(Remember to Vote and Comment as it Does a Lot for Motivation Seeing That You're Reading)

The Gotham City Zoo was buzzing with the sounds of animals and chattering children, but one boy was focused. He had only one exhibit in mind. Pressing a hand against the glass panel of the bat habitat, the boys eyes lit up as he read the bold, slightly ridiculous slogan: Bats are CRAZY! A cartoonish bat on the sign seemed to wink down at him, declaring, "I'm batty!"

"Y/N!" called a familiar voice.

The boy named Y/N turned to see his father, Dr F/N L/N, standing amidst a cluster of classmates. His smile was gentle but insistent, a signal that Y/N had lingered too long. "There'll be plenty of time for bats later," he assured, nodding toward the path that led deeper into the zoo. "Come on, let's get started."

Reluctantly, Y/N gave one last glance at the bats and trotted over to rejoin the group.

As they continued on their tour, the class reached the lion enclosure. There, a massive lion lay sprawled on a sun-warmed rock, lazily gnawing on a hunk of meat. Dr. L/N raised his voice to address the students, eyes glinting with a hint of mischief. "So, what have we learned here, class?"

Everyone was silent, Y/N looked to his left, and then to his right awkwardly hoping someone would speak up, but he was still met with silence. So he decided to take the risk and speak "Uh, that this guy has the life?"

A few students snickered, casting quick glances at one another. F/N's lips curled into a slight, knowing smile.

"Enlighten us, Y/N," F/N said, his eyes settling firmly on his son.

Y/N glanced back at the lion, considering his response. "Well... it says here he sleeps twenty hours a day. Plus, he gets fed prime rib three times a day, and he never has to be afraid of anything."

F/N nodded thoughtfully. "Fair. He might be coddled," he said, "but he'll never affect anything. Never mean very much."

Y/N chuckled softly, leaning back with a hint of defiance. "He never has to go to school..."

The classroom broke into scattered laughter, but F/N wasn't fazed. He shook his head with a smile. "Says the boy to his father, the teacher," he replied, his voice warm and full of subtle humor.

Y/N's eyes softened. "I'm just messing with you... Mr L/N."

"Forgiven," F/N said, ruffling his son's hair. The class began to scatter around this small area, taking in the sights of the many animals around them. As they did so, Y/N stayed close to his father. "So, are you excited for the movie tonight?"

Y/N looked away, a bit bashful. "I mean, I'm excited for the movie. But... do I really have to come?"

"Yes," F/N said firmly, but with a twinkle in his eye. "It's the film you and your mom met at, the Mark of Zorro is old I get it. But why do I—"

Suddenly, the sound of a loud bang echoed, sharp and startling.

BLAM

Y/N's head whipped around just as F/N's face grew serious, his eyes widening. Another gunshot cracked through the air, sending a jolt of fear into everyone nearby. "Follow me! Now!" F/N shouted, his voice steady but urgent.

The sound of panicked cries rose around them as the crowd scattered. Bodies dropped to the ground, some frozen in fear, others pressing themselves against the zoo's exhibits for cover. Another gunshot rang out, tearing through the air with brutal finality.

BLAM

F/N's hand clenched around Y/N's shoulder, guiding him and the other children away from the open path. They weaved through the chaos, past fallen figures and startled zoo animals, past a giraffe stretching its neck up in panic.

"Hurry!" F/N shouted, ushering the group into the shadowed shelter of what seemed to be a supply closet. "This way! Everyone inside!"

Y/N stumbled in after his father, his heart racing as the last of the children ducked in behind them. F/N stayed at the door, blocking it with his body as more shots rang out. The familiar look of reassurance was gone from his face, replaced instead by something fierce, something desperate.

Y/N watched, breathless, as F/N stood guard, silhouetted against the chaos outside. People ran past F/N.

"Dad, get inside!" Y/N cried, his voice shaking. He could feel the fear tightening in his throat, clawing at his words.

F/N didn't move, standing guard outside the door. His eyes met Y/N's for a fleeting second, filled with something too deep, too profound for words.

