The soft breeze bristled through Mikey Williams' thick sandy hair. Thankfully, the wind wasn't strong enough to even make an adjustment to his already slicked-back hairstyle he worked so hard to achieve. He was quite proud of it—among many other things he had done recently. He was proud of what he was able to accomplish without getting much notice. Even if he had, there would be a backup plan for that. The people he represented made sure of that, only from the advice he had given them. They trusted him completely; he was a professional at what he did. He had superiors, but they weren't as careful as he was. It was almost frightening. He was two steps ahead of them, almost as if it seemed he was planning something against them instead like a sadistic chess player where anyone was a pawn waiting to be moved. But Williams knew his loyalties. They would be nothing without him, and they did keep their promises on their richly rewards. He looked forward to them, and tonight was going to be a big score.

He walked around the building towards the back. It wasn't entirely a large block for him to navigate, and he didn't need a car; that would've just made things too suspicious. Then again, who would've cared? Cops would just be on the corner either paying off a hooker or taking his cut after being in a deal with drugs. In addition, driving was a rarity in this city, all the more reason why not to. Only this night was more special than any of all those dullards who'd sell an organ to get their illegal substance.

Luckily, the dark night hours wouldn't give up much light on the other side where the shipments would be dropped off in the receiving area. The truck was projected to be much later than usual, according to his contact within the establishment. He told Williams that the truck got held up on the interstate earlier, and the boss was riding him enough to stay around until then. He offered that Williams ought to pay his boss a visit, to which Williams told him that he'd might consider it unless it made things suspicious.

The lonely streetlight lit up the back of the building, which only had several pallets of used boxes ready to be picked up the following morning. The door was shut, but Williams knew it wouldn't be for long. Chances are, cops wouldn't be around here. Even for those he worked with, they didn't need to know about this. The people he worked with had a much higher power than these street cops, who were too scared to pull a pistol on them. Besides, he was specifically assigned this job. A smaller business they severely had a grip on would be the perfect cover.

The back door nudged with a soft, metallic creak. Soft light poured outside, giving way for a shadow that heralded a man who nervously peeked his head out. His face told Williams that the man wasn't comfortable, but Williams had seen this before.

"Ya look nervous," Williams said.

Peter blinked twice too fast as an answer. "You got the money?"

"No package, no money. Ya know how it works."

"Right," Peter muttered. "Come on inside."

Williams walked into the back room, which was lit by the upper bright white light. He could already smell the package he asked for. The box that was placed on the metal desk told him that it was ready.

"That's everything," Peter explained.

"I see that. Everything accounted for?"

"Yeah. They're all in there. Look, I know you said I can't know, but I've gotta ask, why would you need all this?"

Williams formed a slight laughing smile. "Peter, come on. Ya know I can't tell ya—"

"No!" Peter barked. He then shifted himself and seemingly regretted that exclamation. "Sorry," he stammered, "I just . . . I-I just need to know what would happen if I were to be caught."

"Ya not caught, Pete. And that's all that matters. I just need ya to be yourself, and I will need ya to say nothin' about it, understand?"

Peter hissed through his teeth. "You know, the inventory will be keeping track of how much lye will be here."

Williams raised an eyebrow. "Ya not backing down on us, are you?"

"No. I just need to know what you're doing with it."

"The less ya know, the better."

Peter took a stance. "And why should I trust you?"

Williams smiled. He had seen timid men try to take a stand. It almost seemed entertaining from many others. Peter was just another plaything of his.

"'Cause you don't got no choice. Besides, what makes ya think I'd tell ta? Ya needed someone to be taken care of, right? So, we're takin' care of it."

Peter's eyes grew wild at the realization. Did Williams just imply what he thought he had implied? "Jesus! Now, you're doing this? Do you have any idea how serious this is? This could put me out of business. You know how hard it is to find a place in this hellhole!"

"Calm down," Williams said in a calm and friendly manner. "Besides, he was troubling ya. Ya called me to take care of it. I'm takin' care of it. We promise you you're covered. You and your business won't be touched, and you don't even know our names."

Peter's made a face. Did this guy really just say that? He knew Williams' name!

"Just trust me," Williams assured. "Just keep a lid on it. Can ya do that for me?"

Peter's eyesight on Williams forced out, "What happened to your neck?"

Williams felt his pulse heighten more than he was showing it. He knew exactly what he was talking about. He silently cursed to himself. Picking up a story, he said, "Had a little trouble with someone else. He asked too many questions. Kinda what ya doin' now."

