His dreams are troubled. A score of faces stare up at him from coroner's reports, their blank and unseeing eyes drawing him in. He sees blood stained walls, the thick liquid seeping slowly downwards. He sees a flash of a knife, gleaming cold. It flies straight at him, his heart skips as it hits.
He returns as a red drop of rain above the city, falling softly down with a torrent of brethren. They land on the tallest spires, roll past windows and brick, soak all the way down, flow along the streets, fall into the gutters and vanish.
He climbs back up in the form of a man, runs along the streets of his city so red. For an eternity he runs in inescapable circles through a jungle of concrete, the buildings and streets shifting and turning. He forces himself to run faster and faster, until his body starts to slow down and his breath hitches, until he collapses in the exact spot where he started. He rolls over, stares up at the skyscrapers, rain falling slick and warm into his face as he tries to breathe. As he stares blankly, people start appearing in the distance, their bodies grotesquely broken and twisted.
There is a man that he must find. A man he cannot find. All the connections and patterns that have become second nature to him are worthless. The man is random, cunning and so far nigh invisible. All the evidence has lead nowhere. The buildings shift and turn, offering this predator refuge whenever he seeks it. There is a new animal loose in the jungle. Where does it hide?
His body disperses to the wind, his consciousness soars into the sky and glides on the currents as a flock of bats. He flies into the Narrows, drops into one of the countless dilapidated blocks, slips through the walls of a dark building. It's a crumbling apartment, empty. Faces smile up at him from the ground. A silhouette of a man stands in the doorway. There is a knife in his hand.
"I do believe this is neither healthy nor a viable way to strike fear into the hearts of criminals, Master Bruce."
He wakes slowly, his eyes focusing on the hard surface under his face before traveling upward to rest on a familiar figure staring down at him. He slowly raises his head, takes a look at the time. He feels around his face to make sure the mask is on, then stands up and strides away.
"I have to get going."
A quiet sigh escapes the butler's lips.
The Batman speeds along on a motorcycle, racing toward his next destination in this festering labyrinth commonly known as the Narrows. The streets are uncharacteristically empty, only the occasional vagrant or group of thugs prowling the night. Luckily the gangs scatter at the sight of him, rather than try shooting at him. Therapeutic as it might be to beat them into the ground, he has no time to waste. Tonight's quarry is far more dangerous than the riffraff he speeds past.
Finally he reaches his destination, hiding his vehicle in a particularly dark alley. He sets out on foot, glides along the windows, checking for signs of use in the abandoned buildings, climbing up to the roof where he thinks it will support him, forcing his way into the places he thinks most suitable for the murderer's purposes. A long quarter of an hour passes before he clears the whole area. He gets back on his bike and speeds off into the night, another neighborhood on his list checked off.
Alfred's voice drones in his ear, reporting new information delivered from Gordon. His detectives have cleared another row of potential hideouts. The patrols in the Narrows have nothing to report, although one of them swears he saw the Batman. None of the patrol routes will go anywhere near the Batman's planned targets, thanks to the commissioner's co-operation.
Five minutes later he is at his next destination, repeating the earlier process. In another ten he has checked all the buildings and is off again. Another report from Gordon, more territory checked off, no word of any activity from the killer. Maybe the police presence in the Narrows has scared him off. His patience is wearing thin. He feels like cursing.
Almost an hour later he stands in a run-down apartment. It is the seventh such apartment he enters that night, the second that does not contain inhabitants scared witless. Another difference is that this one has even less furniture. But the fact that definitely sets it apart from the rest are framed photographs lying on the living room floor. Quite a few of them look familiar. With a closer glance he identifies three of the last victims among them.
His eyes roam over the rest of the room, landing finally on a tattered carpet in the middle of it. He whisks it away, removes the loose planks under it, revealing a black bag hidden under the floor. He pulls it up, rolls out the fabric. And stares at a row of sharp knives, with four empty slots in the line-up.
He makes sure the hole is empty before scanning the rest of the apartment. He enters the kitchen, notes a few newspapers on the table, along with a phone book. He leafs through it quickly, nothing catches his eye. He goes through the cupboards of the kitchen, finds nothing but vast amounts of canned food. He goes through the pages of the phone book again, slowly. This time he notices a tiny slit along one name. The name of one Baldwin Becker has been cut into. The old man who'd been murdered along with his wife and hung from the ceiling.
Batman scours the pages as fast as he can, ticking off another victim's name, and another, until finally he comes to one he does not recognize. Jason Warren, a resident of the palisades.
He calls Alfred and tells him to get both locations to Gordon as he runs outside and races off on his motorcycle.
He doesn't bother to hide the vehicle, just jumps off and starts running. The manor looms before him, dark and foreboding. Not even the light by the door is on. He finds the door locked, with no signs of having been forced in. He proceeds to pick the lock open, sneaks in and leaves the door ajar behind him.
No sound comes from the gaping darkness before him. He turns on the night-vision in his cowl, quickly takes in the details of the foyer. It is devoid of life, the furniture and walls look old, unkept and musty. A chair has been knocked over and the carpet is mussed.
