulling his weapon from the holster.
Matthew didn't wait. The suppressor on his pistol made little sound as he fired, the bullet finding the guard's chest. The man crumpled to the ground without a word.
The first guard reached for his gun, but Matthew was already moving—slamming his shoulder into the man's chest, knocking him to the ground before the guard could react.
Matthew stood over him, pistol aimed at the man's forehead. The guard's eyes were wide with terror.
"Who else is here?" Matthew asked, his voice cold and calculating.
The guard stammered, trying to scramble backward.
"Don't lie to me." Matthew pressed the barrel against his victim's temple, his white eyes gleaming with an intensity that sent a chill down the man's spine.
"Okay... okay," the guard gasped, sweat beading on his forehead. "There's just a few more... inside the office!"
Matthew paused, considering. The office would be where the boss or the higher-ups were. He didn't need to kill every thug here—he needed information, and he needed to secure the stash.
With a swift motion, he shoved the gun into the man's face. "Stay down, or you won't walk again."
The Calm Before the Storm
Matthew stood, glancing over the warehouse. He could feel the heat of the adrenaline starting to wear off, his focus sharpening. The time to act was now. He checked the box in his hand—whatever was inside was far more important than the cash.
He moved toward the office, the last piece of the puzzle. But he knew this wouldn't be the end. The gang would retaliate soon, and he'd need to be ready.
For now, he'd claim his prize. For now, Matthew St. Jude was in control.