Chapter Four: Matches Malone Enters the Fight Club

(Batman's POV)

I was on a mission to track down Victor Dunne, a notorious and extremely dangerous individual who was rumored to be involved in an underground fight club located just a few miles away from Arkham Asylum. In that tense moment, Alfred contacted me via the Batmobile's communication system to inform me about this new lead. I wasted no time accelerating towards the fight club, eager to confront Dunne and unravel the mystery surrounding him.

Instead of going in as Batman, I chose to enter the fight club as Matches Malone, my underworld alter ego, and quickly established myself by defeating a couple of opponents. It wasn't long before I was set to face Victor Dunne himself. My plan was working—or so I thought. I fought strategically, intentionally holding back to prolong the fight and to extract information about the two slain women. Plus, I had hoped to get more information about the three other men Renfield sought after. From the looks of it, they weren't at the fight club. The dim, smoky arena was filled with jeers and cheers, the crowd ravenous for bloodshed. Dunne's brutality was evident; each strike carried an unhinged ferocity that mirrored the crimes he was accused of.

But my charade cracked. Dunne's eyes narrowed as he caught onto the slight hesitations in my movements, the calculated restraint. He stepped back, wiping blood from his lip, and sneered. "You're not Malone," he spat, his voice dripping with venom. "You're him… the Bat!"

A wave of realization rippled through the crowd. Chaos erupted like a thunderclap. Dunne shouted, rallying the crowd against me. Dozens of fighters surged forward, their bloodlust redirected at the intruder in their midst. Normally, these men would have feared the thought of fighting me one on one, but together, they felt much braver. I barely had time to react as the first blows came, ducking and weaving through the fray while my mind raced for a plan. The walls closed in, the cacophony of fists and shouts drowning out all else, and I was becoming overwhelmed.

Then, the world seemed to still. A loud crash reverberated through the club as the door slammed open. The air turned icy, and an unnatural silence fell over the room. Slowly, heads turned to the source of the disturbance. Standing in the doorway was Renfield. His gaunt frame seemed to cast an impossibly long shadow, his hollow eyes scanning the room with unsettling calm. Blood spattered his coat, and a cruel smile curled at his lips. He didn't speak, but his presence alone sent a shiver through the crowd. One by one, the fighters stepped back, leaving only me, Dunne, and the enigma that was Renfield.

Renfield moved with eerie precision, his footsteps echoing as he approached. The crowd parted like the Red Sea, fear etched into their faces. I used the momentary distraction to catch my breath, blood dripping from a gash on my forehead. But I knew this was far from over.

The fight resumed with brutal intensity. Dunne, sensing his imminent doom, lunged at Renfield, but it was like watching a moth attack a flame. Renfield's movements were almost otherworldly—every block, every strike was executed with clinical efficiency. Within moments, Dunne lay on the ground, gasping for air. I tried to intervene, launching myself at Renfield with everything I had left. He caught my punch effortlessly, his grip like a vice, and threw me aside as though I were a rag doll. Once again, he seemed to know my every move before I could make it.

But I wasn't finished. Gritting my teeth, I forced myself to stand. I veered left, then delivered a sharp kick aimed at Renfield's side. He absorbed the blow as though it were nothing, his pale eyes flicking to mine with an almost amused expression. It was as if he wanted me to hit him just so I could see how outmatched I was. His counterattack was swift—a crushing blow to my ribs that sent me sprawling. Pain exploded through my body, but I rolled to my feet, refusing to give in. Dunne had done some terrible things, but he needed to face justice through the courts, not like this.

"Persistent," Renfield murmured, stepping forward. His movements were graceful, almost predatory. I dodged his next strike and managed to land a solid punch to his jaw. For a brief moment, I thought I had him off balance, but he recovered instantly, slamming me into a nearby pillar. The impact left me dazed, but I clung to consciousness, my mind racing for an opening.

In a split-second, Renfield closed the distance again, his strikes relentless and precise. I parried as best I could, each block sending jolts of pain through my battered arms. Finally, I saw an opening and delivered a spinning kick to his chest, forcing him back a step. The crowd, silent and transfixed, seemed to hold its breath. But Renfield only smiled, a thin line of blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.

"Impressive," he said. "But futile."

With a sudden burst of speed, he seized my arm and twisted, forcing me to the ground. His knee pressed into my back, immobilizing me. I struggled, but his strength was inhuman. "You fight well, Batman," he whispered. "But you cannot stop what's coming. No mere mortal can!"