Peter stuttered, "Sorry. Of course. I didn't mean to—"

"All you need to know," Williams continued, now sounding less friendly, "is that we don't need to remind ya place . . .," he smiled devilishly, "like this place. Here, ya do as ya told. You don't walk out, we let ya go. Get my meaning?"

Peter's doubting expression remained, but Williams could sense that was a weak cover of fear. He nodded.

"Good," Williams smirked. "Now, head on in back inside."

"And do what?"

Williams made a mocked surprise face. "Anythin'. Go back inside. Pay ya bills. Clean the shelves. Make it look nice for ya customers. You'll be hearin' from us again."

Peter raised an eyebrow. "'Us'?"

"Sorry, did I say that out loud? You'll be hearin' from me soon."

Peter nodded anxiously. He knew Williams was just making tactics that wouldn't sit well for the rest of the evening, but it was working. "Just make sure my name doesn't come up."

Williams displayed a naïve and convivial face that irritated him even more. Holding the furiousness back, Peter returned to his store and closed the door.

Williams could shake his head. What a lone pathetic guy. But he was resourceful. He found him not too long ago, and he had delivered exactly what was needed from the people Williams represented.

"Package is secured," Williams said.

"Good. Get it back here as soon as you can," the voice said. "Oh, and another thing—you don't need to keep up with that accent when talking to me. I know it's you."

"Never let ya guard down, even for the people ya work with. Ya want to get ahead of the city, ya got to stay ahead."

Williams ended the call and cautiously made a careful scan around him to make sure he was in the clear.

The screeching grew louder. It wouldn't stop. With each passing second, the screeching would send even more frigid feelings on the back of Bruce's neck, stiffening the hairs.

His legs buckled and failed him, hurling him onto the ground while holding his arms forming a pitiful X around him while the demon of the night would eventually find its defenseless target. It would sink its teeth into him, and he would feel the pain. The pain of nothing being there to stop it.

As the agony channeled through his veins, Bruce could sense as if there was indeed a connection between him and his attacker. He understood the creature. The bat was chasing, and he was its victim to be feasted on by instinct. He felt its frenzied fury and urge to hunt. It was a dangerous power, but it felt so good.

He had become the creature.

He wanted it. He needed it.

It was fear that he craved. But it was also the same fear that he had experienced before. It was the same exact fear on that night. The helplessness and loneliness of no one stopping it. That was the same kind of dread he wanted to bring on that man who did this to him. It was a dangerous power. But it was also a righteous power.

Or so, it felt like it.

Feeling the rush of the creature's wrath, Bruce let out a scream.

Bruce gasped out loud, and he rose himself up to find a large bright white blur that glared in his eyes. Shielding his eyes until they adjusted, he lowered his arms to find that he woke up while in front of the monitor that he had apparently fell asleep in front of. The monitor's interface told him that several installations have been completed while waiting for other components to finish their uploading.

The last several hours before losing consciousness, he had spent a great amount of time building this device. His fingers were sore, and his arms ached with weariness. The night's hours and his body wouldn't allow him to rest, and it was finally coming back to haunt him. Thinking back on it, he did remember drifting off to sleep before making any further progress on his newest project. It was a difficult task, but experience and knowledge was all it took regardless of one's circumstance.

It was just about to reach ten o'clock. Only four hours had passed since he drifted. The programming of the computer's functions would almost be complete. He felt it appropriate that he'd sleep once it was truly done. To him, this wasn't a real sleep, unlike the "good old nights" like the night with Vicki Vale the other evening.

Hoisting himself up, he decided to head down to the kitchen. His mouth was sticky and dry, lacking fluids; he needed to stay alive somehow. Alfred might be up any second, and Bruce would be met with questions of another long night.

Only this time, it wouldn't be an easy answer. There was no telling how Alfred would react to something like this, especially after he told him to take caution. If he were to do this, this would have to be as discreet as possible. He wouldn't count on keeping Alfred in the dark entirely. He'd find out sooner or later; it would be a matter of time.

Booting up the system, Bruce's eyes were welcomed by a pale blue light that served as the threshold of the startup sequence. Once that setup was over with, it became a lot easier for Bruce to navigate his way through the features he had programmed. Wayne Satellites would be able to connect flawlessly and be able to give him his exact coordinates whenever typing in names.