"Dad!" Y/N shouted again, desperation seeping into his voice. But the only reply was the sound that would haunt him forever. BLAM!

Y/N's scream echoed off the cold concrete walls. "Dad!"

Before he could run out, F/N's hand gripped the door handle, pulling it shut. His voice was low and steady, though there was a raw edge beneath it. "Y/N, whatever you hear, you do not open this door."

Through the small window, Y/N watched as F/N stepped back, his body tense, every inch of him ready to protect. A lone gunman approached, moving through the shadows with calculated steps, weapon drawn and aimed.

Y/N pressed his palm against the glass, unable to tear his eyes away. He could feel the cold metal of the handle under his fingers, wanting more than anything to rush out, to reach him, to do something anything.

But he stayed. And then, in the heavy silence, he heard it. The faintest crunch of a flower's stem beneath the gunman's boot as he neared, a small white blossom crushed underfoot.

BLAM!

The final shot rang out, louder than all the others, and the world went silent.

Y/N's hand slid down the glass, leaving a faint trail. He stood there, alone, his breath fogging up the window.

-------------------------

Twenty Years After the Death of F/N L/N

-------------------------

Y/N stood in front of Croc's Gym, its neon green sign glowing against the city's darkening skyline. The buildings around it were battered, windows shattered, construction cranes looming over piles of debris like skeletal fingers. He closed his eyes, grounding himself in the gritty atmosphere. Tonight, he thought, this is my city.

Y/N L/N had practically transformed his body after years of hardworking and dedication. Most of his body had become adorned with the scars of mistakes, running with the wrong crowed for a few years, a few years out of Gotham. Each scar told its own story, ones which Y/N refused to tell. But his arms were brewing with muscles, muscles he intended to keep training, to keep pushing himself.

Inside, the gym was mostly empty, a stark quiet broken only by the rhythmic thuds and creaks of old equipment. Y/N stepped into his fighting stance, fists wrapped, his muscles tense and ready. He began with quick jabs, his fists connecting with the punching bag in a steady, pulsing rhythm.

Wak. Wak. Wak.

"No fear," he whispered to himself, his voice low and focused. Each punch felt like he was beating back the darkness inside him, pushing away every hesitation, every doubt.

Wak.

"No weakness," he muttered, taking a step back before pivoting and landing a sharp, high kick on the bag. His foot connected with a heavy impact that echoed through the room.

"Unh!" he grunted, feeling the satisfying resistance of the bag as he poured his strength into each strike. He swung another kick, and another, each one harder than the last.

Wak. Wak. Wak.

The words continued in his mind like a mantra. Tonight, you are a weapon. He was fully immersed, each strike deliberate, purposeful. He was lost in the rhythm of his punches, his breaths, the constant stream of strength and focus until-

The ringing of a bell interrupted his thoughts.

"Ding ding."

A voice cut through his haze. "I think it's my turn," someone said from behind him.

Y/N looked over his shoulder and saw a face, his face almost emotionless as the man looked at him, his eyes slightly widening when Y/N finally turned around.

"Oh, hey, Y/N," the man greeted, stepping closer. "Sorry, I didn't mean to interrupted." He casually and playfully tapped the punching bag, laughing. "Big date tonight," he continued, flexing his knuckles. "Gotta get in the right headspace. It's brutal out there, you know?" the man continued to laugh awkwardly, Y/N just starring back at him.

Y/N didn't laugh. His face was calm, controlled, eyes sharp and intense. "Don't worry," he replied, his voice low and edged. The man, undeterred by Y/N's tone, simply grinned and stepped back, waving his hand in a mockingly gracious gesture. "Now move," Y/N commanded.

Without hesitation, Y/N resumed his stance, his fists held high as he focused on the bag once more. His shoulders tightened, and he unleashed a punch that landed with a resounding THOOM.

The sound reverberated, filling the entire gym. Y/N's strikes grew fiercer, faster, his power undeniable. His fists connected with bone-rattling force, each blow stronger than the last.

