I am Invincible Chapter 1 — A day in the life of the 99% (Patreon)

(AN: This is a Life can Change rewrite, I use that term loosely because the story is completely different. Tbh I really don’t like Life can change, especially where I went with the story early on it was all just so rushed plus the large harem, all of it I just don’t really like. Whether I continue writing it in the future idk, if I can figure out a good ending to the story I probably will. Anyway that’s why I’ve given this story a new name in case I want to finish Life can change. Chapters are going to be long.)

This Mark will be a lot different than the other one.

One time in 1952 a Japanese immigrant was asked about the horrific experience he'd suffered in Hiroshima. This man had survived the nuclear explosion that killed hundreds of thousands of people.

When asked what he could compare it to the man simply responded:

Try living a year in Gotham City. 

And he was right Gotham City was truly one of the most cursed cities to ever exist. A place that was truly abandoned by God as the Lord didn't even have the benevolence to smite it from the Earth as he did Sodom.

But some places are worse than others in this dark city. It is here in theThe alley behind the crumbling husk of the old Falcone-owned textile mill in Gotham's Narrows that Rocco "The Rat" Bianchi leaned against the rusted hood of a blacked-out Escalade, his stocky frame wrapped in a leather jacket two sizes too small, and like every dealer at his level he was covered in gold chains that rubbed against the coarse black hair on his chest. 

He was thirty-eight, with a face like a prizefighter who'd lost more than he'd won; a crooked nose, a scar slicing through one eyebrow, and a perpetual sneer that made him look like he was tasting something sour.

Rocco was a dealer for the Falcone mafia family, not a very high-level dealer in fact, if he disappeared, no one would miss him. 

During the night, a couple of other buyers had already come and gone. First it was skinny little Leon, twitching like a live wire, counting out crumpled twenties with fingers so shaky you'd think he had hypothermia. Rocco had snatched the cash, licked his thumb, and counted it twice before tossing a small baggie of rock at the man's feet. "Next time you short me even a dime, Leon, I'll shove that pipe so far up your ass you'll be shitting glass for a week. Capisce?" Leon had nodded frantically and scurried off into the dark.

Then came the tattooed biker chick, who while admittedly was attractive was still a dime a dozen. The bitch even tried haggling. Rocco had laughed in her face. "You think you're special 'cause you got tits? Falcone don't give discounts to bitches who ride dick for a living. Pay or walk." She'd paid.

After that was relatively quiet enough so that Rocco was already bored, picking at his teeth with a switchblade, when the next pair shuffled into view.

The woman—Lena—looked like she'd been pretty once, maybe five or six years and a hundred bad decisions ago. Now she was gaunt and hollow, she had stringy brown hair plastered to her skull, sunken cheeks, eyes too big for her face, and teeth that had yellow. Her tank top hung off one shoulder, exposing the constellation of track marks and bruises along her collarbone. She was jittering in place with her arms wrapped around her ribs.

Clinging to her arm was her boyfriend, Mike. He was taller but somehow smaller. He walked with a shoulder hunch and wore a faded Gotham Knights hoodie zipped all the way up. His face was a mess of old acne scars and dry lips, his eyes darting everywhere but at Rocco.

Rocco didn't even straighten up. He just flicked the switchblade closed and slid it into his pocket. "Well, well. Look what the Narrows dragged in. You two got my money this time, or you just here to waste my fuckin' air?"

Mike swallowed hard, stepping half in front of Lena. "Rocco, man... listen. We got most of it. Seventy-five. I swear to God we'll have the rest by tomorrow night. I got a line on some work down at the docks, They'll pay cash. Just... just give us the usual. Lena's hurting bad. Real bad."

Rocco's laugh started in his gut and rolled out like gravel in a cement mixer. He pushed off the Escalade, boots splashing through a puddle as he closed the distance. "Seventy-five? Jesus Christ, Mikey, you got balls the size of raisins. Last week it was fifty. Week before that you showed up with forty and a sob story about your dead grandma's funeral. I let it slide twice 'cause I'm a generous guy. But now you're standing here telling me you have work? That's cute. Real fuckin' cute."

Lena's voice cracked when she spoke. "Please, Rocco. I ain't slept in three days. I can feel my skin crawling off me. Mike's good for it. He always comes through eventually. We been loyal customers, right? Never snitched, never shorted you on purpose—"

"Customers?" Rocco cut her off, stepping so close she could smell the alcohol and cigarettes on his breath. "You two ain't customers. You're charity cases. Falcone don't run a soup kitchen. He runs a business. And right now, you're bad for it."

Mike's hands came up pleading with the dealer. "Look, I know we been rough lately. But things are turning around. I got that interview tomorrow. Swear on my mother's grave. Just one hit for her, man. She'll be good after that. We'll both be good. Next time we'll have double. Triple, even. I'll throw in extra for the inconvenience. Just... don't make her wait, okay? You can see she's dying here."

Rocco stared at him for a long second, then threw his head back and laughed again. "Dying? Nah, she's just a junkie whore who can't keep her legs closed. And you? You're a pathetic little bitch who can't even keep his woman supplied. Get lost, both of you. Come back when you got real money or don't come back at all."

Mike's eyes flicked to the baggie Rocco was still holding between two thick fingers. For a heartbeat his desperation won over actually using his head. He lunged for the bag trying to snatch it.

Rocco moved faster than a man his size should've been able to. The pistol came out of his waistband in a blur and the butt cracked across Mike's temple with a meaty thunk. Mike staggered back with blood already sheeting down the side of his face, but Rocco wasn't done. He pistol-whipped him again, this time across the mouth, splitting his lip open. Mike crumpled to the wet pavement with a wet gasp. Rocco followed him down, boot slamming into his ribs once, twice, three times.

"Stupid. Fucking. Move," Rocco snarled between kicks. "You think you can steal from me? In my alley? On Falcone turf?"

Mike curled into a ball, sputtering and wheezing with every kick, blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth. "S-stop... please..."

Lena screamed as she took in the scene, but she didn't move toward them. Her eyes were still locked on the baggie still pinched in Rocco's other hand.

Rocco straightened, breathing hard, and leveled the Glock at her face. The muzzle pressed right between her eyes and the feeling of it was cold enough to make her flinch. "Your man's a little pussy, you know that? One tap and he's crying on the ground like a bitch. Pathetic." He glanced down at Mike, who was trying and failing to push himself up, then back to Lena. His voice then morphed into something slimy... something disgusting. "But you... you still want it bad, don't you? I can see it in those pretty junkie eyes. Whole body's shaking for it. Bet you'd do just about anything right now."

Lena's throat swallowed. She could feel the barrel against her forehead and her stomach twisted. "Don't... don't do this."

Rocco smirked, tilting his head. The Glock stayed steady. "Do what? I ain't doing nothing yet. Just thinking out loud. See, I could give you this whole baggie right now. Hell, I could throw in an extra one for your boyfriend. All you gotta do is get on your knees like a good little girl and suck me off real nice. Right here. Right now. Nobody else around. Your boy can watch if he wants. Or he can stay down there. Your choice."

Lena's gaze darted to Mike, then to the baggie, then back to the gun. Tears welled up but didn't fall. Her voice was barely a whisper. "I... I... please."