Toggling they keys, he entered "Tobias Hobbs" and the rest of his specific address. The image of Hobbs was brought up and the monitor provided additional information about his recorded life. But there was no more interest in that. The address was quite far away somewhere in the downtown area, far from here. Surrounding the address was a complex series of amazes that was made of narrow alleyways—a perfect place to make a quick exchange in cash, drugs, or words. The program would turn over every dark corner into the light. If Hobbs ever left his premises, he'd be sure to find him. Bruce made sure the monitor was keeping track of everything around the area. If anything were to approach the residence, he'd be alerted. That was only the easy part.

The next phase would be figuring out how he would be able to arrive there undetected. That area wouldn't be a place where he could just walk up there. Going after a lawyer with loyalties outside of a courthouse would strike a low blow against the Gotham's underworld.

The police radio frequency offered no leads, at least immediately. Surely, another homicide would happen, and a bunch of lackadaisical cops would swarm the area. If Hobbs leaves his residence to arrive at any kind of crime scene, then chances are, it will have to do something with whoever he was aligned with, and it wasn't the courthouse. Bruce felt his brows sear with pain from staring at the silent screens. It was aggravating. How could the highest crime rated city in the country offer nothing at this time of night? Dusk was a criminal's paradise with no repercussions.

Bruce relentlessly rotated his concentration from the police radio's bandwidth and Hobbs' house. The residence had been a quiet establishment with no sign of aggression.

The radio chatter boomed with one panicked voice that shook every nerve in Bruce's already concentrated self.

"Ten nine-nine-nine! Officer down, in need of assistance. I repeat—officer down. Located on in the alleyway off of 14th Street and the east side of the Nolan District. 2005 Nolan District and 14th Street. Assistance now!"

Soon, dozens of calls of confirmation followed. Bruce's adrenaline kicked in, producing shallow breaths that escaped little by little from his lips. A cop being murdered wasn't uncommon in Gotham, but it did raise the right number of eyebrows to trigger people's anxieties. Unless, of course, it had to do with some sort of dirty cop no longer being needed or a good cop who messed with the wrong people. No question about it, Hobbs would be there.

The radio squawked again. "Ten fifty-six."

With a free hand, Bruce toggled the keys, searching that code.

Suicide.

Death was absolutely no more of a stranger in Gotham than suicide. A suicidal cop, however, was a foreign newcomer. Bruce's stomach ached. Cops were rumored to be dirty all the time, yet suicide was a curious notion. Maybe he was getting too mouthy. Maybe this was connected with whatever Hobbs was involved in.

Sure enough, as he directed his attention back to where he was supposed to watch Hobbs, something was leaving the residence, and it was immediately heading into the car parked right outside. The man wasn't wasting any time. Bruce's confirmed suspicions gave him a little smirk. The call was literally made just now, and Hobbs was hurrying out in his car, somehow knowing of this incident incredibly fast—maybe even before the cops announced it.

Bruce zoomed out from Hobbs' premises, and entered the coordinates to 14th Street. The street was long, but there were an interminable number of narrow alleyways that branched outward from the road. The Nolan District building made a narrow path for 14th Street. Bruce zoomed in to that area. Nothing seemed there except for some trash dumpsters and cans. Already, there were at least two cop cars parked right outside with their lights glaring in all possible directions. Several officers scattered from their vehicle, and soon there would be ambulances and forensics on the scene, led astray by whoever ran their show.

Fingering a sequence, the window zoomed out to where Hobbs' vehicle was located. The screen focused on the distance. It slowly zoomed in as Hobbs was no doubt nearing it. He was a good number of blocks away, and his estimated time to arrive at the scene was approximately twenty minutes.

Time was running out. Bruce hopped from his chair. His little journey to the doorway halted on the spot when Alfred sidestepped into view.

The sudden appearance cost Bruce an explanation that would be thought of fast enough to sound credible. Alfred's eyes scanned the room and stopped at the newly developed monitor where Bruce had sat. The butler's eye sockets subtly flexed in surprise at the sight.

"What are you doing?"

Bruce grinded his teeth before speaking the defeated truth. "Something's happened out there. A cop was found dead and ruled as suicide."

Alfred reacted grimly, then he raised an eyebrow. "And you're just going to mosey on down there?"

Tightening himself, Bruce said, "Alfred, this city is dying from the inside. Nothing's being done. How many more have to die before someone realizes that somebody has to fight back?"