BOOM

Around him, other gym-goers paused, glancing over at him with wide eyes, awe evident in their expressions.

"Damn," one of them whispered, watching as Y/N dominated the bag, completely oblivious to the onlookers around him, completely zoned out, and locked in.

The heavy punch landed with a deafening THOOM, sending vibrations through the gym's worn-out equipment. Y/N stepped back, wiping sweat from his brow, barely fazed by the impact he'd just delivered to the punching bag. But his intense focus was interrupted by Waylon's voice.

"Really?" Waylon muttered, holding the remains of the damaged bag in his hands, sand spilling from the gaping tear Y/N had left. He looked unimpressed, but Y/N caught the small smirk hidden in his eyes.

"Fuck, sorry, Waylon," Y/N muttered, a bit embarrassed. The broken bag wasn't intentional... at least not this time.

Waylon sighed, looking down at the mess. "Alright, let's make it ninety for the bag. And thirty for the sand." His tone was nonchalant, but Y/N knew he meant business.

"What?" Y/N scoffed. "The sand comes in the bag."

Waylon shrugged, not budging. "For the cleanup of the sand, my friend. My time is costly these days."

Y/N ran a hand through his damp hair, chuckling under his breath. "You're really going through with it?" he asked, noticing Waylon's demeanor had changed lately. His friend had been more... business-minded, even if it came with a rough edge.

"Yep," Waylon replied, a glint of pride in his eye. "Thinking of calling the place Waylon's Scales of Gotham." He grinned, adjusting the large snake draped over his shoulders. "Oz hooked me up with the exotic pet license. Got a place sorted, now just dealing with the insurance" he laughed.

Y/N raised an eyebrow, stifling a laugh. "Oz? Waylon... you know who he's under" he said, voice low and almost emotionless. Y/N knew exactly who Oz worked for.

Unfazed, Waylon tightened his grip on the snake. "I'm dealing with Oz, not the Falcones. Just a small favour, that's all. Besides, Penguins know how to hide their eggs. Oz is our boy. I know after everything that went down you're a little uneasy with the Falcones" Waylon stated, his gaze shifted toward Y/N, expectant. "Anyway, we been missing at the last few games" he added, trying to change the subject.

Y/N's smile faded. "I... can't."

"You haven't come to poker in months, man," Waylon pressed. "Everyone's in this week. Chuck, Zviad, Otis, made even try Selina if she's free-"

"I said I can't." Y/N's voice was firm, final.

Waylon frowned, studying his friend's tense face. "At least tell me you're going out tonight, I got my costume all lined up"

Y/N averted his gaze, feeling the weight of his responsibilities pressing down on him. "I'll buy you a new bag as soon as I get paid," he deflected.

Waylon wasn't convinced, frustration seeping into his tone. "Come on, man. The whole city's coming apart." He paused, his voice hardening. "You saw what's happening on the news. This election got everyone riled up. There's people on the streets just looking for fights, and I'm doing my best to keep Dropheads outta here" Waylon said as he picked up a nearby broom and began to tidy up Y/Ns mess.

"I gotta go," Y/N interrupted, his voice barely a whisper as he moved toward the door, feeling the suffocating images in his mind's eye.

Waylon's frustration broke through. "What is going on with you?" He watched Y/N's retreating figure with a mixture of anger and sadness.

Y/N hesitated, glancing at the framed picture on the wall an image of laughing kids, reminders of innocent days long past. Waylon's voice softened, his gaze unwavering. "This is our home, man... someone's got to do something."

But Y/N was already gone, the weight of the city pulling him back into the night.

Thursday, October 31st.

The  streets are crowded for the holiday. Even with the rain. Hidden in the chaos is the element waiting to strike like snakes. But I'm there too. Watching. Two years of nights have turned me into a nocturnal animal. I must choose my targets carefully. It's a big city. I can't be everywhere. But they don't know where I am. We have a  now. For when I'm needed. But when that light hits the sky, it's not just a call. It's a warning. To them. Fear... is a tool. They think I'm hiding in the shadows. But I am the shadows. I wish I could say I'm making a difference, but I don't know. Murder, robberies, assault. Two years later, they're all up. The city's eating itself. Maybe it's beyond saving. But I have to try. Push myself.