"Blah blah blah hurry up and choose," Rocco said, with mild annoyance. "Look at you. You're about two seconds from clawing your own skin off. So what's it gonna be, sweetheart? You gonna let your pussy boyfriend get beaten for nothing and both go home empty? Or you gonna do what you gotta do and get right?"

The silence stretched as Lena thought about what to do. Eventually rain started pattering on the dumpster lids. Mike made a weak, gurgling noise on the ground, trying to say something, but it came out as a cough.

Lena's shoulders slumped and her lips trembled. "Fine," she said in a small voice. "Just... just give it to us after."

Rocco's grin widened. "Atta girl." He didn't lower the gun until she was already sinking to her knees in the filth.

A few minutes later the only sounds were the rain and Mike's ragged breathing. Rocco stood over them, zipping his jeans with one hand while the other tossed two fat baggies onto the pavement. They landed in a puddle right in front of Lena, who was still on her knees, chest heaving and almost throwing up, spit and tears streaking her face. Her eyes burned up at him with pure, venomous hatred that didn't need words.

Rocco took a swig of his drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and holstered the Glock. "There. Wasn't so bad, was it? Tell your boy to stop crying and get the fuck out of my alley before I change my mind and take it back. And next time? Bring real money." He turned toward the Escalade, boots crunching over broken glass. 

Lena didn't move to pick up the drugs right away. She just stared after him, the hatred in her eyes sharper than any needle she'd ever used. Mike groaned and reached a shaking hand toward the baggies, but Lena slapped it away, still glaring at the taillights as the Escalade rumbled to life and rolled out of the alley.

Rocco didn't glance back at the two junkies he'd left on their knees in the filth. Why would he? In his rearview mirror, the alley mouth shrank to nothing, and Rocco's lips curled into a self-satisfied sneer. "Fucking pathetic," he muttered to the empty cab. "That bitch Jesus, the way her eyes lit up when I offered the free hit. Didn't even hesitate once the gun was on her. On her knees in the piss and the rain like it was nothing. Easy. So goddamn easy." He chuckled, one hand drumming on the steering wheel while the other fished a cigarette from the pack in his jacket. "And that pussy boyfriend? Curling up like a kicked dog after two taps. Bet he's still lying there crying while she's sucking down that rock, hating herself. I love it. Love breaking 'em like that."

He lit the cigarette off the dash lighter, inhaling deep enough that it glowed bright orange. Smoke curled around his scarred face as he merged onto the two-lane that cut through the Narrows toward the East End. 

The drive took twenty minutes or around that long, there wasn't much traffic at this time in the night in the narrows. Rocco cranked the radio and let his mind wander back to Lena's mouth, she wasn't by far the best he'd ever had but she was decent, could even take him to the hilt. He grinned wider, adjusting himself in his jeans at the memory. By the time he pulled up to the squat brick apartment building on 14th and Lennox he was already buzzing for more.

He killed the engine and stepped out, before stretching and popping his shoulders. The building's front steps was lit by a single buzzing bulb that the landlord had refused to fix in the ten years he'd been there. Leaning against the railing was a skinny kid in his early twenties, who looked nervous enough that you'd think he had a gun on him. Tommy Rossi was fresh off the boat from the old neighborhood, still trying to prove he had balls. 

He straightened up quickly when he saw Rocco coming. "Rocco! Hey, man, you made it. The boys are upstairs already tearing into the whiskey. You bring the good shit?"

Rocco stopped two steps below him, looking up with that lopsided grin that never reached his eyes. He hooked his thumbs in his belt. "Kid, Kid, Kid. What the fuck I tell you about talking to me?" He let the pause hang, rain dripping off the awning onto his leather jacket. "I oughta drag your scrawny ass around back, put this piece in your mouth, or maybe I'll put my cock in it, which one would you prefer." Rocco barked a laugh, the kind that made Tommy's face go pale.

Tommy forced a weak chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. "C'mon, Rocco, that's fucked up. I was just asking—"

"Relax, I'm busting your balls," Rocco cut in, stepping up and clapping a hand on the kid's shoulder hard enough to make him wince. "You're too easy, Tommy. That's why I like you. Reminds me of my little cousin before he got his teeth kicked in. But listen spot me fifty, yeah? I left my cash in the glovebox and I ain't going back to getvit. You know I'm good for it right?"

Tommy hesitated, glancing at the door like the other guys might come rescue him. "Fifty? Man, I just paid my ma's rent yesterday and—"

"Fifty dollars, Kid. Don't make me count to ten for real." Rocco's grin stayed plastered on, but his fingers tightened on the kid's shoulder until the fabric bunched. "Consider it an investment. Next time you need a favor with one of those strippers from the club, I'll put in a good word. Make sure she swallows instead of spitting it out on your shoes."

Tommy sighed, digging into his wallet with shaking hands. He peeled off two twenties and a ten, slapping them into Rocco's palm. "There. Happy? You're a prick, you know that?"

Rocco pocketed the bills with a wink. "The best kind. Now go stand in the rain a little longer and bring the pizza up when it gets here. I'll tell the boys you said hi." He clapped the kid's shoulder again, harder, then pushed past him into the lobby.

Up three flights of stairs Rocco banged on the door of apartment 3C with the side of his fist. The muffled sound of laughter and clinking bottles cut off for a second before the deadbolt slid back.

The door swung open to a haze of cigarette smoke, weed, and the stink of alcohol. The living room was a mess of mismatched furniture which included a sagging couch with duct tape on the arms, a kitchen table pushed into the center with a green felt mat thrown over it. Empty beer bottles and a half-empty bottle of cheap scotch sat next to a mirror dusted with lines of coke and a few fat joints in an ashtray.

Vinny was already at the table, a mountain of a man with a shaved head and a gut that strained his black polo shirt. He had a cigar clamped between his teeth and a handful of chips. Next to him was Frankie who was much leaner and sharp-featured, always in a silk shirt unbuttoned one too many. He leaned back in his chair, nursing a tumbler of scotch. Joey, the smallest of the bunch with wire-rim glasses and a perpetual five-o'clock shadow, was dealing the next hand. 

"Rocco, you ugly son of a bitch!" Vinny boomed, slamming a meaty fist on the table hard enough to make the chips jump. "Took you long enough. We almost started without you. What, you stop for a quickie on the way over or something?"

Rocco kicked the door shut behind him, shrugging out of his wet leather jacket and tossing it over the back of the couch. "Nah, just had to remind a couple of Narrows rats who runs the show. Couple of junkie lovebirds, the girl was so desperate she would've sucked off the whole crew for a hit. Easy money. And a little extra fun on the side." He grinned, dropping into the empty chair and snatching the bottle of scotch. He took a long pull straight from it, the burn chasing down his throat. "I even got a fifty from the kid outside, made him look like he'd shit himself."

Frankie let out a whistle, shuffling the cards before Joey finished dealing. "You and that mouth of yours, Rat. One day Tommy's gonna grow a pair and shoot you in the back. Pass that bottle, asshole."

Rocco slid it across the table, then leaned forward to cut a quick line of coke on the mirror with his credit card. He snorted it hard, his eyes watering for a second before the rush hit. "Ahh, that's the ticket. Alright, deal me in. Five-card stud, nothing wild. Hundred buy-in. And if any of you pricks try to short me like those junkies did tonight, I'll pistol-whip you worse than I did the boyfriend."

