Gotham
Night fell over Gotham like a black curtain, stifling ordinary sounds and bringing the damp, cold smell of dark alleys. The sky was moonless, hiding secrets only the shadows could tell.
A black van glided slowly down the dark street, its lights off, tires nearly silent on the wet asphalt. It stopped softly by the curb, the engine shutting off with a dry click.
The side door opened soundlessly.
Five men emerged quickly, dressed in dark tactical gear. Their leader, the man in the red hood, raised his hand with a clear, precise signal. The other four dispersed in calculated movements, surrounding the jewelry store still glowing with faint security lights.
The leader pulled the hood a bit further over his face, the dim streetlight reflecting off the red fabric like fresh blood.
"Time?"
"Three minutes," the man beside him replied, voice low and firm.
"We'll be in and out in two."
The side door was opened with surgical precision, the glass cut with near-silent tools. A chilly breeze swept into the jewelry store, carrying the scent of impending rain.
The alarm didn't sound.
Two men stayed at the entrance, eyes sharp, weapons discreetly aimed at the empty street. The leader crossed the store's luxurious interior, heading straight for the center. Display cases with diamonds, rubies, and sapphires gleamed under the dim lights.
"Take the small boxes. No showpieces."
The men moved swiftly, emptying cases with almost artistic efficiency, gloved hands slipping jewels into discreet bags.
The man in the red hood stood in the center, motionless, eyes narrowed beneath the red fabric covering his face. He touched nothing, merely watched with a cold calm that radiated authority.
The operation ended before the two minutes were up. The men returned silently, their steps muffled by plush carpets. The leader was the last to leave, turning slowly to glance one final time at the nearly empty store.
Gotham hadn't stirred.
The streets remained silent, indifferent.
The van vanished into the dark night without a single siren trailing behind.
---
Wayne Manor
Black paint dripped slowly from the brush, falling onto the metal with a muted, viscous sound. Bruce Wayne moved his hand with precision, coating the armor in a smooth, matte layer.
The sharp smell of paint filled the room, mingling with the faint scent of polished wood and old paper. Bruce dipped the brush into the can again, his eyes fixed on the metal lines slowly absorbing the dark hue.
Alfred entered quietly, stopping beside the table with a folded newspaper in his hands.
"Master Wayne?"
Bruce didn't look up, too focused on the texture of the metal drinking in the paint.
"Today's paper, sir."
"Leave it there, Alfred."
"You might want to take a look."
Bruce paused the brush, finally turning his face with an impassive expression. He took the newspaper and opened it slowly on the table. The black letters stood out clearly:
"Million-Dollar Heist at Gotham Jewelers: Red Hood Thieves Strike Again"
Bruce narrowed his eyes slightly. He recognized the criminals immediately—the same ones who had crashed his gala, causing chaos and deaths.
A second, smaller headline caught his attention for a fleeting moment:
"Clown Brutally Beaten in Gotham Alley: Police Clueless"
Bruce set the brush down slowly. His eyes, previously focused on the jewelry heist, shifted to the second headline, locking onto it with unexpected intensity.
Alfred noticed the subtle change in Bruce's gaze but said nothing.
Bruce picked up the newspaper with both hands, pulling it closer. He read again, now with greater focus:
"The incident occurred last night in Kane Alley. An unidentified clown was found in critical condition, the victim of a brutal beating. Witnesses report hearing hysterical laughter before discovering him. Police have no suspects."
Bruce went still, his fingers gripping the paper harder than necessary. The jewelry heist seemed almost forgotten now, relegated to a corner of his mind.
"Alfred, why would someone brutally attack a clown?"
"Sir?"
"Here, in the paper. A clown beaten in an alley. Not a robbery, not a typical crime. Just gratuitous violence against a clown."
"A tragedy, certainly, sir. But the Red Hood criminals seem a more pressing matter."
Bruce shook his head slowly.
"Something's off about this, Alfred. A clown wouldn't be attacked like that without reason. This isn't just a coincidence—it's a sign. A warning, maybe."
Alfred's eyebrows arched slightly, though his gaze remained calm.
"A warning, sir?"
Bruce folded the newspaper slowly, his narrowed eyes fixed on the still-wet paint on the armor.
"The heist is just a predictable crime. I know exactly what they want, how they think. But this clown…"
Bruce took a deep breath, slowly clenching his fists.
"It's a message. Someone's sending a message."
Alfred hesitated for a moment before responding, his voice careful.
"And who might the recipient of this message be?"
Bruce looked at Alfred with a heavy calm.
"Me."
Alfred nodded slowly.
"So you believe this is connected to the invasion of your gala?"
"Not directly. But something here runs deeper, Alfred. Something I can't yet see."
Bruce turned his gaze back to the armor, now painted matte black, absorbing light with silent greed.
"Get the car ready, Alfred. I need to visit the hospital to check on this clown."
"Are you certain, sir?"
Bruce hesitated, his eyes fixed on the black paint slowly drying on the metal.
"No. But that's exactly why I need to go."
Alfred nodded without another word, exiting the room quietly.
Bruce was left alone with his thoughts, his eyes once again fixed on the newspaper on the table. Something inside him warned that this random violence was far more than it seemed.
A laugh echoed faintly in the back of his mind, distant and hollow like a forgotten memory.
'Clown.'
Something told him this was the beginning of something bigger, darker, deeper.
And suddenly, the stolen jewelry seemed far less important than the senseless violence against that unknown clown.
After all, Bruce Wayne had seen many things in Gotham. But a clown beaten in the middle of the night, for no apparent reason, was something new—something that scared him in a way he didn't yet fully understand.
He donned his coat slowly, pulling on black gloves with care.
It was time to find answers.
Even if the questions were more dangerous than he'd ever imagined.
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