A man, one you'd pass without even paying attention weaved through the crowed like a ghost. He wore baggy clothing, greasy, unkept hair, and nothing matched. One would consider him a Drifter. Many people pass this man, they were dressed up in halloween themed costumes, even the holidays caused trouble. Y/Ns baggy eyes scanned the surroundings, taking in everything, he knew exactly what was going in the city;

A man wearing a mask, an addict to a drug known only as drops held up a gun to a store clerk. Wanting to get more money to fuel his addiction to chase the high.

One person was spray painting on city hall.

A group of wannabe thugs, wearing white make up and black around their eyes were eyeing up their next target, edging their newest recruit to taste his first blood.

But they all felt the same thing, a basic emotion coursing through his veins as they looked into the sky and saw a Bat shaped symbol glaring at them;

Fear

On the roof of an abandoned, half built, skyscraper a rusted searchlight shot its beam into the rainy night sky.

Y/N knew what he had to do. In a dimly lit alley, Y/N slung his backpack off and pulled up a tube of black camouflage paint. Quickly he smeared the paint around his eyes, then reached further into the backpack for a stitched together black cowl and armour.

The gang at the train station harassed their target, surrounding him and handing their newest recruit a knife cheering and yelling for him to stab the man. They called themselves the Ghouls, inspired by him, a man who also took pleasure in harming others with a smile.

But, their cheering and laughter were cut short. As loud, clunky, metallic footsteps could be heard, echoing through the station. The rain poured down around them, obscuring their view to the originator of these footsteps. A masked figure dressed in black stepped into the dim light of Gotham City.

Like a specter summoned from a nightmare, he stepped forward. The dark, armored figure was imposing, his silhouette sharp and severe, outlined briefly by a flash of lightning. This was no ordinary man he was something more ominous, more brutal.

This suit, this armour, clung to his frame, every inch designed to intimidate. Matte-black plating covered his chest, shoulders, and forearms, segmented to allow movement but bulky enough to absorb blows and deflect gunfire. A large thick Batsymbol embroiled on his chest, drawing attention of every shooter. Each piece bore signs of combat, scratched and scuffed from his recent encounters, giving him the look of a hardened warrior. His utility belt, a darkened brass with a faint glint, rested firmly at his waist, heavy with gadgets and tools, a silent promise of pain and precision.

Raindrops cascaded down his cowl, pooling and streaking over the sharp lines that covered his mask. His eyes seemingly glowed faintly, barely visible through the darkness of his helm, giving his gaze a terrifying, almost otherworldly intensity. The shredded cape flowed behind him, trailing in the wind and rain, whispering against the wet ground. He moved with a slow, deliberate menace, each step echoing through the alley, amplifying the dread among the criminals. They couldn't see his face, but the brutal lines of his armour, the monstrous bat symbol embossed on his chest, and the raw power in his stance were enough.

Edit Made By KN1GHTFALL

The thugs staggered back, eyes widening as they struggled to comprehend the shape in front of them. Batman's form was almost indistinct in the rain-slick darkness, but every flash of lightning seemed to chisel him out of shadow, illuminating the brutal contours of his armor. To them, he wasn't a man. He was a wrathful wraith, a creature more at home in nightmares than alleys. Fear pulsed in their veins as the leader, clutching a metal pipe in a shaking hand, mustered a sneer.

"The hell you supposed to be?" he spat, masking his terror with bravado.

Without a word, Batman surged forward. His gloved hand shot out, seizing the thug's wrist in an iron grip, twisting sharply. Bones snapped with a sickening crack, and the leader screamed, but Batman wasn't done. His fists fell like hammers, smashing into the thug's face over and over.

He straightened slowly, raising his head to look at the rest of the gang, rain dripping off his cowl. His voice was low, barely audible above the downpour, but it held the weight of a death sentence.