Joey chuckled, sliding Rocco his chips and a fresh beer that was already sweating on the table. "Speaking of junkies and boyfriends you hear about that broad from the club last week? The one with the fake tits and the real attitude? I took her home after closing, right? She starts going on about how her ex was 'emotionally unavailable.' I told her, 'Baby, the only thing unavailable about me is my wallet after I nut.' She still swallowed like a champ, though. Best head I've had in months."

Vinny barked a laugh, tossing in his chips for the blind. "That's nothing. Last month I had this married chick—husband's a cop, can you believe it? She comes to me crying about how he doesn't notice her anymore. I said, 'Honey, I'll eat it till you forget your own name,' and I did. Right in the back of my car while he was on duty. Came home with her lipstick on my collar and told the wife I was 'handling business.' Women, man. They're all the same they act like they want romance, but give 'em a fat cock and a free line and they'll bend over."

Rocco took a long swig of his beer and lit up one of the joints. Smoke curled toward the water-stained ceiling as he leaned back, studying his hand, a decent pair of kings. "You guys are animals. But fuck, I get it. Tonight's bitch had that look in her eye like she hated every second but needed it more than air. Made me hard just watching her break, fucking weak if you ask me. Pass the ashtray, Slick."

Frankie slid it over, exhaling a cloud of his own smoke. "Weak is right. Remember that shipment last month? The one the Maroni tried to hijack? We rolled up on their guys, and the leader, a big tough-looking prick started begging for his life like a little girl once I put the barrel in his ear. 'Please, I got kids!' Kids my ass. I made him watch while we torched his whole crew. Then we took turns with his girlfriend in the warehouse. She wasn't even that hot, but damn if it didn't feel good making him listen."

Joey raised the pot with a smirk, his voice dry as he sipped his scotch. "You degenerates. I'm over here trying to run the books and you're all chasing pussy. He'll some of you could probably be a capo by now if you out as much energy into work than you do pussy."

The laughter rolled around the table as the rain hammered the windows outside. Rocco tossed in his chips with a smirk on his face. "Plenty a time to become a Capo, but for now tonight's young, and so's my liver. Another round after this hand loser buys the next bottle. Now let's have a toast to the Falcone family, the men who run this fucking city."

Glasses clinked and the toast went up. "Falcone family," Vinny rumbled, draining half his glass in one go and slamming it down. He wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist. "Alright. Enough of this penny-ante shit. Let's get some girls over here. What's the point of a card game with no entertainment?"

"Now you're talking," Frankie said, leaning back with a grin. "I met a couple of girls last week over at the Iceberg. Real high-end. The blonde's got legs up to her neck and her friend, dark hair, accent you can't place, she looks like she walked off a magazine cover. I got both their numbers."

Vinny stabbed a finger at the table. "Call them. Right now. Tell them there's free coke and good company."

"It's one in the morning," Joey said flatly, peering over his glasses.

"Yeah, and they were at the Iceberg at eleven on a Tuesday," Frankie said. "They ain't sleeping."

"The Iceberg," Rocco said, snorting. "Cobblepot's meat market. Every broad in that place is either working an angle or working for someone. You want girls from the Iceberg in this apartment? With what we got on this table?"

Frankie spread his hands. "They're not cops, Rocco."

"How do you know?"

"Because I checked."

"You checked," Rocco repeated, deadpan. "How? You ask them?"

"I ran them."

"You ran them." Rocco looked at Vinny. "He ran them."

Vinny shrugged his enormous shoulders. "I don't care how he ran them. Call the girls, Frankie."

"I'm not calling girls who came out of the Iceberg to a card game in the Narrows at one in the goddamn morning," Rocco said. "That's how you end up on the news."

"Nobody's gonna be on the news," Vinny said.

"You always say that."

"And we never are."

The argument was still going when three knocks landed on the door.

Rocco glanced up. "That's the kid with the pizza. About time." He looked at Vinny. "What'd you order?"

Vinny puffed on his cigar. "Meatball and sausage. Extra cheese. White sauce."

Rocco's face went flat. "White sauce."

"It's good."

"It's a crime against everything my people built in this country. My grandmother would come back from the dead just to spit on you. Tomato sauce. That's it. That's the whole conversation."

"Fuck you," Vinny said pleasantly. "You order it next time."

Three more knocks. Harder.

Rocco pointed at Joey without looking at him. "Get the door."

Joey set his cards face down. "Why me?"

"Because I said so and because you're already losing anyway. Go on. Move." Rocco made a dismissive flick of two fingers.

Joey pushed back from the table with all the enthusiasm of a man walking to a tax audit and shuffled toward the door in his socks. "Asshole," he muttered.

"What was that?"

"Nothing." Joey turned the deadbolt and pulled the door open.

What was on the other side of it was not Tommy Rossi.

The figure in the hallway stood six feet seven and was built like something that had been engineered rather than born. Every inch of him was wrapped in matte black tactical gear, no insignia, no skin, a full mask sealed from collar to crown. The armored plating at his chest and forearms had the kind of thickness that suggested he was a bodybuilder crossed with a navy seal. Strapped across his back between two crossed harnesses sat a heavy black metal shield, hexagonal, solid, scratched from use.

He was holding the pizza box flat in one hand. 

Joey's brain misfired. "What the—"

The man's free fist came forward in a straight line and hit Joey's jaw so hard the bone gave way on contact. Not even a crack, but a full wet implosion. Joey's jaw swung off its hinge and his mouth folded sideways on his face. Six teeth left his gums simultaneously and skipped across the hallway floor. Joey hit the door frame, then the wall, then the ground in three distinct impacts, each one harder than the last as the lights went out inside him.

The man stepped over his body and crossed the threshold.

He had already catalogued the room before the door finished opening. He knew who was reaching where so he flipped the pizza box flat and sent it spinning hard across the room. It hit Frankie's forearm as his hand was clearing his jacket with enough force to knock his aim sideways. Hot sauce and cheese exploded across his shirt and face. Frankie reeled back, the gun clattering from his grip.

The man didn't slow down. He crossed the room in four long strides.

Vinny came up out of his chair swinging, a big looping right hand that would have taken someone's head off if it weren't unbelievably slow. The man ducked under it by two inches and drove his foot directly into Vinny's sternum like a battering ram. All one hundred and eighty kilos of him behind it. Vinny left the ground and launched into the wall behind him, a section of plaster cracked inward from the impact. Vinny slid down it leaving a smear of grease, wheezing like he'd just run 40 miles. The man grabbed him by the skull with both hands before he'd reached the floor and drove his face straight into the knee, once, twice, three times. Vinny's nose practically detonated and his two front teeth folded inward. 

The man released his head and let him drop.

Meanwhile Frankie had wiped enough sauce off his face to find his gun. He came up with it, both hands, aiming at center mass.

The man crossed the distance between them in two steps before the trigger could be pulled. He slapped the barrel hard to the outside, the shot went into the ceiling, and then his other hand was around Frankie's throat, he closed his grip around him like a vice and lifted him straight off the floor one-handed and turned and put him through the kitchen table. Not onto it. Through it. The table buckled and collapsed under the weight and Frankie hit the floor in the wreckage of it, his mouth working but producing no sound because his diaphragm had seized entirely.

But he still reached for the gun that was in sight of him. 

