The night was thick with fog, rolling in from the harbor like a ghostly tide. Bruce crouched on a rooftop crane, scanning the docks below. Dim yellow floodlights cast long shadows across stacks of shipping containers, their rusted metal glinting under the glow. The air smelled of salt, gasoline, and something more pungent—chemicals.
Drugs.
He adjusted the zoom in his contact lenses, enhancing the view. The Russian mob was here in force—at least forty men spread across the dockyard. Some were armed with rifles, others leaned against crates, smoking and laughing.
At the center of it all was him—the boss.
Sergei Anatoly.
A grizzled, bear-like man with a thick beard and a long brown trench coat. He stood near a black limousine, flanked by his most trusted men. A few high-ranking Russian mobsters stood with him, discussing something in hushed voices.
Bruce's jaw tightened. This is it.
---
Stealth first.
Bruce started with the outskirts, where the guards were isolated. He descended like a phantom, striking quickly. A grappling line around the throat—yank—unconscious.
Another mobster stood near the water, taking a piss.
Bruce crept behind him, wrapped an arm around his neck, and squeezed. The man thrashed, his urine splattering against the concrete before his eyes rolled back and he went limp.
One by one, the Russians fell.
Bruce perched atop a stack of cargo crates, surveying the field. He was in control.
Then he felt it.
A shift in the air. A presence.
Instinct screamed at him.
He moved.
A katana pierced the spot where he had just been crouching, slicing through the wooden crate like butter.
Bruce turned.
A figure stood before him, clad in black, face hidden behind a cloth mask. A ninja.
The Hand.
---
A whisper of movement. The ninja lunged again, blade flashing under the moonlight.
Bruce twisted, barely dodging a strike aimed at his throat.
Another slash—he caught the ninja's wrist, twisting violently. CRACK. The bone snapped, and the sword fell. Bruce rammed the ninja's head against the crate, knocking him out cold.
Then—
Gunfire.
The Russians had spotted him.
Bullets tore through the air, slamming into the crate he was behind. Wood splintered. Bruce gritted his teeth. No more stealth.
He dropped a smoke pellet and vanished into the thick, dark mist.
Chaos erupted.
Shouting. More gunfire. Muzzle flashes blinked like fireflies.
Bruce switched his contact lenses to night vision.
The world turned into a green, ghostly haze.
They were blind. He wasn't.
He moved fast—elbows breaking ribs, fists caving in faces. He smashed one man's skull into a shipping container, leaving a bloody smear behind. Another Russian swung a crowbar—Bruce caught it, yanked it free, and broke the man's kneecap with a sickening crack.
More came.
He tore through them like a storm.
A knife-wielding thug lunged—Bruce sidestepped and plunged a batarang into the man's shoulder. The Russian howled, dropping the blade.
Bruce grabbed him by the throat and slammed him into the concrete.
Blood pooled beneath his head.
---
Bruce turned, searching for the boss.
Then—
Engine revving.
A limousine peeled away from the docks.
Inside, Sergei Anatoly grinned, sticking his middle finger out of the window.
Then—
A rocket launcher emerged from the limo.
Bruce's eyes widened.
FWOOSH!
The explosive spiraled toward him.
He dove—
BOOM!
The explosion sent water spraying into the sky. Bruce rolled, coughing. He looked up.
The limo was speeding through the dock's exit.
Not getting away.
Bruce fired his grappling hook, yanking himself onto a rooftop. He ran, leaping from building to building, chasing the vehicle as it tore through the streets.
Then—
Police helicopters.
Spotlights cut through the night, bathing both him and the limo in harsh white light.
Bruce frowned.
Then the gunfire started.
But not at the Russians.
At him.
The realization hit like a punch to the gut. Corrupt cops.
More bullets rained down.
Bruce growled and dropped a cluster of smoke pellets, obscuring the police's line of sight.
He reached into his belt.
One last gamble.
He flicked a switch on his gloves—his cape stiffened, taking shape.
He leapt.
For the first time, he glided.
The wind roared past him.
The limo was beneath him.
He adjusted his angle—
And then—
CRASH!
Bruce smashed through the back windshield, landing inside the car.
Blood. Glass. Screaming.
One Russian reached for a gun.
Bruce snapped his arm in half.
Another pulled a knife.
Bruce headbutted him, shattering his nose. Blood splattered across the seats.
The driver panicked.
The car flipped.
The world turned upside down.
Bruce kicked off a seat, catapulting himself out of the wreck before it landed.
The limo hit the ground and rolled—once, twice—before coming to a fiery stop.
Bruce landed hard, rolling across the pavement. His ribs screamed.
But he got up.
The mobsters inside were alive.
For now.
He stalked toward the wreckage, flames licking the air.
He ripped the limo's door open and dragged Sergei out by the collar. The Russian gasped, coughing blood.
Bruce slammed him against the car.
Sergei grinned weakly, spitting a glob of red onto the asphalt.
"You—" he coughed, "You think—this—will stop us?"
Bruce's response was simple.
He pulled out a batarang.
And carved the bat symbol into Sergei's forehead.
Sergei screamed.
Bruce did the same to the rest of them. One by one.
By the time he was done, the police had arrived.
Bruce vanished into the night.
---
The Batcave was silent.
Bruce peeled off the cowl, his body aching, his mind racing.
He could have done better. He should have done better.
Alfred stood beside him, arms crossed. "Master Wayne, you've been doing this for less than a month. Mistakes are inevitable. They help us improve."
Bruce exhaled, his anger simmering down.
He nodded.
Then, despite Alfred's protests—
He trained.
Harder.
Faster.
Because tomorrow—
There would be more blood to spill.
[TO BE CONTINUED]