"I'm Vengeance," he growled, the words soaked in a promise of pain.

One thug, barely more than a kid, swallowed hard.

"Holy shit... that's him..." he stammered, voice shaking. His legs buckled as he took a stumbling step back, torn between the urge to flee and the knowledge that running might provoke this dark figure further. But fear got the best of him, and he turned tail, sprinting into the night, boots splashing in panic fueled retreat.

Batman rose from the ground like a creature of the night, his mere figure imposing.

They charged, yelling in a vain attempt to cover their fear, rushing him from all sides. Batman let them come, his body coiling like a predator waiting for prey to fall into its trap.

One thug swung a crowbar, and Batman sidestepped, grabbing his arm and yanking him forward with brutal force. The thug stumbled, and Batman's knee came up to meet his face, breaking his nose with a wet crunch. Another tried to swing a knife at him, but Batman caught his wrist, twisting it until he heard the pop of dislocated joints, then slammed an elbow into the thug's temple, knocking him out cold.

Before he could turn, a third thug managed to sneak up behind, slamming a metal pipe against Batman's cowl with a ringing clang. The force caused him to stagger, momentarily stunned. But Batman recovered quickly, lashing out with a savage back kick that sent his assailant crashing into a pile of garbage, clutching his ribs in agony.

Batman's movements were relentless, calculated and merciless. Another Ghoul rushed at him, but Batman sidestepped, using the thug's momentum against him. He grabbed the thug by his jacket and swung him around, hurling him into two others who were advancing, sending them sprawling onto the slick pavement. They landed hard, sliding in the rain-soaked alley, clutching at each other as they tried to regain their footing.

Another thug tried his luck, pulling a handgun from his pocket. "Hey, man, no!" a recruit shouted, but the thug was already firing, the shot echoing through the alley. The bullet struck Batman's armored shoulder, the impact staggering him but leaving him unharmed. Batman glared, his eyes narrowing with renewed fury. The thug raised the gun for another shot, but Batman moved first, ducking low and closing the distance in a heartbeat.

With a swift motion, Batman activated a taser built into his right gauntlet, grabbing the thug's neck and slamming him against a nearby pole. Sparks erupted as the electricity surged through his body, the thug's scream choking into a gurgle as his muscles seized up, his gun clattering uselessly to the ground. Batman released him, letting his limp body crumple to the wet concrete.

The few remaining thugs who could still stand took one look at the carnage and bolted, splashing through puddles as they disappeared into the darkness. One Ghoul stepped forward, blood pooling and dripping from the corner of his mouth but he still smiled.

"That's how you wanna play it?" he asked, reaching into his inner pockets and pulled out two butcher cleavers, sharp, and dripping with blood.

Batman spoke no words, and simply reached to his utility belt. The vigilante flicked out a thick retractable staff, which he then moved to his chest. Quickly the tip of the staff attached itself to the thick, armoured, heavy symbol on Y/Ns chest and magnetised itself while a strap wrapped itself around the tip.

Swinging the staff downwards, Batman revealing this newly created tool to be a Bat themed axe. Shinning, polished, and immediately striking fear in the Ghoul opposite him.

The Ghoul looked at the axe, and then back to the eyes of Batman. And immediately dropped his cleavers, fleeing like the rest of the filth. Leaving Batman to fold away the staff and reattach his symbol.

Only remained a young recruit, paralyzed by fear, watching in horror as Batman turned to face him. Their eyes locked, and the recruit saw something cold and merciless in the depths of that mask, a promise that left no room for mercy. Even he, who had yet to do anything wrong, felt the weight of Batman's judgment, and he turned, sprinting down a different alleyway, stumbling as he fled the same darkness he had foolishly tried to join.

In the silence that followed, Batman finally turned to the man the thugs had been harassing, still cowering against the wall, drenched and trembling. The man's face was a mask of terror, his voice a ragged whisper. "P-please... please don't hurt me..."