The man stood over him and looked down. Then he reached down, took hold of Frankie's right arm at the wrist and the elbow, and snapped like he was breaking a piece of lumber. "AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!"Frankie found his voice for that and the scream bounced off every wall in the apartment.

When the man turned he saw that Rocco was already at the window with his gun in hand. 

He never got to use it. A hand closed around the back of his jacket collar and he was yanked backward off his feet with so much force that his shoes left the floor. He threw Rocco at full stride back across the room, and drove him face-first into the wall above the couch. Rocco's nose flattened against the plaster and the wall itself cracked in a starburst pattern around his head. He crumpled down onto the couch and immediately tried to push off it.

The man grabbed him by the ankle and dragged him off the couch onto the floor, then flipped him over onto his back. Rocco tried to bring the Glock up from where he'd somehow managed to keep hold of it. The man stepped on his wrist. The bones in it ground together and Rocco's hand opened involuntarily and the gun was kicked away.

Then the man crouched over him and hit him twice in the face with his armored fist. The first one rearranged his nose. The second opened a cut above his eye that immediately ran blood down his temple and into his ear. The third one took away his vision in his left eye and the fourth one made him swallow several of his teeth. 

After that he was dragged by the collar back to the chair at the head of the table and dropped into it. Zip ties came off the man's vest and his wrists were behind the chair and bound before he could coordinate his arms.

The man sat across from him.

Vinny was making a sound on the floor somewhere between a moan and a gurgle. Frankie had stopped screaming and was just breathing in fast shallow hitches, his broken arm cradled against his chest. Joey hadn't moved since the hallway.

"Luca Falcone," the man said. "Where is he."

Rocco spit a gob of blood onto the floor. "Nobody knows where Luca is. He's been off the map for years. Could be dead. Could be in Belize. Nobody at my level gets that information."

The man's fist came sideways into Rocco's ear in a percussive strike that turned the world into a single sustained ringing tone. Rocco's head swung with it and a glob of blood spat across the floor. 

"Where."

"I'm telling you the truth," Rocco said, voice too loud, unable to hear himself properly. "Luca went dark. It was his decision. Two people knew where he went, maybe three. That information does not reach a street dealer in the Narrows. My boss, he's a Capo, Tony Fabaro, we call him Fat Tony, he works directly with the Underboss if someone knows where Luca is it'll be him."

"Are you lying?" The man asked. 

"No! Of course—"

"Are you sure!" The man said as he reached out and took Rocco's already-broken right index finger, the one still swollen from earlier, and bent it back past the point of resistance until the second knuckle separated completely. The ligament made a sound like a rubber band snapping. "FUCKKKK!!!" Rocco's face went white and his whole body arched against the zip ties.

The man watched him for a long moment.

"That's everything I have," Rocco said. "I don't know where he is. I'm a nobody. I move product in an alley. You think Luca Falcone calls me?"

The man stood, unclipped the harness across his chest, and pulled the shield free from his back. He held it in his right hand at his side. The thing was thick black metal and in his grip it looked like a weapon that had been used before, the surface scored and dented in various places.

He looked at Rocco's knees.

"Wait...wait, I told you everything—"

He brought the shield down on the left knee with both hands. The kneecap shattered. The sound of it was like a crunch and thud at the same time, like a bat hitting a hardwood floor. "AGGHHHHH!!!" Rocco's scream was shapeless, barely human. Before it had reached its peak the shield came down on the right knee with the same force, the same result. "PLEASEEE STOPP!!!"Rocco's legs both folded inward and he sagged in the chair, the zip ties the only thing keeping him vertical, his face the color of old chalk.

The man looked at him for a moment with no readable expression, then brought the flat of his forearm across the side of Rocco's skull in a single horizontal strike. Rocco's head snapped sideways and he went completely still.

The man re-clipped the shield across his back and began to work through the apartment to get any evidence. Phones off the table and out of every jacket in the room. A small ledger from the kitchen drawer. A large wad of cash tucked behind a loose tile above the stove. He left the product and the money and the coke on the mirror exactly where they sat.

He picked up the burner from the counter, dialed three digits, set it down without speaking. When the dispatcher answered, he spoke. "Apartment 3C, 14th and Lennox. Four men down. Falcone crew. Send ambulances." He dropped the phone on the floor, crushed it under his boot, and walked out without looking back.

Out in the hallway Joey was still on the floor, jaw folded the wrong way, his glasses in two pieces beside him. The man stepped over him and moved toward the stairwell, his footsteps making almost no sound on the concrete. He took the stairs down two at a time, at the fourth-floor landing he pushed through the fire exit and stepped out onto the iron grating of the fire escape. The rain hit him immediately, soaking his costume.

He then went up the ladder and in eight seconds he was stepping over the edge onto the rooftop.He pulled the grapple gun from the clip at his thigh and aimed it across the gap toward the water tower housing on the building across 14th. The mechanism fired with a muted thunk, the line went taut, and he stepped off the edge without hesitating.

The swing carried him across the gap and he released at the apex, cleared the lip of the opposite roof by a foot, and rolling across the gravel and came up into a jog without breaking stride. Three more buildings. Two more grapple shots. A running jump across a gap that would have given most people a heart attack just to look at.

He stopped at the edge of a flat roof overlooking the front of the building on 14th and Lennox.

Below, the first cop was already nosing around the corner. Then a second. Then an ambulance. He watched the uniforms pile out and push through the front door with their guns already out.

The man reached up and pulled the mask off his face, revealing a young man barely an adult. 

Mark Grayson was eighteen years old and looked like something that had been assembled in a lab to be a soldier. Six feet seven, a hundred and eighty kilograms of dense, hard-packed muscle that sat on his frame. His face was young, square-jawed, with dark eyes that didn't carry much of the softness that was supposed to come with being eighteen. His hair was cut close on the sides and left longer on top.

He watched the cops work the front entrance with an empty expression. Even when he saw the injured Falcone men scream in pain as they were brought out by the paramedics. 

He hated the Falcone family the way people hated cancer. A level of hate that it  t lived below the level of thought, the level of hate that was just always there, the level of hate that was there when he woke up and still there when he closed his eyes. He had tried to find words for it once and given up because language wasn't built to carry that kind of anger. He would tear apart this whole city root and stem if it meant hurting the Falcones. 

But tonight had given him basically nothing.

He'd spent hours on Rocco Bianchi. Hours of tracking him through the Narrows from a distance, watching his drops, clocking his movements, cataloguing every face that came in and out of that alley. He'd done it because Rocco was supposed to be connected, and even small connections ran upward if you followed them long enough. But Rocco was exactly what he looked like. A low-level dealer with a loud mouth and a small orbit who genuinely did not know anything worth knowing.

Dead end. Again.

Mark exhaled through his nose and watched the ambulance crew bring a gurney through the front door.

"This isn't working," he said to himself. 

He'd known it for a while, if he was honest about it. Going after street-level Falcone product movers was satisfying in the way that punching a wall was satisfying. Sadly it accomplished almost nothing. The men he'd put in hospital beds over the past several months were replaceable parts. And none of them knew what he really wanted to know. 

He needed to go higher.

