Chapter Four: Falcone's Fall
The city was a living organism, its heart pulsing with crime and corruption. But tonight, Batman was the scalpel, cutting away the rot. He didn't care about the warnings from Clark and Diana; they were playing catch-up, still clinging to old ideals. This wasn't about justice anymore. This was about destruction.
From the rooftops, he looked down at Gotham, the filthy underbelly that he used to watch with a sense of responsibility. Now, it was different. He wasn't here to protect Gotham; he was here to control it. He pulled up his internal HUD, names and locations flashing before his eyes, all tied to one man: Carmine Falcone, the Roman. The Falcone crime family was Gotham's legacy of organized crime, a stain that had persisted through every attempt he made to cleanse it. Tonight, that would change.
He dropped silently from the rooftop, his black cape blending into the night as he hit the ground in an alleyway. The Falcone Family had holdings across the city, but tonight, he was starting at the bottom. The lowlifes, the foot soldiers who thought they were untouchable. He'd prove them wrong.
The first target was a run-down dive bar on the east side, a Falcone-controlled den where thugs plotted, extorted, and killed without consequence. Batman stalked through the alley like a shadow, his footsteps silent as he approached the back entrance. Inside, he could hear them—six men, all armed, laughing about a job they had pulled earlier.
Without a word, Batman punched through the steel door like it was paper, sending it crashing across the room, slamming into two of the men, and pinning them to the wall. The remaining four scrambled for their guns, but Batman was already on them. His fist collided with the first thug's jaw, the crack of bone followed by the man's scream. He didn't stop, throwing him into a table, which shattered on impact.
The other three managed to fire off a few rounds, the bullets ricocheting off Batman's chest like pebbles. One thug dropped his gun, fear overtaking him as he tried to back away. Batman grabbed him by the neck, lifting him off the ground effortlessly.
"Where's Falcone?" Batman's voice was a growl, low and menacing.
The thug choked, his feet kicking helplessly in the air. "I—I don't know! I swear!"
Batman's grip tightened, his eyes glowing faintly red. "Wrong answer."
With a flick of his wrist, he hurled the man across the room, his body slamming into the wall, leaving a bloody smear as he slid to the ground, unconscious. The last two thugs dropped their guns and ran for the door, but Batman was on them before they even made it halfway. His fists were quick and brutal, each punch delivered with the precision of a surgeon. Bones snapped, screams echoed, and within seconds, the room was silent.
Batman stood over the broken bodies, his breathing steady, not a drop of sweat on him. He didn't kill. That would be too easy. But he broke them. He made sure they'd never walk the streets again without remembering the pain.
Batman moved like a nightmare through Gotham. Every corner of the city where Falcone had a presence, he hit with surgical precision. Warehouses, gambling dens, chop shops—it didn't matter. One by one, they fell. He didn't kill anyone, but he left a trail of broken bones, shattered teeth, and blood-soaked floors. Word spread fast through the underworld. The Bat was back, but this time, he wasn't the man they used to fear.
He was something else entirely.
By the time Batman reached the heart of the Falcone empire—an opulent mansion hidden in the shadows of the city's elite neighborhoods—the Roman had already heard the whispers. Carmine Falcone sat in his study, a glass of whiskey in hand, his fingers trembling slightly as he listened to the sounds of the city outside. His men, his empire—it was all crumbling in one night. And the worst part? He knew exactly who was responsible.
There was a crash from the front of the house, the sound of bodies hitting the floor, followed by silence. Falcone downed his drink, his breath shaky as he stood from his chair. The door to his study creaked open, and there he was.
Batman.
"You should've stayed away, Bat," Falcone said, his voice barely holding together.
Batman stepped into the room, his eyes glowing red in the dim light. "You think I care about warnings, Carmine?"
Falcone swallowed, reaching for a gun in his desk drawer. But before his fingers could even touch the handle, Batman was on him. He grabbed Falcone by the wrist, twisting it with enough force to shatter bone. Falcone screamed, dropping to his knees.
"You and your family," Batman said, his voice low and cold, "you thought you could keep playing your games. Thought you could keep running this city like it was your birthright."
"Gotham needs us," Falcone wheezed, tears streaming down his face. "We keep order—"
"You're a disease," Batman growled, slamming Falcone's head into the desk. "And I'm the cure."
With one final blow, Batman sent Falcone sprawling to the floor, his face a bloody mess. He wasn't dead—Batman made sure of that. But he wouldn't be coming back anytime soon.
As Batman stood over him, his cape billowing like a dark shroud, he looked around the room. This was what Gotham had become under Falcone. Corruption, greed, and violence. But no more. Not while he was in charge. It wasn't about justice anymore. It was about control. And he would control it all.
Tonight would be remembered as Falcone's Fall.