He makes his way to a door on the left and enters the living room. It is similarly dark, but on the table stands a half empty bottle of wine and two glasses. And on the floor at the end of the room lies a man face down on the floor. Batman moves swiftly and silently, identifies the man as the now deceased lord of the manor.
A muffled shout from the adjacent room grabs his attention. He opens the door to find an elderly butler standing in the middle of a library, a knife inching closer and closer towards his neck. The owner of the knife freezes at the Batman's entrance.
Neither of them moves. The knife-wielder stares at the dark intruder with calm, unblinking eyes. The Batman stares right back, taking in the man's details as he calculates his chances of hitting him with a batarang without harming the hostage. The killer is shirtless, what little of his chest and arms that are visible lined with wiry muscle. His head is shaved, his face unremarkable and emotionless. His left hand is out of view, hidden behind the hostage's body, possibly concealing a weapon. The seconds tick on. The only movement in the dark is the quiet shivering of the butler.
Finally, without warning, both combatants throw their weapons at the same time. Both dive away to evade, the released butler falls to his knees. But while the Batman jumps closer towards the hostage, the killer makes for the light switch. The room is bathed in brilliant, blinding light and the Batman's night-vision is overloaded. He makes a blind leap away, feels a knife forcefully hit a spike on his gauntlet, sending twisting reverberations up and down his arm. As he hits the ground and starts rolling back up, his ears are assaulted by a pained shout.
The butler is crouching now, a knife going through his foot and into the floor keeping him grounded. A hand flashes into view from behind one of the bookcases, sending another knife flying his way. The Batman dodges, hears the knife pierce the door behind him with a thud. In an instant he is by the injured man's side. He pulls out the knife, grabs the man and carries him behind a bookcase before the killer can attack once more.
"D-don't worry about me," the butler says through clenched teeth, "There's a woman in here, she's still hiding in the pantry, two rooms behind him. You have to stop him!"
"Stay here. The police will arrive soon."
He glides from bookcase to bookcase, inching ever closer to the door ahead. Judging by the lack of attempts at his life, the killer has already left this room. His assumption is soon proven correct as he reaches the last bookcase and opens the door. He peers out into the darkness, seeing no hint of his quarry's location among the furnishings of the dining room. He creeps out into the room, regulating his breathing and straining his ears. The only sounds are his own steady heartbeat and the pained breathing from the room he's just left behind. A glance back to the library shows no movement, the butler's safety still secure.
He reaches for the next door, his whole body tense, a batarang ready in his right hand. He swings open the door and enters the sparsely stocked pantry, finding it empty. He opens another door, peers out into an empty kitchen. He turns back, opens another door from the pantry, finds himself in the hallway. He creeps over to a row of small storage rooms, peers into one. From somewhere further back the floor creaks. He swings around and sets off through the darkness, walking back toward the foyer.
Fifteen steps in and there have been no more sounds. Whoever this man is, he's good. His step must be absolutely soundless, for him to have snuck down the hallway earlier without giving himself away. The woman is most likely no longer on this floor, or even in the house at all anymore. Now the killer has taken to stalking him instead, unaware that each minute brings the police closer.
The Batman notices a new crease in the crumpled carpet of the foyer only a fraction of a second before a knife comes flying out of the doorway to the living room. He presses himself against the wall and it whizzes harmlessly by. But now the killer has a clear route to the prone butler still lying in the library.
The Batman rushes in through the door from the foyer, sees the knife in the door between the living room and the library has disappeared. A second later he realizes that the butler is also missing. A small trail of blood drops on the ground leads off behind a bookcase and he starts for it.
His progress is halted by a cracking noise and a heavy impact into the back of his skull. He sees ceramic shards falling slowly to the ground and feels another hit to his head, this one sending him to his knees. Another swiftly follows, sending him completely to the ground, followed by a fourth, at which he slowly fades out. It may be his imagination, but he thinks he can hear the whisper of sirens in the distance.
He wakes slowly, tries not to give it away. The first thing he feels is cold. Cold and a headache that thrums, each heartbeat making it feel like his skull is splintering. He can tell he's bound: Hands, feet and neck are secured to a table of some sort. It feels like his mask is still on, but the cape is nowhere in sight and the weight of his belt is missing. The room is a good deal colder than the murderer's apartment. He realizes he can hear someone else breathing a second before he feels a fist in his face.
His eyes flutter open, rest for a second on the killer, then peer around the room. It's completely bare, apart from rows of hooks in the ceiling and the table he lies on. It is wide and dusty, with one door in sight, about a hundred feet away.
"You can look around. It's okay."
The madman stands perfectly still, staring down at him. He is still shirtless, the only visible clothing a pair of faded trousers. His skin is marred by scars, three rows of five and two singular ones. His voice is cold and detached.
"You can make noises, too. I don't judge."
The man walks closer. By the sound of it, his feet are bare as well. He raises his right hand, revealing a sharp knife.
"We are in a world of our own now. Just you. And me."
The knife moves down to his chest and makes a small cut. Blood quickly seeps out onto the symbol of the Bat.
"Do you see?"