Batman said nothing, only stared. He didn't need to say anything. The message was clear. The city had something to fear, someone to fear, and he would make sure they remembered it. Batman turned his attention to the night sky. Seeing his warning shining bright for all to see; Gordon Was Calling. He Was Needed Elsewhere.

Batman arrived at a crime scene that was littered with GCPD Officers throughout every hallway and entrance. This was the home of Don Mitchell Jr, current Mayor of Gotham who was up for re-election. While Mitchel wasn't exactly the most popular in the public eye, he was partly responsible on a drug raid on former mob boss Sal Maroni. And here were the GCPD, and the Batman, looking over every detail of his house looking for a clue.

As the vigilante walked down the hallway, they all starred at him. Looks of hatred, disgust, disco tempt, 99% of them hated seeing him here. They did not trust the judgment of a vigilante in regards to such a serious crime. Y/N was lead through the mansion by Jim Gordon, his only ally on the GCPD, the only one who he fully trusted.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa" an officer said, placing his hand on Batmans armoured chest, over his symbol stopping him from entering the room with the body of the former mayor. "Police action" he said, alarmed.

"He's with me officer" Gordon said over his shoulder to the confused, and frightened officer.

"You kidding me sir" the officer asked back.

"Martinez" Gordon stated slowly and calmly. "Let him through" he added. The officer sighed, removing his hand from the vigilantes chest.

Batman slowly moved passed the officer, who starred at the vigilante as he entered the crime scene. "Goddamn freak" he scoffed turning back to guard the entrance.

Batman and Gordon entered the crime scene, forensic officers were finishing off. Combing through every area they could with a UV light looking for any piece of evidence they could find, meanwhile detectives inspected the body while wearing white latex gloves that Gordon soon put on himself.

"What do we know?" Gordon asked the detective closest to the body. The detective in question looked unnerved, not only at the body, but at the presence of the Batman in the room. The vigilante moved around, to properly take a look at the body himself. The entire head was wrapped up in what seemed to be duck tape, what could only be blood were the words 'NO, MORE, LIES' written were the face would be.

"Detective?" Gordon asked, shaking him from his shocked state.

"Sorry Lieutenant" the detective stated, his eyes darting over to Batman and then back to Gordon in worry. "We got blunt force trauma, lacerations on the head, he got hit a lot of times. And hard" the detective finished as Gordon moved to the body himself and pulled out a torch to inspect it.

"All this blood's from his head?" Gordon confused, looking at where Mitchells scalp should be.

The detective moved around the room, almost bumping into the Batman and moving out of the way. "Most of it's from his hand. Thumb was severed. Killer may have taken it as a trophy" the detective showed Mitchells left hand to Gordon, showcasing that the thumb had been completely removed.

"He was alive when it was cut off" Batman interjected, his voice no more than a hushed whisper causing Gordon and the detective to loom at the vigilante. "Ecchymosis... around the wound" he stated drawn out, causing their attention on the small detail. They saw through flashes of a camera, many newspapers stuck to a window, all talking about the great deeds Mitchell had done as Mayor. With the word 'LIES' written across them all.

"Security detail downstairs said the family was out trick-or-treatin' The mayor was up here alone" the detective stated, as Batman walked around the room, slowly and carefully. Taking in each detail as the GCPD took photos of the wall and blood patterns. "Killer may have come through the skylight".

"You said, there was a card?" Gordon asked the detective, who pulled out a ziplock bag and unraveled the seemingly innocent greeting card with a sinister twist. On the front of the card was an owl, and Gordon read out the words.

"From your secret friend. Whooo?" he drew out as he opened the card to reveal the rest of the writing scribbled within. "Haven't a clue, let's play a game, just me and you" he continued, as Batman moved over quietly to read the card over Gordons shoulder. "What does a liar do when he's dead?

"There's a cipher too" the detective explained, pulling out an A4 sheet of paper with many black and white boxes on it. Whoever this killer was, they were smart.