"That's exactly why I'm against you going out there. You won't be able to fight them off with anything you have, no matter how gifted you are with that, sir. They will hunt you, and then you will be their next 'accident'. Sir, I'm begging you. Don't do this. This city doesn't need to lose Bruce Wayne."

Bruce glanced at the screen that displayed his location on his way. There was no time for second thoughts. "If you look into the study room, the monitor is programmed to be linked to a distress signal that'll be sent from me. If I ever activate it, you can pinpoint its location."

"Master Wayne," Alfred said sharply. "I'm warning you—you're going to get yourself killed. This is reckless."

"I gotta go. I'm sorry."

Bruce sidestepped and closed off his senses to hear Alfred's further objections. No doubt, Alfred would be giving hell once he returned. If he returned.

14th Street was road blocked. Thankfully, it was late at night, when everyone would be in their homes, cowering from anything that might get in. Quietness had vanished as the sounds of high-definition camera shutters whirring and police sirens bellowed together. The inconsistent pattern of blue and red lights glared, creating shadows of the detectives, who swarmed the area like rats scavenging for whatever was left to feed on.

14th Street was narrow and small. Looking upward from within would give anyone that disturbing impression that you would be falling into a pit that would never be escaped. In the middle of the thin black line amidst the many other alleyways of Gotham was, indeed, a sprawled body of a man. The body's black and blue uniform was distinguishable. His arms and legs were buckled and folded as if they had given up forever. A large crimson puddle lay beneath the victim's head and the face was tilted to the side. Blood steadily oozed from the slightly parted mouth. In his right hand, a 9mm Glock was loosely gripped.

Crossing the barrier, Gordon approached painstakingly. In all his years of experience, he never would've expected to find a cop that committed suicide in such a fashion, let alone one that actually went through with it. Back in Chicago, he had known plenty of colleagues who had these kinds of thoughts. The therapy sessions would pull them back from that point of no return.

Crouching, Gordon inspected the corpse. "We get an I.D.?"

"Yeah," said one of the officers. "It's Gage."

The name curtained a deathly cold on Gordon's nape. The images of Gage's terrified face back at the station swamped his mind. So young. So terrified.

Bullock sighed. "Blew his own brains out. Jesus." He hung his head. "Poor kid."

"Did he ever show signs of depression?" Gordon asked. "Any history of psychological behavior that would suggest he'd do something like this?"

Bullock scoffed softly. "If he did, we'd never hire him. He was a good kid. Did everything by the book. He helped us take down several junkies in the north side of town, he attended several safety presentations at schools—shit, if the schools find out about him . . ."

Gordon stared back at the young man who was once an admired officer, who was loved by many. It made no sense. The kid was never dirty and always went straight. Suicide would never be the first thing that would come to mind. Then again, people had secrets. Suicide opened a whole new door that would spell uncertainty and shock for those who'd know the victim. The kid had loved ones, and they will be crushed, no matter the circumstances. Nevertheless, it all seemed amiss . . .

"We'll have to notify his family," Gordon lamented.

"Yeah, on it," Bullock said. "In the meantime, I'd like to have a look at his phone. Something scared the hell out of him beforehand."

Gordon approached the medical examiner. Nora Fields had gotten herself up on her feet and freed an exhale. With her golden hair tied in a ponytail, she was wearing a depressed face, which whitened into a colorless façade. The physicality of getting on her feet made it worse along with the investigation of the unthinkable. She gloomily had her camera slumped at her side with one barely held arm.

"Any witnesses?" Gordon asked.

Nora let out a soft sigh, trying to not let her emotions impede her duty of reporting. "Just one. Over there. Said he was out running an early jog until he came across this. According to him, he found the body as it is. Claimed to never see anything else."

"You believe him?"

"If there weren't any other witnesses, there weren't any other witnesses. No sign of anyone else here except for our one confirmed witness."

"Any sign of a struggle?"

"No," she nearly mumbled.

"Not even the slightest trace?"

She sounded more assertive. "I've double-checked for that. I am not believing that Gage would just decide to go out one night and blow his own brains out. I can only be as sure as the facts are laid. The only thing I can find is a hole from his palate through his skull." She released a breath, trying to sound more professional. "I've seen many suicides in my career. They all had the same accumulation. Depression, anxiety, hopelessness—none of these words would ever come close to describe Nick. This makes me think that this might not what it appears to be."

"This might be a setup?"

Nora frowned. "Anything's possible, but nothing here says that. I'll let you know from the autopsy."