He'd thought about it before and stepped back from it each time because the math was different up the ladder. Capos moved with security details. Not thugs, not corner boys. Trained people, ex-military some of them, men who had been in real combat situations. Falcone enforcers specifically had a reputation that wasn't built on myth. They were professionals. And capos usually had a whole detail of them protecting them. 

He could go after Tony, but he'd need to plan for that first, otherwise he'd end up gunned down in the gutter. 

In the end he had to do it... the alternative was spending another year hitting dead ends in the Narrows and watching the Falcones run this city without consequence.

And more importantly... watching Luca Falcone take one more breath then he should. 

He put the mask back on.

He'd find the right target. Later. When he'd thought it through properly.

Right now he needed to sleep. He hadn't slept in two days, a fact his body had been noting with increasing insistence for the last several hours. His hands were fine and weren't shaking yet and his head was clear but there was a weight on his shoulders and in his eyes that had been accumulating for a while.

He turned away from the edge and went back across the rooftops and headed back towards his apartment. 

...

The apartment was on the fourth floor of a narrow building on Cobbleton Street, in a part of the East End that wasn't quite the Narrows but wasn't far enough from it to feel like you were any better than they were. Mark came in the way he always came in, the window above the fire escape landing, pushing it up from outside and ducking through into his bedroom before he pulled it shut behind him.

He set the shield down first, leaning it against the wall with both hands, slowly, as he didn't want to make a noise. Then the grapple gun, clipped to its mount on the board he'd fixed to the back of the closet door. The vest went on the hook beneath it. He started working the buckles on his forearm plating when he heard a sound from the hallway.

Mark stopped.

He turned toward the bedroom door and dropped his chin, before letting out a long sigh. He'd hoped he could avoid this but it seemed he wasn't so lucky. 

The door opened.

The man who filled the frame was built on the same scale as Mark, which meant he filled it considerably. Six and a half feet, broad through the chest and shoulders in the way that came from a life lived physically rather than a gym. His hair had gone fully grey and was thinning at the crown, he wore a thick grey moustache that sat above a jaw that was still solid even at his age.

Arginold. Or Arg by his friends. Mark's grandfather.

The old man looked at his outfit. Then at the bruising starting to show on Mark's knuckles. Then at Mark's face.

"Again," Arg said.

It wasn't a question.

Mark turned back to the forearm plating and kept working the buckle. "I'm not getting into it tonight, Grandpa."

"I wasn't asking if you wanted to get into it." Arg stepped into the room and crossed his arms over his broad chest. "I'm telling you that we are in it. Look at your hands, Mark."

"I'm fine."

"Your hands are split open."

"They're fine. They'll be healed by tomorrow." He pulled the plating off and set it on the board and started on the other arm.

Arg was quiet for a moment he then let out a long sigh. "You can't keep doing this Mark... you are going down a road, boy. I've watched you go down it for months and I have tried to be patient because I understand why you're on it. But patience has a limit. What you are doing out there—"

"Is necessary," Mark said.

"Is going to get you killed. Or worse, it's going to turn you into something you won't be able to come back from." Arg moved to the center of the room and stood there. "These people you're hurting. I know what they are. I know what they do. I am not standing here defending them."

"Sounds like you are."

"I am standing here because you are my grandson and I am watching you disappear into something dark... I don't know how much further you're going to go before I can't reach you anymore." He tried to reason. "Violence begets violence, Mark. That's just what happens. You keep pulling that thread and you'll see where it takes you."

Mark set the second plate down harder than he needed to and turned around. "Those people," he said in a deathly calm voice. "Are not people, Grandpa. They are parasites. They run product through the Narrows and they destroy families and livelihoods, they own judges and politicians and they have been doing it for thirty years without consequence."

"Normal people... normal working people, they can't walk to their cars at night without wondering if tonight's the night something happens to them. Kids grow up in those neighborhoods and are forced into the gangs because they have no other options. You want to talk to me about paths? Look at what those people do to the paths other people try to walk."

Arg didn't flinch. "I know what they do."

"Then why do you care!?"

"I don't." Arg crossed the room in two steps and put his hand on Mark's shoulder, and for a moment his voice lost its edge entirely. "I don't care about them. I care about you." He held his gaze. "This won't bring her back, Mark. No matter how many of them you put in the hospital. No matter how far up you go. She is gone and none of this will change that. And she would not—" his jaw tightened "—she would not want this life for you. You know that."

Something moved across Mark's face that he couldn't stop in time and then was gone, replaced by something much angrier.

He reached up and took Arg's hand off his shoulder. "Don't," he said.

"Mark—"

"Don't use her." He turned away, pulled his bag from under the bed, and started putting his equipment into it. Not looking at his grandfather. "You don't get to use her to make your point."

"That's not what I'm—"

"I'm staying at a friends tonight." He zipped the bag and picked it up off the floor.

Arg stood in the center of the room. He didn't move to stop him. He just watched Mark go through the bedroom door without another word and then stood in the silence of the apartment for a long moment.

He went to the living room and down in the armchair by the window, the one that looked out at the street below. On the side table, in the wooden frame that had sat there for years, was the photograph. Three people. A grey-haired man with a thick moustache. A woman with dark hair and a wide smile. And a boy of seven standing between them, squinting into the sun, grinning with a gap in his front teeth.

Arg picked it up and looked at it for a long time.

"I'm sorry, Debbie," he said quietly, to the woman in the photograph. "I don't know how to reach him. I don't know if anyone can."

He set it back down gently.

Outside, the rain kept falling.

...

Mark walked.

His bag was across one shoulder and his hands were in his jacket pockets, he moved through the wet East End streets at the kind of pace that made people nervous to watch. Around him Gotham did what Gotham did at two in the morning. A couple stumbled out of a bar two blocks ahead and turned the other direction. A couple junkies shot themsleves up right on the street. 

Somewhere above and behind him a fire escape rattled in the wind.

Grandpa defending them. 

That was the thing that stuck in his throat like something he couldn't swallow. Not defending them, his grandfather would say. And maybe that was technically true. But if you sat a man down and told him what the Falcones did and had done and were still doing right now, tonight, in apartments and alleys all over this city, and his response was to talk about the man going after them, to talk about paths and violence and what it would turn him into, then what was that if not a kind of defense? What was it if not choosing their continued existence over the people they destroyed?

His mother had not had that choice.

He'd been thirteen. 

He didn't remember all of it. 

He remembered enough. 

He remembered Luca Falcone

Luca, who had then disappeared. 

He turned a corner and kept walking, the rain coming down on his shoulders and soaking through his jacket, he felt the anger sitting in his chest the way it always sat. Like a pressure cooker on the brink of exploding. Sometimes he could keep it down, but most of the time he'd erupt... and anyone around him? Well let's just say it wasn't pretty. 

He exhaled hard through his nose and watched the breath dissolve into the cold air ahead of him.

'Walk it off,' he told himself. 'Just walk.'

As Mark walked towards his friends apartment he looked around the streets of the East End. Gotham at night in the rain was a particular kind of beautiful if you knew how to look at it, and Mark for all his faults and all his fury, had grown up in these streets long enough to know exactly why. 

Everyone was both so old and modern looking at the same time, even if it wasn't pretty it was a look unique to Gotham, even after so many years. There was something almost comforting in that. The city had always been ugly and magnificent and dangerous all at once, and it would keep on being all of those things long after everyone in it was gone.

