Deathstroke's boot kicked aside a broken champagne bottle. The penthouse looked like a bomb hit it—shattered glass, bullet holes in the walls, a couch sliced clean in half. His thermal vision showed no heat signatures, just cold spots where blood had pooled and dried near the balcony doors.
"Place is empty," he said into his comm.
"Find him," the voice on the other end demanded.
"Understood" Deathstroke said.
he steps out and stares at Gotham's skyline.
The rain made Deathstroke's armor gleam under Gotham's neon lights. He didn't turn when Batman landed behind him.
"Walk away," Batman said. His voice was gravel under boot.
Slade chuckled. "Contract's already signed."
"You're being played."
"Maybe." Slade finally turned, hand resting on his sword. "But the pay's good. I warn you Bats, do not interfere in this."
"You know that won't happen" Batman replies,
"Alright, we'll see" Deathstroke said with a smile under his mask.
They stood frozen for three heartbeats. Then Slade vanished into the downpour.
In the Batcave, Bruce stormed toward the armory, stripping off his soaked cape as he went. The fabric slapped against the stone floor with a wet smack.
Alfred hurried after him, his usual composure slipping. "Sir, you can't possibly be considering-"
"No time to argue," Bruce cut him off, yanking open the reinforced case containing his specialized gear. The locks hissed open with a burst of pressurized air, revealing the gleaming array of weapons and armor within. His hands moved with practiced efficiency, loading his belt with terrifying precision.
The freeze grenades came first - sleek orbs containing LexCorp's latest cryo-tech cores, capable of flash-freezing a twenty-foot radius in seconds. Next were the sonic batarangs, their edges serrated to catch the air just right, tuned to 18kHz to disrupt Nen frequencies. Finally, he strapped on the experimental Nth Metal knuckles, the alien alloy humming with latent energy as it made contact with his skin. The last time he'd used them, they'd nearly shattered every bone in his forearm.
Alfred grabbed his wrist with surprising strength. "That armor nearly killed you last time," he said, his voice uncharacteristically sharp. "The feedback alone-"
Bruce shook him off with a controlled motion. "Hisoka moves faster than anyone I've ever fought," he said, checking the power cells in his gauntlets. The blue indicators glowed to life with a quiet whine. "And Slade..." He trailed off, remembering the cold precision of the mercenary's movements during their rooftop confrontation.
"And Deathstroke?" Alfred pressed, handing him a fresh set of grapnel cartridges.
Bruce slammed the Nth Metal gauntlet into place with a hiss of pneumatics. "More dangerous than both of us combined."
Alfred looked like he wanted to argue further, his lips pressed into a thin line, but instead just handed over a slim metal syringe filled with amber liquid. "Adrenaline cocktail," he said quietly. "Fifteen minutes of enhanced reflexes. After that-"
"-cardiac arrest, I know." Bruce pocketed it without hesitation. "Let's hope it doesn't come to that."
The Batmobile's engine roared to life as he approached, the canopy sliding open with a hydraulic hiss. Alfred's final words were lost in the turbine's scream as Bruce tore out of the cave, the tires screeching against wet pavement as he hit the streets of Gotham.
The abandoned steel mill groaned under the weight of years, its skeletal frame protesting against the storm's onslaught. Rusted beams creaked ominously, their metal fatigued beyond repair. The scent of oxidized iron and damp concrete hung thick in the air, undercut by the acrid tang of gunpowder.
Fifty feet above the debris-littered floor, Hisoka perched on a rusted I-beam like some grotesque bird of prey. His fingers moved with hypnotic precision, shuffling a deck of blood-red cards. The sharp snap of each shuffle echoed through the cavernous space, punctuated by the occasional drip of rainwater through the crumbling roof.
"Took you long enough," he called out, not bothering to look up as Deathstroke's heavy boots crunched through broken glass below. His voice carried an almost musical lilt, the words dripping with mock disappointment.
Slade stepped into a shaft of moonlight filtering through the broken ceiling, his rifle already trained on the grinning madman above him. "Client wants proof of death," he said flatly, his finger resting beside the trigger guard.
Hisoka finally glanced down, his golden eyes gleaming with amusement in the dim light. "Tell them to come get it themselves." With a flick of his wrist, he sent a single card spiraling downward, the edge glinting dangerously.
The gunshot was deafening in the enclosed space, the muzzle flash illuminating the mill's interior for a split second. The .50 caliber round intercepted the card midair, reducing it to fluttering confetti that drifted lazily to the ground.
"Boring," Hisoka sighed dramatically, his shoulders slumping in exaggerated disappointment—just as Deathstroke's sword flashed toward his throat with terrifying speed, the blade singing through the air.
Somewhere in the distance, the Batmobile's engine screamed through the storm-soaked streets, its driver pushing the vehicle beyond its designed limits. The steel mill's showdown had begun, and Gotham's fate hung in the balance.
TO BE CONTINUED