"Lieutenant."

Gordon turned to see Hobbs, who was hurrying in his direction. "It's a suicide, counselor. No homicide."

"Are you sure?"

"They said they're sure, I'm sure."

Hobbs' agitation died down. The panting was gone and what replaced was a much calmer tone. "I was told that it was Gage—one of the younger guys. You never got to know him, but he was one of the brightest around here."

"So, I heard," Gordon said, trailing his voice to match the uncertainty. "I'm sorry. Bullock's contacting his family now."

"I'd imagine they'd be crushed." Hobbs sighed.

Bullock approached the two. "I'm not sure this was coincidental."

Hobbs was first to react. "What do you mean?"

"Before we found him, Gage received a phone call back at the station. Gordon, you saw that, remember? He was looking panicked and now, he's dead."

Hobbs' eyes swiveled. "You think it had something to do with this?"

"I don't see how it wouldn't," Bullock said. "We're gonna have a look at who he called and see what that'll tell us."

Gordon inspected the body more. "We'll also have to know his close and personal contacts for the past several weeks. Maybe this was built up."

"I'll check his contacts," Nora added coming up from behind them, "In the meantime, we'll see what the autopsy will tell us. I'm hoping it was something else other than a bullet."

Gordon took a careful keen eye around the area. It was dark, save for the forensic team's lights that either came from a camera or tripods for crime scene equipment. There were no real streetlights nearby, so there would be a substantial difficulty for witnesses. If this kid wasn't the type to pull a trigger on himself, then maybe it was done professionally. Or maybe it was just a kid who liked to climb trees without safety—something to not mention in front of his new co-workers.

Several other paramedics were holding onto a gurney, which was occupied by Gage's body, already sealed in a black bag that shimmered like waves from the flashing lights nearby.

The Lamborghini rode slowly on the cold road. Its all black color made it unsusceptible to being detected in the dead of night, and that was a big advantage to take note if someone was looking for anyone nearby to avert suspicion, so long as it was from a distance. Bruce had the perfect idea of where to park to prevent detection. The police were nearby, and if they were to spot an illegal parking, he'd lose this opportunity. That is, if they'd care enough to stop him while in the middle of their investigation. Illegal parking was a mosquito bite compared the much substantial bleeding Gotham already suffers, so chances would be that they'd almost completely ignore it.

Another big advantage would be the lack of traffic out on the road at this hour. He had arrived earlier than he had anticipated, much to his pleasure. He couldn't afford to be any later and miss out on an opportunity to catch Hobbs in the act.

Bruce edged the vehicle near the Nolan District building and silently switched the engine off. Checking and seeing that all was clear now, he exited and popped open the trunk. He grabbed a black hoodie sweatshirt and a ski mask, which were both donned shortly afterward. An earpiece he had constructed was placed inside the ski mask and next to his ear to enhance any kind of distant conversations that would occur.

In its activation, He advanced toward the scene and crouched until his position read about forty-five meters from the scene. Bruce could hear a slew of distant noises. The conversations between the officers were well heard. He heard the victim identified as "Nicolas Gage"—a name he'd have to remember.

Bruce's blood turned to ice when he heard the familiar voice that belonged to Hobbs. The same voice his mind would never allow him to forget. Just like his parents, he was there. Just like Chill, he was there. And now this.

This was no coincidence is what Bruce kept repeating to himself silently. The signs and patterns tugged at him like a child begging for attention. With a careful eye, he continued watching the subtle figure of Hobbs. Hobbs shifted his head around. To the cops around him, it didn't seem like much of anything, but Bruce read through the motion that he was squirming. Something was amiss. Before too long, Hobbs tucked his hands into the pockets of his trench coat, hanging his head as if deep within his own mind.

Not giving up his stealth and in the most quiet way possible, Bruce shifted his position and segued from the brick wall. Hobbs was moving further away off to somewhere else.

"Counselor?" Gordon's voice sounded.

"Emergency." Hobbs didn't turn his head.

Bruce emerged from his hiding place kept a fair distance away from the swarming cops near the scene, but held his firm eyesight locked onto Hobbs.

Hobbs' legs seemed to be picking up a faster pace. Bruce followed, but the distance was growing. If he walked any faster, his feet would've pounded the ground hard enough to reach Hobbs' already paranoid senses. The streets were empty enough, and anything within close proximity would be too suspicious.