He was passing the mouth of an alley between a laundromat and a corner bodega when he heard the sound of a clatter, followed by a woman's voice saying "Oh no, no, no—"

Mark stopped.

He turned and looked over and saw a woman in her mid-fifties maybe, pretty heavyset, wearing a plastic rain poncho over a floral dress. She was crouched on the wet sidewalk outside the bodega, trying to gather a collapsed paper bag's worth of groceries that had scattered across the pavement. Cans of soup rolling toward the gutter. A bunch of bananas and a carton of eggs that had, from the look on her face, not survived the fall.

He crossed the distance between them in a few long strides and crouched down beside her before she had a chance to protest, picking up a can of  tomatoes and then another and then a box of pasta that had skittered almost to the edge of the storm drain, catching it just before it went over.

"Thank you, sweetheart," the woman said, pressing a hand to her chest and exhaling with relief. "These bags, I keep telling Danny they need to double-bag the heavy ones, every time—"

"You heading to the narrows?" Mark asked.

The woman looked up at him properly for the first time and broke into a wide smile that rearranged her whole face. "Unfortunately. Thank you for the help love."

"No problem, 14th street is full of cops right now so it should be safe to walk through," he said, and handed back the groceries he'd collected, though a few of them were beyond saving. 

"Six survivors," she agreed, shaking her head and closing the carton back up. "That's Gotham for you, isn't it? Half of everything makes it through and you're grateful for the half that did."

He helped her stand and she thanked him again, warmly before she pushed back into the bodega to argue with Danny about the double-bagging policy, her voice already shouting before the door had fully swung shut.

He almost smiled. 

Almost.

He turned back up the street and kept walking.

A few blocks further north, near the overpass on Finger Street where the elevated line used to run before the city let it fall apart, there was a kid who couldn't have been more than twelve standing under the concrete overhang out of the rain with a busted bicycle flipped upside down on the pavement in front of him, turning the rear wheel slowly with one hand and watching it wobble.

Mark slowed down and looked at the bike. "Chain?" he asked.

The kid looked up. He had a Gotham Rogues beanie pulled down over his ears and a gap where a front tooth was still coming in. "Derailed," he said, after a pause. "I tried to put it back but it keeps slipping off again."

Mark crouched and looked at it, tilting his head and turning the wheel back and rolling the chain forward until he could see where it had jumped the smallest gear and was sitting crooked across two teeth at once. He reached in and lifted it free, positioned it properly on the guide, and worked it slowly back around the rear cog while keeping tension on it, then gave the wheel a half-spin to watch it seat itself and hold.

"There," he said, standing back up.

The kid tested the wheel. It spun clean and true.

"Nice," the kid said, trying to sound casual, and then after a moment in a much smaller voice. "Thanks, mister."

"Don't ride it in the rain," Mark said, already walking. "Chain'll slip again."

He didn't look back but he heard the kid mutter something that sounded like "I know that," in the affronted tone of someone who absolutely had not known that.

He shoved his hands back in his pockets and walked north.

...

Samantha Eve Wilkins lived in a building on the quieter end of Hamill Street, a six-story brick construction that had been built in the twenties and had aged in the way that Gotham buildings aged. The fire escapes were original ironwork, slightly orange with rust at the joints, and the lobby had a black-and-white tile floor. Apart from the vintage appeal it was a shithole as Councilmen didn't really give a shit about areas like this and instead pulled funding to other richer areas. 

Mark came through the front door of the building's entry alcove and stood in front of the intercom panel, shaking the worst of the rain off his jacket, and pressed the button for 4F.

Static. Silence.

He waited until it was clear she wouldn't answer. "Come on Eve..." he sighed, then he pressed the button again but this time in a pattern: two quick, pause, one long, pause, one quick. She had told him that he had to ring like this every time he came over otherwise she wouldn't answer. 

The intercom crackled, and without any greeting or preamble, a buzzer sounded from the inner door.

Mark pushed it open and went inside.

He stood in the lobby for a moment, listening to the rain hammer the glass of the front door behind him, and let out a long breath that had a great deal of exhaustion in it.

 He tilted his head back and looked at the water-stained ceiling with his eyes half-closed, and stayed like that for what might have been five seconds or thirty, and then straightened himself out and started for the stairs.

Eve. 

Samantha Eve Wilkins.

His best friend. His oldest friend. The person who was probably the person he trusted most in the world.

She hated going outside. 

That was perhaps the simplest way to put it, though it didn't come close to capturing the full texture of it as she didn't just dislike it the way some people disliked crowds or mornings or small talk. She avoided the outside world the way you'd avoid a minefield. 

The world beyond her apartment walls was something she tolerated in necessity and resented in principle, and over the years she had engineered her life with considerable ingenuity to minimize the number of times necessity actually applied. Groceries delivered. Schooling remotely. Everything that could be managed through a screen was managed through a screen, and everything that couldn't was simply not done until it absolutely had to be and when it did have to be, yours truly was sent in her stead. 

She didn't let people in both physically and in the sense of any kind of relationship. Even the friends she once had were gone, with Mark being the only one to remain.  There had been a therapist once, a few years back, and that had lasted four sessions before Eve had terminated the arrangement. That had been the last time anyone outside of a delivery radius had seen the inside of her apartment, as far as Mark knew.

Except him.

He'd always been the exception. Even when they were kids  he had been that. It wasn't something either of them had ever discussed or formally established. It was just the way it was, the same way the sky being the sky was just the way it was.

Their mothers had been friends first, that was where it started, the two women who'd met at some neighborhood function and had that they liked each other and that they would keep liking each other, from that the rest had followed. Play dates and school pickups and Sunday dinners that became a regular fixture. 

She had been fourteen when her mother died.

What came after for Eve was worse.

She was a meta. 

She had been since she was a kid, though it hadn't manifested with full force until she was about twelve, when it had announced itself in a moment of high emotional stress the way these things always did. 

She had the ability to restructure matter at the atomic level. It had no upper limit, no predetermined ceiling. She could take any physical structure and reorganize its component atoms into something fundamentally different and the scale of it was bounded only by her her focus and the amount of energy she had.

Her mother had been standing too close the first time it went wrong.

Mark didn't know the full story. Eve had never told it to him completely and he had never asked, there were some things that you just couldn't talk about and Mark understood that. What he knew was that her mother was gone. What he knew was that it had something to do with Eve's ability expressing itself in a moment of fear, of crisis, of whatever combination of adrenaline and emotion had triggered it past the point of control. What he knew was that Eve had never entirely forgiven herself, and that the outside world had become something she could not fully trust herself inside of.

That kind of power attracted attention. It always had. The wrong kinds of people, the ones who wanted to own something powerful or sell it or weaponize it or simply destroy it out of fear. Thats why she never used her power if she couldn't help it, though there was one other exception too.  

He took the stairs to the fourth floor and found 4F at the end of the hall, its door already pulled a few inches open.  "Hey," he said, pushing the door inward and stepping into the warmth of the hallway. "It's me."

No answer came from the front room, but he hadn't expected one. He shrugged his jacket off and hung it on the hook by the door and ran a hand back through his wet hair, pushing it off his forehead, before moving down the narrow hallway past the kitchen and into the living room.