"Any of this mean anything to you?" Gordon asked his masked ally as he showed him the card. Before the Batman could answer;

"What's going on here?" the voice of Commissioner Pete Savage, a slightly overweight man with grey hair and glasses. He was the one responsible for getting the lead on Sal Maroni and busting his drop businesses across Gotham.

"I asked him to come, Pete" Gordon tried to justify as he moved across the room to meet the Commissioner.

"It's Mitchell for Christ Sakes!" Savage roared as he met Jim in the middle of the room, anger clear as day in his voice. "I got the press downstairs. You know, I cut you a lot of slack, Jim, 'cause we got history. But this is way over the line" Savage continued, but he was cut off as Gordon slowly held up the envelope that the card was held in. It had 'to The Batman' written on it. "Wait, he's involved in this?"

"No, he's not involved" Gordon tried to say.

"How do you know? He's a goddamn vigilante! He could be a suspect! What are you doin' to me? We used to be partners" Savage continued berating the lieutenant, they were partners yet Savage moved up to much more quickly than Gordon.

"I'm just trying to find the connection Pete" Gordon responded, looking down at the floor and then back to the Commissioner.

Throughout all of this, Batman did say a word, he barley moved. He was in deep thought, calculating, thinking of an answer to the Riddle. He didn't much care for the internal politics of the GCPD of who did what and who was in the right. "He lies still" he said while looking at the body, garnering the attention of the two.

"Excuse me?" Savage asked.

"The Riddle" Gordon answered, showing him the rest of he card with the riddle written inside. "What does a liar do when he's dead? He lies still".

Savage then moved towards the body, finally taking in what had happened to their beloved Mayor Mitchell, wrapped up in duck tape like badly repaired house equipment. "Oh Jesus" he stated, finally taking in the sight. "This must be your favorite night of the year, huh, pal? Happy fuckin' Halloween" he scoffed towards the masked vigilante who had no reaction.

"Escuse me, Commissioner" Martinez came in, the attention shifting to him. "They're ready for your statement" he said, rather gently.

Savage moved towards the door, not before turning towards Gordon. "I want him outta here, NOW!" he roared leaving the room.

Gordon turned to the Batman, "Come on" he said, with them both moving towards the door. However as cameras clicked and flashed, something caught Batman's attention, a small, bloodied footstep. "Yeah, the kid found him" he stated, causing the man behind the mask to go into thought for a moment, reminding the Man, of how he found his own father.

The press had gathered outside the Mayor's house, Commissioner Pete Savage giving a statement about what the city had lost. Around the corner, Y/N, a drifter, watched the sight as he readied a motorcycle he had built from scratch, to prevent anyone from tracing him.

Y/N navigated the gritty streets of Gotham on his sleek motorcycle, the city's heartbeat pulsed around him, a symphony of chaos and despair. Dressed in a drifter guise, a shadow among shadows. The neon lights flickered overhead, casting eerie glows that danced across the pavement as they weaved through traffic with calculated precision. The roar of his bike echoed off the towering buildings, a sound that seemed to both command respect and invoke fear in equal measure. Day light was slowly swallowing the city whole. Finally, as the city skyline loomed ahead, Y/N's motorcycle veered off the main thoroughfare and into the depths of the urban labyrinth.

There it was, tucked between rusting heaps of scrap metal and half-collapsed warehouses a weather-beaten shipping container that most people would overlook. Most people had. Y/N slowed his bike as he approached, cutting the engine and letting silence fall like a shroud over the area. No alarms. No out-of-place shadows. Just how he'd left it.

He got off the bike, his boots grinding into the grit of the concrete, and pulled open the container door with a faint metallic screech. Inside, everything was just as he remembered silent, dim, and cramped with the bare essentials. He flicked on a single hanging bulb, casting a low, harsh glow that revealed the rough interior. The space was small, barely wider than the bike he'd just parked outside, and it smelled faintly of old oil and something metallic, almost like blood.

The makeshift home away from home, if you could call it that, was a rough collection of shelves lined with parts scraps from older iterations of his suit, tools borrowed or scavenged, and the essentials he'd pieced together over years of working alone. Against the far wall sat an ancient, dusty tarp draped over an old car frame, something he had been working on. It still needed work.