Hobbs swiveled a quick glance behind him, sending a bullet of frigid fright into Bruce's stomach. Nevertheless, Bruce froze in his tracks, hoping that a lack of any kind of movement would help him blend in. The streetlights were far away enough to not be seen. The lawyer didn't seem to notice him, otherwise, he'd be running by now.

Finally, Hobbs swung himself into an alleyway and vanished from the sidewalk. The movement was so abrupt Bruce could feel his breath being taken away from him, thinking that he may have followed too closely. Nevertheless, she persisted.

Seconds followed, and Bruce met the intersection. Swiveling a quick look down into the alleyway, his quick look told him that Hobbs' figure was still there, having the same kind of walking-fast motion. In that short amount of time from that glance, Bruce made out several dumpsters—a perfect place to hide behind.

Tensing his face, Bruce made the turn and aimed towards the dumpster, lowering himself. He saw that Hobbs never bothered looking behind him. Bruce tapped the earpiece. His footsteps were heard, but they were now growing fainter. Bruce peeked his head. One blurry second told him that Hobbs turned a left. Obeying cautiously, Bruce proceeded to make softened fast steps. The view of Hobbs told Bruce that the lawyer was making his way into an intersection where multiple alleyways would meet at a crossroad.

"Mr. Hobbs."

The voice made Bruce retreat back to his crouching position with a shortness of breath. Huffing away the fear, he pressed against his earpiece and it clicked on.

Hobbs looked around him. The cellphone in his hand made a complete number dialed sequence readied to be sent. The calling of his name now made it unnecessary. Discarding his phone into his pocket, Hobbs faced three men who stood a perfectly still posture to make him make a quick breath.

The man in the middle scoffed. "Just to let ya know, ya don't ever really need to call us. We know where ya are. You know that."

"It was an emergency." Hobbs' voice nearly shook.

"How would it be an emergency?" the man responded. "You don't know nothin'."

"I know enough."

The man raised an eyebrow. "Do ya want ya cut or not?"

Hobbs remained silent and set his jaws firmly together. He allowed a couple of idle seconds to pass, which triggered the man to beckon with his two fingers. The gesture gave the command to allow one of his men behind him to move towards Hobbs, who held a shaky hand out. In his cupped palm landed a rubber band that bound a couple of hundreds that would've for certain reached several thousands. Unlike previous times, Hobbs never bothered counting the bills, calculating the required amount he was promised this time around.

"Ya don't look satisfied, counselor," the man said. "Getting money like this is pretty hard to earn, y'know. But ya are good at your job, I'll give ya that. Thank ya once again." He smiled.

Placing the bills in his pockets, Hobbs said, "More than unsatisfied."

The man tilted his head as if feigning obliviousness. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You guys killed a cop. A cop!"

The surrounding men lightly ducked and had their hands in their pockets ready to draw their pistols. The man dropped the informal expression and held a firm finger to his lips. "Well, if ya don't want them to know that, keep it down."

"Don't patronize me," Hobbs snapped. "Do you realize what you have done?"

The man's firmness died and was replaced with a calmer demeanor. He dropped his shoulders and put on the same casual manner he had before, only friendlier as if coaxing a child. "Alright. Calm down, Hobbs. This isn't really anything new."

"Not like this. The ones before were just sleazy bankers and brokers. Yeah, some were cops, but this isn't just a cop. It's Gage, and you don't know him as well I did."

The man paused before chuckling a bit to himself. "Well, we've never had to take these kinds of measures, but come on. It's Gage. He was a new kid. Nobody around here goes looking for rookies or young guys. All they care about here are the decorated ones. Even then, at least half the decorated ones are found with some poor woman in a bed looking for cash. I think ya may have remembered prosecuting some of them? Ya busted the guy, and he only got off for a five-month parole. Five months, and he's a good boy."

"I can't sway from a dead cop, let alone someone popular from the community," Hobbs persisted. "Already, it's kicking the hornet's nest with the rest of the station. This isn't something you can just bury."

"It can be, and it will be. They'll rule it as suicide. I made sure of that. They did rule it as suicide, didn't they?"

"Well, yes, but—"

"Then, we're covered. They can cut him open all they want and look for anything conspicuous, but they also have help."

Hobbs stepped forward. "They're still investigating the circumstances. They're going to be looking at everything this time. They're going to be looking for his list of contacts too. Bank records, the whole nine."

"You seriously didn't think we thought about that possibility?"

"If you did, Gage would still be alive."