The living room was, generously speaking, a mess. It wasn't dirty as Eve was not a dirty person, but it was densely inhabited in a way that suggested a hoarder mentality. There were components on the coffee table that he was fairly certain were the internal organs of some kind of surveillance equipment, spread across a piece of cloth in various stages of disassembly. 

Stacks of printed documentation occupied one end of the couch in columns that were clearly organized. A whiteboard against the far wall was covered so completely in notes that the white of it was almost entirely invisible beneath the markers. And in the center of all of it was the setup.

It was extraordinary. 

A curved desk along the length of the far wall that supported four monitors, each one larger than the last, the tower underneath running one of the most high spec set ups he'd seen outside of a software company.

Eve herself was sitting at the center of the desk in an oversized t-shirt that fell past her thighs, her bare feet were on the table and her hair was doing its best impression of a bird's nest.

She did not look up when he came in.

"There's pizza on the counter," she said.

"I saw it," he said before he crossed the room and lowered himself onto the end of the couch. He looked at his hands where they rested on his knees and then he turned his head toward the kitchen doorway.

"Hey Eve," he said. 

She kept typing. "Hey."

"I had a thing with my grandpa tonight. We got into it pretty bad, and I—" He stopped. "Can I crash here for a bit?"

The typing stopped. "You know you don't have to ask," Eve said, still looking at her screen. "You are always welcome here. You know that." A pause. "What did he say?"

Mark opened his mouth to answer and then stopped, because Eve had turned her chair and was looking at him now, giving him her full attention. 

She looked at his face.

He looked back. "He's just being an ass..." 

"Mmm," she replied as she turned back to her screens. "Pizza's still warm," she said. "There's two slices of the plain left, I saved them."

He got up from the couch and moved into the kitchen, found the box and opened it, and took the two slices she'd set aside and dropped back onto the couch and took a bite that was larger than was strictly dignified.

It was good.

He chewed and swallowed and sat with it for a moment. "Thanks," he said. 

"Someone's gotta keep you fed," she said.

He was halfway through the second slice when she saved whatever she was working on and pushed her chair back from the desk, standing up and stretching her arms above her head with the before padding across the room in her bare feet and dropping onto the couch beside him.

Close enough that her shoulder was against his arm, she pulled her knees up and tucked her feet under herself and settled into the corner of the couch and against his side. "So," she said, looking up at him from her tucked position. "How did it go? You learn anything new?"

He leaned his head back against the couch and stared at the ceiling. 

He told her about where he'd been before he'd gone back to his grandfather's. He told her about who he'd followed, and what he'd found at the end of that following. He told her what Rocco had said and what it meant in the context of what they already knew, which was not nothing, though it was still a long way from what he wanted.

Eve listened the way she always did and did not say anything until he finished.  "The name he gave you," she said, at one point, tapping her lower lip with one finger in the absentminded way she had when she was thinking. "I could cross that with records from the police database and see what I could dig up."

"I'd appreciate that," Mark said.

"It shouldn't be too hard, if he's a Capo he's likely got a whole profile," she said. "I'll run it tonight."

"We're getting closer," he said. "I can feel it. Like the whole thing is starting to—" He paused, reaching for the word, and somewhere in the reaching lost the thread of it. "Starting to—"

His head tipped slightly and he found the back of the couch and rested there. Somewhere between one breath and the next the sentence he'd been building it all simply dissolved and he fell asleep. 

Eve didn't move she just looked up at Mark and stroked his face before she lay down on his chest and joined him in sleeping. 

But sleep never stayed kind to Mark.

Inside his mind the dream seized him dragging him thirteen years back to the cramped living room of their old East End walk-up. He was small again, just a scrawny kid with knobby knees and a hoodie two sizes too big, standing frozen in the doorway while Luca Falcone loomed over his mother. 

Debbie Grayson was on her knees on the carpet, her dark hair matted with blood from where Luca had already pistol-whipped her across the temple. The big man's gold signet ring caught the lamplight as he backhanded her again, the flat CRACK of knuckles against cheekbone loud enough to make Mark's ears ring even in the dream. Blood sprayed from her split lip in an arc that dotted the wall behind her.

Mark tried to lunge forward but his legs wouldn't move, it was like they were bolted to the floorboards. "Mom!" The word tore out of him desperately, but it came out only as a strangled croak trapped behind his teeth. He strained until the veins stood out in his neck, yet nothing happened except the panic flooding his chest.

Luca laughed loudly the sound rolling out of his barrel chest like gravel tumbling down a drain. He grabbed a fistful of Debbie's hair and yanked her head back so hard her neck arched at an ugly angle. "You really thought you could say no to me, Debbie? Thought you could keep that pretty mouth shut when a Falcone comes calling for what he wants?" He drove a heavy fist into her stomach, the wet THUD of impact folding her in half as she vomited a thick rope of blood and bile onto the carpet between her knees. 

She coughed once, twice, then started to sob. "Please... not Mark... leave him be..."

Luca didn't stop he hauled her upright by the hair again, pressed the muzzle of a matte-black pistol to her forehead, and looked straight across the room at the paralyzed boy. "Watch this, kid. This is what happens when trash forgets its place."

Debbie's gaze found Mark's. Her lips moved, forming his name one last time—"Mark"—and then the gunshot BOOMED through the tiny room like a cannon. The back of her skull exploded outward in a red mist of bone and brain matter that splattered across the faded wallpaper and painted Mark's face. Her body jerked once, violently, then slumped sideways to the floor with a thud, one arm still outstretched toward her son.

Mark screamed. 

The sound ripped out of him now, but still he couldn't move, couldn't run to her, couldn't do anything except stand there while the blood cooled on his cheeks and the copper stink of it filled his nose. Luca holstered the pistol with a casual flick of his wrist, stepped over the spreading puddle of what had once been Debbie Grayson, and crouched down right in front of the frozen boy. His breath smelled of cigars and whiskey and something rotten. 

He reached out with two fingers and wiped a smear of blood from Mark's cheek, then tapped the boy's forehead. "She begged for us to spare you," Luca said, voice soft and almost conversational, the kind of tone a man might use to explain the weather. "Said she'd do anything if I'd just let her little Mark live and trust me I made her do everything before I whacked her anyway."

...

Mark woke with the scream still clawing its way up his throat. His eyes snapped open to the blue glow of Eve's monitors and the familiar clutter of her living room, he clamped his jaw shut so hard his teeth clicked together, swallowing the sound before it could tear free. For a long moment he simply lay there with his fists clenched so tightly the bones might crack. 

Eventually they loosened, he sighed and rubbed both hands roughly over his face, his palms scraping against the stubble on his jaw while he let his heart rate drop back down to something that didn't feel like a sprinted mile. The dream loosened its grip eventually, the vision of the kitchen fading, and his mother's face going back to the safe place he kept it during the day.

He scrubbed his hand down his face and across the back of his neck, sitting forward and putting his elbows on his knees. After a moment he pushed himself up from the couch and stretched his arms back until something in his shoulder popped with a sound like a knuckle cracking, and he rolled his neck in each direction before straightening up and following the smell of food toward the kitchen.

It seemed Eve had been up for a while as the counter was covered in food, more than any normal person could eat, but exactly the kind of spread she always made when she knew he'd crashed here. A towering stack of buttermilk pancakes, beside a mountain of scrambled eggs flecked with cheese and chives, eight thick strips of bacon, a skillet of spicy sausage links, and a fresh pot of black coffee. She'd even sliced up fresh strawberries and set out a pitcher of orange juice.

