The Gotham Times once featured a column inviting randomly selected citizens to create sentences using the words "Gotham," "is," and an adjective.
Initially, the submissions were uplifting: "Gotham is grand," "Gotham is magnificent," or "Gotham is luxurious."
But over time, the column took a darker turn, mirroring the city's descent into corruption and filth. Submissions became grim: "Gotham is putrid," "Gotham is wicked."
Soon, rebellious youths began incorporating infamous criminals' names into their phrases:
"Gotham is Two-Face" — a city of duality, beauty coexisting with squalor."Gotham is Clayface" — mired in muck and decay."Gotham is Joker" — madness, chaos, malice.
Huff... Ha...
Scarface panted heavily, suspended mid-air by a single hand gripping his throat. His dangling feet barely touched the steering wheel of the truck, straining to maintain balance.
Gotham is Batman.
Resolute, unyielding, imposing—like a marble statue standing vigil in a lightless crypt or ancient armor cloaked in dust.
The Dark Knight's unblinking eyes, deep and emotionless, glared at Scarface. His gravelly voice broke the silence:
"Save you? What are you talking about?"
A gunshot shattered the tense stillness. The copper bullet spun through the air, its stamped serial numbers glinting in the dim light, carrying the sharp tang of violence.
Before the bullet could pierce Scarface's skull, Batman's electrically reinforced Kevlar cape whipped into place, deflecting the projectile with ease.
Li Ang, standing some distance away, furrowed his brow and halted. His voice echoed through the dark:
"Who are you?"
Even without using spiritual perception, Li Ang could sense the immense strength within the caped figure—a body forged to the very limits of human capability.
"I didn't think anyone could still reach a grandmaster's level in this age." Li Ang sighed, his tone both impressed and weary. "Are you with him?"
Batman glanced at the bloodied Scarface and replied, "No."
Inside his cowl, a sophisticated scanner analyzed Li Ang's physical data: height, weight, body temperature, breathing rate, even vocal frequencies.
"Cross-referencing with all Gotham PD citizen records... No matches found."
Cold, blue text flashed across the Dark Knight's HUD as he silently positioned himself between Li Ang and Scarface.
"Who are you?" Batman asked.
"Just a passerby." Li Ang adjusted the cloth concealing his face, lowering his voice. "If you're not with him, don't stop me from killing him."
"He'll go to prison and face justice."
In the distance, police sirens wailed, red and blue lights flashing through the derelict streets, illuminating Gotham's decay.
Li Ang scoffed. "Justice? What can your system do? Hang him? Quarter him? He's scum. Killing him cleanses the world."
Without warning, Li Ang lunged forward, firing two bullets aimed precisely at Batman's eyes. But the Dark Knight sidestepped a split second before the trigger was pulled, evading both shots effortlessly.
The bullets were a diversion. Li Ang closed the distance in a blur, landing a punch squarely on Batman's chest. Yet, the reinforced Kevlar armor absorbed the blow without so much as a dent, emitting only a dull thud.
Batman remained silent, seizing Li Ang's wrist and slamming him onto the truck's roof. The impact left a deep dent in the metal surface.
Li Ang coughed up blood, frothy bubbles forming in the crimson pool. His body, pushed far beyond its limits, trembled from the strain. Though bolstered by spiritual energy, his teenage frame was nearing collapse. Only his unyielding will kept him standing.
"We don't have to be enemies. I want to talk—"
Before Batman could finish, Li Ang smirked. Without hesitation, he smashed the butt of his pistol into a pressure point on his elbow, compressing bone, muscle, and blood vessels. His arm, now gaunt and brittle, slipped free from Batman's grip.
Kicking off Batman's ankle, Li Ang slid off the truck's roof. As he fell, he fired his final bullet into the truck's gas pedal.
Flames erupted into the night sky. Gasoline ignited, air expanded, and a violent explosion engulfed both Batman and Scarface.
When the smoke cleared, Batman rolled onto the ground, his armor tattered, his cape shredded. Jagged metal shards pierced his flesh, and blood trickled down his battered frame, gleaming in the firelight.
Scarface wasn't as fortunate. Reduced to a charred husk, his demise was perhaps the most merciful ending for a man like him.
Police Commissioner Gordon arrived moments later, helping Batman to his feet and propping him against a squad car.
"You're hurt."
"It's not serious." Batman methodically plucked out the metal shards, discarding them onto the ground. From his belt, he retrieved a cylindrical device, its nozzle emitting flames to incinerate the bloodstained fragments.
Gordon sighed. "Worried I'd test the blood? You don't have to be so wary of me."
"It's not about you, Gordon." Batman applied a green gel to his wounds, the substance forming a protective layer.
He gazed toward the warehouse, where officers were securing the scene. His voice dropped to a murmur:
"This city grows darker by the day. I can feel it—like the oppressive calm before a storm."
Gordon rubbed his mustache, his expression a mix of resolve and unease. "Who knows? We've been saying that for years now..."
When he turned, the space beside him was empty.
"Commissioner, inside the warehouse we found traffickers tied to Gotham's human smuggling ring. Most of them are dead. There were also Southeast Asian stowaways, including a young girl with a gunshot wound. EMTs are on the way."
A voice crackled over Gordon's radio. The commissioner adjusted his hat, let out a weary sigh, and walked toward the warehouse.