The morning sun stretched across the living room, casting a warm glow over the space. The soothing sound of Reggie's whistling echoed off the walls as he stood behind the counter, preparing breakfast.
The door slid open with a low creak, and Jaxon stepped in, his towering presence filling the room. His hair was a tangled mess, his face still heavy with sleep, evidence of a restless night.
"Morning, Reggie," Jaxon said, his voice still thick with sleep.
Reggie glanced over his shoulder, giving Jaxon a brief look before turning back to his cooking. "Morning, kid. How was your night?"
Jaxon strolled toward the dining table, pouring himself a glass of water before sitting down. "T'was fine… till Milo started snoring."
Reggie let out a loud cackle. "You'll get used to it."
Jaxon chuckled softly, sipping his water as Reggie's laughter lingered in the air before gradually fading.
After a brief pause, Jaxon's voice turned serious. "Hey, Reggie… how long have you lived in Gotham?"
Reggie smirked. "Nearly 60 years now. Lived here all my life, kid. Been around longer than most folks, I'll tell ya that. How the hell do you think I was—"
"Tell me about Gotham, Reggie… please."
Reggie paused mid-motion, his hands still as he slowly turned, locking eyes with Jaxon, who sat at the table.
"Let it go, kid. It's for your own good."
"He's right, Reggie," Milo's voice came from the doorway. "Don't you think we at least deserve to know that much?" He stepped out from the shadows into the dim light. "Tell us about Gotham's past."
Reggie's eyes darted between them. A part of him resisted—the past was better left buried. But something about the way they asked… their faces no longer carried the naïve curiosity of boys. For the first time, he saw men—men who deserved answers.
With a heavy sigh, he tossed the towel draped over his arm onto the counter. The usual warmth in his expression faded, replaced by something grave. Slowly, he stepped out of the kitchen and made his way to the dining table, easing into a chair.
"So, you both want to know about Gotham's past, huh?"
Jaxon immediately leaned forward. "Yes."
"We do," Milo added.
Reggie huffed. "Alright, here's the deal. Before the Golden Age we're in now, there were three major eras—The Age of Anarchy, The Belmont Regime, and The Reaper's Reign.
I'll tell you about the first two, but the third... that one, you'll have to figure out on your own. I can't go that far. And one more thing—what I tell you stays between us. No exceptions. No second chances. Do we have a deal?"
Reggie's gaze shifted between Jaxon and Milo, waiting.
"Deal," Jaxon said without hesitation.
"I'm in," Milo replied.
Reggie huffed, reconsidering his decision. After a brief pause, he exhaled sharply. "Alright then, kids... let's get to it. The Age of Anarchy in Gotham."
Jaxon and Milo's eyes sparkled with anticipation as they leaned forward.
****
The Mayor's Office
A vast hall bathed in white overhead lights, their glow reflecting off the polished marble floor. At the center, a sturdy brown wooden table stood before the Mayor's grand seat. The walls bore framed portraits of past dignitaries, their gazes frozen in time. To the left, a four-way couch rested against the wall, positioned near a television mounted at the side, its screen dark and silent.
Opposite him sat a man of similar age, his dark complexion accentuated by a neatly groomed brown mustache. His bald head gleamed under the office lights, complementing the sharp black suit he wore. A crisp white shirt peeked from beneath his jacket, neatly tucked under a properly knotted tie. His posture was composed, yet his eyes held an intensity that suggested purpose.
"Mr General I agree you know why I summoned you here today?" The Mayor asked his voice echoing off the walls.
"If this is about Black Mask" he responded his voice calm, deep, composed and laced with a bit of black swagger. A subtle smile crept up his face "Then I must say Mr Mayor you really have to get your priorities straight we have multiple criminal organizations in Gotham that are yet to be taken down, petty crimes like thiefing and smuggling has increased with about 20% over the past month and here you are worried about a guy playing superhero in a black costume." A slight deep chuckle escaped his lips the grin on his face growing only wider.
The Mayor remained composed, his fingers interlocked on the desk. "Listen, Germain. Black Mask poses a real threat to our society, and as the Mayor, I order you to—"
Germain cut him off smoothly. "Already handled. We have multiple troops stationed across the city, embedded in various disguises. They have one directive—eliminate Black Mask on sight. The moment he shows himself, he's dead." His voice carried an air of certainty, laced with calculated precision. "I started making preparations the day you declared him a public enemy. Unless he somehow becomes Superman, his death is a near certainty—87.65% to be exact. The remaining percentage… still in progress."
Without waiting for a response, Germain pushed his chair back and rose to his feet, adjusting the sides of his suit with a sharp tug. "I believe my job here is done. If you'll excuse me, I have real work to attend to."
He turned on his heel, moving with quiet confidence toward the door, the measured sound of his footsteps filling the vast office. But just before reaching the exit, he halted.
"Mr. Mayor," he said without looking back. "I wasn't going to say this, but I think you should know—people are starting to see it. You're being controlled, and it's getting obvious. Not just to me, but to others as well."
The Mayor's fingers tightened slightly, but he remained silent.
Germain continued, his tone colder now. "And that means your respect is fading. I may follow orders because you're my superior, but don't mistake that for authority over me."
He let the words hang in the air for a moment before glancing over his shoulder, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
"Good luck, Mr. Mayor."
With that, he strode out, the door clicking shut behind him.
The Mayor's gaze lingered on the door, his expression clouded with despair. His fist clenched tightly, nails pressing into his palm, before his head dipped, weighed down by the crushing weight of anxiety.
Germain strode down the grand hallway, his dark silhouette a stark contrast against the gleaming marble floor and towering white pillars. Bright overhead lights illuminated his path, reflecting off the polished stone.
His phone vibrated. Unfazed, he pulled it from his pocket and pressed it against his ear. "Talk to me."
A deep voice responded through the speaker. "Sir, the attack is set to commence. The initial 87.65% probability has increased to 98.4%. Black Mask's death is imminent."
A slow, sinister grin spread across Germain's face. "Kill that motherfucker."