Renfield's eyes burned with a cold fury as he loomed over Dunne. "You thought you could escape judgment," he said, his voice low and venomous. "But justice finds all men, no matter how deeply they hide." With a swift, brutal motion, he decapitated Dunne. The room gasped as the severed head hit the floor with a sickening thud, rolling to a stop mere inches from where I lay.

I was too weak to move, every muscle in my body screaming in protest. Renfield turned to me, his expression inscrutable. For a moment, I thought he might finish the job, but instead, he knelt beside me. "You're too late," he murmured. "This is just the beginning."

With that, he rose, and before vanishing into the night, leaving me battered, broken, and surrounded by a stunned, silent crowd, he turned to me and said, "By the way… Thanks for helping me find Mallory. It made my job much easier." With those smug words, the weight of failure pressed heavily on my chest as the darkness crept into the edges of my vision. I had to force myself to stand before my consciousness could fade, leaving me to meet my fate at the hands of the rough and rowdy street fighters. I barely made it to the Batmobile just as my sight darkened.

(Renfield's POV)

From the shadows outside the club, I watched the chaos I had sown. The faint sound of sirens in the distance signaled that it was time to move on, but I stayed put for a moment, my thoughts lingering on the battered figure of Batman.

He is remarkable; I thought to myself; I found that to be admirable. So driven, so unyielding in his pursuit of justice. Even when the odds are stacked against him, he refuses to break.

Then I saw him making his way out of the building, desperately trying to make it to his automobile. I gave a small, sardonic smile as I began to walk into the night. It's almost poetic, really. To dedicate oneself so completely to an ideal, to sacrifice everything for a city that teeters constantly on the brink of ruin.

I paused at the edge of an alley, glancing back toward the same darkness he sought. I wonder, I mused aloud, if he realizes how much I appreciate his resolve. Without him, this city would crumble into anarchy. And without the anarchy, where would I find my purpose?

I found myself chuckling softly; the sound echoing in the empty streets. Yes, Batman, keep chasing the bad guys. Keep fighting for your justice. It makes my work… so much more interesting."

With that, I disappeared into the shadows, leaving only the faint scent of blood and the promise of more nightmares to come. There were still three left. And I had to find them before Batman found them first. Because soon, as clever as he is, he might figure out my weaknesses. Plus, Dracula is out there somewhere, surely seeking his vengeance upon me. And it wouldn't be long before he'd fully recover.

And just as Renfield feared... Far from the commotion of the fight club, another predator prowled the night. Dracula stood on the rooftops near Gotham's shipping docks, his crimson eyes scanning the underworld's illicit activities below. Hunger gnawed at him, and he descended silently, feeding swiftly and mercilessly on unsuspecting bystanders. Each victim's lifeless body crumpled to the ground as he wiped the blood from his lips, the hunger momentarily sated, continuing to bring life back into his bones.

As he moved toward the edge of the docks, a familiar stench reached his senses: fear and desperation. There, among the shadows, was Randall Clegg, a low-level dealer running narcotics through the dockyard. Dracula's lips curled into a wicked smile. He did not need to approach to know why this man reeked of terror—Renfield's presence lingered like an ominous whisper.

Dracula glided down, landing silently behind Clegg. The dealer whirled around, his eyes wide with panic. Before he could speak, Dracula's voice, smooth and commanding, sliced through the air. "You reek of guilt, little man. And fear. Tell me, who hunts you?"

Clegg stammered incoherently, his trembling hands dropping the duffel bag he carried. Dracula's gaze pierced into his very soul, and in that instant, the dealer froze. "Renfield," Dracula murmured, almost to himself. "Of course." Clegg had witnessed Renfield's bloodshed back at the drug house, where the four crooked police officers had met their demise. He was lucky enough to have escaped while the officers were busy unloading their firearms.

The ancient vampire's expression darkened, a cruel satisfaction creeping into his voice. "He will come for you, just as he has for the others. But you, Randall, are mine now."

Dracula's eyes glowed an unholy red as he extended his hand. "Kneel," he commanded. Clegg dropped to his knees, his will stripped away by the vampire's hypnotic power. "You will serve me, and when Renfield comes, I will be ready."

Dracula leaned in close, his voice a chilling whisper. "He thinks himself unstoppable, a force of reckoning. But he forgets who made him. And I, dear Clegg, do not forgive betrayal."

Clegg nodded weakly, his mind trapped in Dracula's thrall. Satisfied, the vampire stepped back, his cape billowing as he vanished into the shadows. "Let him come," Dracula muttered, his voice carrying on the night wind. "This time, the hunter will learn the taste of fear."