It was the man's turn to step forward, and this made Hobbs take a small step backward. "You're not getting soft on me now, are ya, counselor?" Before Hobbs responded, the man continued. "Need I remind you that your cut is also in this? You refuse your cut, you refuse your right to live. You don't get out. You're in until we say you're out, one way or another, you get me?"

Hobbs paused for a moment. They viewed him as an asset, but how long before he was useful to them? He exhaled through a tightly closed mouth. "And if I'm refusing my right to live, how do you plan on making more excuses for your watchdogs? Like you said, accidents happen."

"Counsellor," the man said in a compensating tone that would drive any grown man mad. "Gage screwed with the wrong people. You on the other hand—ya made a deal with the right people. It's simple: ya screw with the wrong people, you get screwed. Look at how it was done just now. No sign of a struggle, nothing to report except hey found a bullet in his forehead. I guarantee they won't think it was foul play, and it ain't gonna come back and haunt ya."

Hobbs thought for a moment. He already knew that he was safe as long as they handed him bills. It angered him that he wasn't included on the planning and literal execution of this deed. On the other hand, the kid did try and make a stand against them. But once you start talking back, they'll dispose of you and make it look good.

"Did Cobblepot tell you this?" he asked.

The man chuckled as if he heard a damn good joke. "The mayor doesn't have to say anything. That's how it is here."

Coldness jolted through his nerves like an electrocution. The words "Cobblepot" would never have been part of this anticipation. A man who has so much power in this town would wield an unspeakable outcome for anyone that'd might want to take him down. Every nerve in Bruce's body told him that now was the time to get the hell out of there. Adrenaline spared him no second thoughts and Bruce lunged up and his feet scraped alongside the wet pavement.

The wet scuffle echoed through the narrow tunnel of brick walls and it met Hobbs' ears. The lawyer spun around in a time that seemed less than a second. That flashing amount of time was all Bruce had to see that Hobbs' eyesight caught him.

"Who's there?" Hobbs shrilled, feeling the fear guide his tone.

Bruce picked up his pacing. Almost immediately, he could then hear the fast pounding of shoes smacking the wet ground.

"Hey!" one man shouted. "You!"

Bruce's eyesight became clouded as the noises of hurried running were impeding his escape. From his disorientated vision, he made out a corner that led away. Away from them, definitely, but a way to safety wasn't clear.

"Don't let him get away!" Bruce heard the words. "Get him before the cops get here!"

Whether or not Hobbs was among them, what mattered now was getting the hell out of there. No matter the direction of the turn, the running grew louder.

A gunshot cracked.

Bruce's pulse swelled. There had to be a way out of this helpless maze. Surely the cops would've heard that, and they would be on their way by now. Then again, God knows how long it would take to get there before he'd be killed. The night's obscurity wouldn't give any direction. The interminable number of lines of the brick patterns melted in his eyes. More gunshots followed, and Bruce could've sworn he felt the air rushing past him as the deadly rounds soared in his direction.

After turning one corner, he found a ladder that was connected alongside a column of balconies leading to the rooftops. Taking the chance, Bruce's anxiety carried him over and he began ascending, his arms relentlessly finding the next bar to grab onto, pulling himself up.

"Stop right there!"

Bruce could've frozen, but it took every nerve in his body to ignore the warning, for he knew what was to happen next. The gunshot missed him and charged a spark that puffed off from the metal ladder. Using all his strength, Bruce placed himself up onto one of the balconies to use the next ladder. More crackling gunshots rang. Sparks flashed from the ricochets, but Bruce's protection from the darkened alleyway was his ally.

"After him! Nab him!"

Another floor was in Bruce's grasp, but a gunshot's spark had grazed his shoulder. The white-hot sting forced his fist to open. His body swung violently around until it became impossible for his other hand to physically hold onto the ladder. Bruce's body plummeted. Fortunately, he wasn't that far up, but the distance between him and the pavement was large enough for a hard fall onto several metal garbage cans that clanged loudly on impact. The pain was great, but there was no time to recover. Resisting the ache in his side, Bruce rose to his feet. The gunmen were in an expedient pursuit. Bruce turned a corner and—

The man jabbed an elbow at Bruce's face. The blunt slam sent Bruce in a daze, but he knew what to do next. Bruce threw a hardened retaliatory fist into the man's face. The man fell backward, but Bruce wasn't done. He put the man out of use with a headbutt. A gunshot nearly stopped Bruce from making it to another corner. Another cracked, and the smell of hot lead invaded his nostrils. Adrenaline pushed him until a rogue hand from behind grabbed a handful of his clothing and pulled him.

