Gotham City –
The warehouse stank of salt, oil, and blood. Chain pulleys creaked from above like rusted nooses awaiting their victims. Beneath the dim industrial lights, Black Mask stood in front of an old metal table, its surface stained with fresh crimson.
His mask was incredibly larger on the top.
Roman Sionis—Black Mask—was not a man known for patience, and tonight he was particularly irritable. One of his newer lieutenants, a jittery former hitman named Rizzo, was screaming into a towel. His fingers had been crushed into pulp by a vice grip, courtesy of one of the "Party Animals"—Black Mask's elite enforcers, each clad in a grotesque animal-themed mask.
A jackal, a mandrill, a vulture. Psychopaths in body armor.
The floor was littered with feathers. Not decorative. Real. Bloodied pigeon feathers, strewn after the animals used them for… fun.
"This city's crawling with roaches," Black Mask muttered, adjusting his tie. "And the worst part is, the damn roaches think they're kings."
He turned to Rizzo, crouching so their eyes met through the tears.
"You said he used a sword?"
Rizzo whimpered. "Y-Yeah… A big one! Like… like the size of a man! Black steel. He didn't even flinch when we opened fire. He just—just-was stronger! Faster!"
The vulture-masked thug chuckled darkly. "He put 70 party animals in the hospital and even more of the drug dealers,goons and more."
Sionis grabbed a cigar from his coat and lit it with one fluid motion.
He turned and looked out through the cracked windows, past the docks to the fog-cloaked skyline.
"This 'Dead Knight'… He's not just some brawler in a costume. He's making a damn statement.Like....like that bat!"
He exhaled smoke and turned to one of his other lieutenants.
"Put out the word. I want everything on him—video, photos, rumors. I don't care if it's whispers from some junkie in Arkham or a parrot in the Narrows."
He looked down at Rizzo one last time.
"And someone clean up this mess. He's making the place look unprofessional."
Some people in mask dragged him away.
A second later grotesque screams were heard.
Crime Alley – Early Morning
Screams echoed across the dreamscape. The shrieks of children, the roar of stampeding animals, gunfire cracking like thunder. A teacher's body fell to the ground beside a shattered lion enclosure.
A man in a black hoodie stood frozen in the dream, surrounded by dead bats that fell from the sky like ash, wings broken.
Then—darkness.
Bruce jolted awake, his chest heaving. Sweat clung to his skin like chains. The sound of morning traffic seeped through the cracked windows of their modest apartment.
He looked around, grounding himself.
A beat later, the scent of pan-fried eggs reached his nose.
He dragged himself out of bed, pulled on a faded shirt, and padded into the kitchen.
His mother stood at the stove, short and sturdy, her graying hair tied back with a bandana. She didn't turn around.
"Bad dream again?"
Bruce scratched the back of his neck, forcing a half-smile. "Yeah."
"You were talking in your sleep. Zoo again?"
Bruce nodded and sat down at the small table. A moment later, a plate of eggs and toast slid in front of him. He dug in with mechanical focus.
His mother sat opposite, sipping coffee from a cracked mug.
"You should talk to someone, you know."
He didn't answer.
After breakfast, he kissed her forehead and stepped outside into the alley.
Croc's Gym – South Gotham
The stench of sweat and rubber hit him like a wall. Heavy metal pounded in the background as weights clanged and fighters barked orders.
Bruce stepped inside, his broad shoulders filling the doorframe. He wore a sleeveless hoodie, jeans, and battered sneakers. A gym bag swung at his side.
"Yo!" a voice called.
A massive man with dark skin and a bald head called out to him.
Waylon Jones. One of Bruce's childhood friends. He lived with Bruce in Crime Alley. He then became a professional fighter and even a champion. Bruce trained with him but never joined the league.
"You're late," Waylon grinned. "Thought you bailed."
Bruce smirked. "You know I can't quit you."
Croc tossed him a towel. Around his thick neck slithered a golden-yellow snake. Two baby crocodiles rested in a heat lamp enclosure nearby.
"Still working on that exotic animal hobby?"
"Hell yeah," Waylon said. "You know snakes can recognize human voices? This little guy here's name is Benny."
Bruce tilted his head. "And the crocs?"
"Future security team."
They trained in silence for the next hour. Bruce lifted massive weights with ease, his muscles twitching with restraint. Despite his size, he moved with grace—deliberate and surgical.
Between sets, Jones leaned against a bench.
"You ever think about going pro again?"
Bruce shook his head. "Football is a nuisance"
"You were the best linebacker Gotham U ever had."
"Yeah,yeah."
Waylon nodded solemnly. "Just sayin', you could have made a looooot of money."
Bruce wiped sweat from his face.
They then sparred a bit.
Gotham – Midday
Bruce spent the rest of the day bouncing between jobs—janitorial work at a downtown theater, unloading boxes at a delivery dock, checking plumbing in a residential building, he was a city engineer after all.
He was everywhere.
By nightfall, he had earned just enough to keep up appearances. The real work began above the clouds.
A skyscraper, once the centerpiece of Gotham's tech boom, now lay forgotten. Its top floors were bought out by the ultra-rich who wanted to evade taxes.
But inside, behind the doors and a reinforced hatch, was Bruce's true sanctum.
Bruce stood in front of the mirror.
His body was a mountain of muscle, veined and battle-hardened. He slid on the armored plates one by one.
Once the cowl locked into place, the Bat was born.
And tonight, he had one mission.
Find this Dead Knight.
East End – Rooftop
Dead Knight moved like a phantom across the rooftop, his black broadsword strapped across his back. Beneath him, chaos unfolded. Black Mask's goons—the Party Animals—were dealing in venom-laced narcotics.
The masked freaks barked orders. A hyena-masked man pistol-whipped a dealer for shorting the product. A wolf-faced enforcer laughed hysterically, brandishing a flamethrower.
Dead Knight dropped from the ledge like a thunderbolt.
Chaos erupted.
He moved like a specter, parrying bullets with the flat of his sword, disarming one, slamming another into a concrete wall, striking tendons and joints with precision. The blade only bit flesh when necessary—clean, efficient, unrelenting.
Within seconds, the roof was littered with groaning bodies.
He stood at the center of the carnage, blood splattered across his armor, his breath calm and controlled.
Then—a thud.
Bruce landed on the far edge of the roof. The weight of his arrival cracked the cement. His black cape billowed in the breeze, eyes glowing like twin coals.
They stared at one another.
Two predators of the night.
The Bat moved first—no words.
Just fury.
Dead Knight raised his sword in defense, sparks flying as their first clash rang out into the night.
And Gotham watched from the shadows.