He then tossed the backpack with the suit in, into a corner clanging against the metal wall. The young man slouched in an old office chair which felt as if it was going to fall apart at any moment. Y/N then dug into his pockets, and pulled out the card that Gordon had sneakily handed him when no one was looking. Sliding the card underneath the desk, the man wiped his bagged eyes as the card was scanned by old an old printer and uploaded to his laptop.

Y/N looked at the symbols, this was going to be difficult. But he looked at the time, it was getting late, or early depending on how you looked at it. So he set his laptop to work, using a few online AI tools set up with dummy accounts trying to order and translate the symbols of the cipher.

Y/N closed the container door behind him. The walk back to his apartment complex was short but felt endless, each step a reminder of how badly his muscles ached. The streetlights had just flickered off with the sunrise, but this part of town was still wrapped in early morning shadows, the corners darker, quieter.

His apartment building was a dingy, half-forgotten complex that had seen better days, probably when he was a kid. He climbed the three flights of stairs, gripping the railing with one hand and swallowing back a yawn. As he reached the landing, he heard a familiar sound, the quiet scratch of a pencil. There, sitting on the stairwell's edge with a notebook open across his lap, was Edward Nashton, a quiet man. But he barley bothered Y/N.

"Hey, Nashton," Y/N muttered, managing a weary smile. The man looked up, wide-eyed for a second before a faint smirk appeared, as if he'd been caught doing something he shouldn't.

"Y/N," Edward replied, his voice soft but clipped. His eyes flicked down, noting the state Y/N was in disheveled, a faint bruise under one eye, hair still damp with sweat from the helmet.

Y/N tried to keep walking, but his body wasn't on board with that plan. "Busy morning?" Edward asked, glancing back to his notebook. The lines on the page were spidery, dense with notes that looked like logic puzzles.

"Late night," Y/N muttered, not slowing down, not looking back.

"Did you see the news?" Nashton called out, a small, ever so small smirk present on his lips. Not that Y/N would see it.

"Yeah" was all Y/N reeled with as he was about to march up another flight. "Night Ed".

When he finally got to his door, he fumbled with his key, feeling the frustration of every half-second delay. The lock clicked open, and he stumbled inside. His apartment was nothing impressive a cramped studio with barely enough room for a bed, a desk with an old radio, and a small, aging TV that he barely used. The curtains were half-shut, the floor worn from years of footsteps tracing the same tired paths.

Without thinking, he collapsed onto the bed, barely kicking his boots off. His body sank into the worn mattress, and he let his eyes close, just for a second.

Four hours. That's all he'd get before he had to be up, showered, and dressed to pass as a regular person. Four hours that felt like they'd slip away before he even had a chance to close his eyes.

He let out a breath, muttering to himself, "Five minutes. I just need five minutes."

The words slipped from his lips like a wish, a promise he couldn't keep, and he closed his eyes, letting the morning light drift softly through the blinds as he drifted, slowly, toward sleep.

Author's Note

And there we go, a chapter done and dusted. NGL really happy with the first half of this, wanted to blend that sense of The Batman, Absolute Batman and kinda make Y/N his own. Also named this chapter after the first issue of Absolute Batman, if you haven't read it, highly suggest you do. One of the best Batman comics I've read in a while.

I just had to include the Axe, I'm sorry but this wouldn't be Absolute Batman without it. Wanted to show this Batman is lot more of a brawler. Looking forward to seeing what I change and keep for The Batman.

Once again I would like to thank KN1GHTFALL for making that amazing Batsuit edit. It's awesome, read his story Crow, especially if you like Sydney Sweeney and Scarlet Johansson lol

Also, yeah there's gonna some comic book stuff. I ain't staying realistic.

Anyway,

What was your favourite part of the chapter?

Please check out my other stories

Hope You Enjoyed

Have a Nice Morning/Day/Evening/Night

See You Next Time