The force propelled Bruce backward and there was a hard pain that gutted him across the face. Dazed, Bruce fell backward, toppling against the brick wall until his face made contact with the pavement.

"Whattya doing here? Who sent ya?"

A series of blunt feet jabbed into Bruce's ribs. Gathering what stamina there was to spare, Bruce caught one foot with both hands and stood himself up as quickly as he could. The man waved his arms, stumbling as one of his legs lost contact with the ground.

Bruce hardened his body and sprinted away as much as whatever strength in his body persisted. Each exhale added more pain, and his vision wasn't as clear as before. He ran harder until he saw that he was heading towards a chicken wire fence at least fifty meters ahead. The fence stretched above him to about a yard or two. His eyes swiveled for a potential escape route, but there were no skinny alleyways that would've detoured away. He decided to use up more of his energy and raced faster towards the fence. Holding his hands outstretched, he made a gigantic leap upwards. His fingers clawed through the diamond-shaped holes of the fence and his legs started kicking upward instantly. As he got his whole body to the other side, he felt the top of the iron twigs digging into his skin. He was about to make a jump down until he felt one hand grab onto his shirt.

"I got him!"

Bruce shoved his grabbed arm around to loosen his capture, but the man held firmly.

"Quick! Grab him! I got him!"

The other men weren't too far behind now. A few more seconds and escape was lost. Bruce gritted his teeth and let out a yell as he could feel the fence nearly penetrate through his skin. He could feel the coldness of his now fresh wounds. He was still held in place, and each struggle worsened the gash. Bruce proceeded to instead flail his body around to add more weight to his attempt to struggle free. It seemed to work as the man's grip felt less secure, but the men were now beginning to climb.

They never got a chance to have their spy caught as Bruce fell to the ground and the sting of the aftermath of his cut rushed through him. He groaned as he made an awkward landing on his side. The alleyway ahead of him was now clear and within distance, there was a long main road that would've gotten him clear. He returned back on his feet and resumed his gallop while holding on to his ribs where the fence had cut him.

Escape was within his grasp, or so he thought just when a hardened fist slammed into his face. Bruce fell once more, and he was met with other slams across his body.

Unlike the first time, each blow was taking more and more life out of him. His vision was failing him second by second. Crying out for help didn't seem possible. In a couple of seconds, they would take him and discover who he was. Bruce Wayne, the billionaire stupid enough to wander the streets at night and tragically died the same way his parents did.

Gunfire erupted more. The shots felt too far away then having one of them pulling out a firearm and just finish him off here and now. The beatings felt less frequent now. Most of the men turned their attention from Bruce and looked away to an unknown location.

"Cops! Go!"

There were other voices, but they were all hard to comprehend from Bruce's end. Their feet smacked against the ground, and soon they drifted off to echoes, followed by silence. Staggering, Bruce rose to his feet. He couldn't be caught by anyone, not even the police. The last thing he needed was to be questioned by police to know what a man like him would be doing out on the streets at this time of night. If he was caught, it would've ended the same. He would've been shamed for starting his own personal investigation and assured that it's being handled, knowing perfectly well it wouldn't be.

But the mayor—involved?

Wincing, Bruce stumbled against the nearest brick wall that could support him. Each passing second, and he was losing focus. His eyes would tell him that all was hopeless. He stressed against the fatigue that told him to give up. Hobbs was getting away, and there had to be a way he wasn't seeing to catch up, even when they're on the run. He was so close, there was no way he was giving up now.

Bruce veered his direction wherever Hobbs and that other man ran. The alleyways would suggest that they wouldn't be too far away, but it was also the perfect cover to hide and then bolt when the time was right when a pursuer was hunting.

He never got to deduce any further when Bruce's arm gave in. He gave out a little shout, and he was brought down to his knees. Find him. Don't give up. Find him.

Bruce's cheek was now brought down to the pavement. His hearing dulled down to incoherent miscellaneous noises. He couldn't pinpoint exactly what was happening around him. Everything was splotched colors and lights that didn't make sense. His muscles throbbed, and his eyes were now open slits by the time he heard a car pull up from nowhere. It was hard to tell if it had a police siren or not.

Before drifting off to nothing, Bruce thought he could've heard someone say, "I've got you, sir."