He turned as she came out of the hallway, she leaned against the doorframe and gave him a small smile. "Figured you'd be hungry after last night. Sit. Eat before it gets cold."

Mark crossed the small space and pulled her into a quick hug, his arms wrapping around her slender frame and lifting her clear off the floor for a second before he set her down again. "You didn't have to do all this, Eve. But... thank you. Seriously. Smells fucking incredible." He dropped into one of the  chairs at the tiny kitchen table and immediately started loading a plate. 

The first bite of pancake was soft and sweet and buttery, and he let out a groan of appreciation as he chewed.

Eve slid into the chair across from him, cradling a mug of coffee between both hands while she watched him eat. The steam curled up around her face as she took a sip, then set the mug down and traced a finger along the rim. "Last night I ran some deeper searches on that name the dealer gave you. Fat Tony... He's not like the other capos, he's strange to say the least."

"In wha— way?" Mark mumbled through a packed mouth. 

"Don't talk with your mouth full," Eve chided. 

"Sor—ry," Mark replied. 

Eve rolled her eyes before she continued. "Most of the capos stick to the Iceberg Lounge or their own private clubs where the security's tight. But Tony? He visits the Estoria almost every Thursday night. It's this mid-tier nightclub right on the border between Maroni and Falcone territory. Neutral ground, supposedly."

Mark paused with a forkful of eggs halfway to his mouth, the frown already carving deep lines between his brows. He set the fork down and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "The Estoria? That place is more Maroni than Falcone these days. Any reason he'd be going there instead of the Iceberg?"

Eve shook her face while she reached over and nudged the plate of bacon a little closer to him. "I couldn't find any. I dug through every police report find. Nothing obvious. No side deals with Maroni that I could see, no personal beef that would make him avoid Falcone turf. He just... shows up, drinks, watches the dancers, sometimes disappears into the VIP room for an hour or two, then leaves with his security detail."

Mark hummed as he speared another sausage link and chewed it slowly. He swallowed, took a long pull of orange juice then nodded. "Alright. I'll check the place out tonight. See if I can find an opening or if I can get him alone."

Eve leaned forward close enough that he could smell the faint lavender of her shampoo. Her hand found his wrist, fingers wrapping around the thick cord of muscle there, and she squeezed gently. "Just... be careful, Mark. I mean it. Tony's not some street dealer you can pistol-whip in an alley. He's got a whole trained security detail and a dozen or so crew members he can call on." She paused, her thumb brushing over the scarred knuckles on the back of his hand, then added in a softer voice, "And while you're out there... is there anything you need me to make for you? Armor, new grapple line, anything? I can have it ready before you head out."

Mark's jaw tightened for a second, but he shook his head and set his fork down so he could turn his hand over and lace his fingers through hers. "I'm good, Eve. Really. You already did enough last night digging up that intel. I'm not gonna ask for more."

Mark knew how much using her powers affected her and didn't like making her help him if he didn't have to. Especially because he knew how much she'd push herself to help him. 

She squeezed his fingers tighter, leaning in until their foreheads almost touched across the table. "It's okay. I've been doing this program I found online. I've been practicing every day, and I'm doing a lot better than before. I can handle it, Mark. I want to handle it. For you."

He studied her face for a long moment, the dark circles under her eyes that never quite went away, the way her shoulders carried a tension that never fully left even when she smiled. Then he stood, the chair scraping back across the linoleum, and pulled her up into a proper hug, his massive arms wrapping all the way around her. 

Eve melted into it immediately, her face pressing into the center of his sternum, her arms sliding around his waist as she let out a shaky breath that warmed the fabric of his shirt. He rested his chin on top of her head, one big hand stroking slowly up and down her spine while the other cradled the back of her neck. "I know you can," he murmured into her hair, voice low and rough. "But I'm fine without it this time. I've got the gear I need. You've already given me more than enough just by letting me crash here and feeding me like a goddamn king. Thank you."

He held her like that for another full minute before he finally loosened his arms and stepped back just enough to look down at her. "I'm gonna head to the gym before I hit the club tonight. Haven't checked in with Ted for a while, and the old man gets pissy when I ghost him too long."

Eve nodded, tilting her head up so she could press a soft kiss to his cheek, her lips lingering there for a second against the rough stubble. "Okay. I'll make up the guest room for you while you're gone so you've got a place to crash again if you need it. And take the spare key, it's on the hook by the door."

Mark brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear with one thick finger, the gesture surprisingly gentle for a man built like a tank. "Thanks, Eve. I'll see you tonight." He grabbed one last strip of bacon from the plate, folded it into his mouth, and headed for the door. 

...

The door of Eve's building clanged shut behind him as he stepped out into the cit. Mark pulled the hood of his sweatshirt up over his hair and started walking north along Hamill Street.

By the time he reached Grant's Gym on the corner of Finger and 12th the drizzle had soaked through the shoulders of his hoodie. The old brick building loomed ahead like it always did. For a piece of shit building it really was the best gym in Gotham and had one of the best trainers too. 

Mark pushed through the glass door, the little bell above it jingling before the humid blast of sweat, old leather, and chalk dust hit him full in the. The place hadn't changed in the eight years he'd been coming here: the same scuffed mats on the floor, the same row of speed bags along the far wall, the same ragged bags hanging from chains that had been patched and re-patched so many times they looked like they'd come from a dump. 

A couple of regulars were already at it in the back and the radio in the corner crackled out some old rock station that Mark had never heard of since Ted was an old fucker. 

He dropped his bag on the bench by the lockers, stripped off the hoodie, and stood there for a long moment in nothing but a black compression shirt that stretched tight across the dense slabs of muscle he'd spent years hammering into his body. 

Six foot seven and one hundred and eighty kilos of hard-packed power that had been forged in this very room, night after night, until his body screamed and his mind went numb from the pain. 

For years now Mark had been pushing himself and his body to the absolute limit, and he would keep doing it until the day he stalled or found himself not improving anymore. He had promised himself from the moment that he lost his mother that he would never be helpless again, he would become better, he would become a weapon capable of tearing apart those who deserved it. 

He started with the barbell, loading it with enough plates that they clanged when he racked them, then dropped into a squat snd started lifting them. He moved through set after set without pause, the sweat already beading on his forehead and trickling down the thick cords of his neck as he transitioned to deadlifts, pulling the bar from the floor with a growl that started deep in his chest and built until the plates rattled on the way up. 

He could feel the muscles rip and tear with every rep he did past failure. It was painful, but the voice that whispered in his ear to rest or give up had long since died and he lifted until his arms physically couldn't. 

After finishing with his weight training he did a quick cardio session before hitting the bag. He wrapped his knuckles quickly, the cloth biting into the fresh splits from last night, and then he went to work. The first few punches were warm-ups, testing the bag's swing, but soon the rhythm took over and his combos exploded out of him like explosive detonations, each impact landing with a meaty thud that echoed off the walls and made the chain above the bag creak and strain. 

Sweat flew from his hair with every turn of his shoulders, his breath coming in short bursts that matched the timing of the hits, and when he chained a savage four-punch sequence into a spinning back kick the bag lurched hard enough that the entire mounting bracket groaned and the chain jerked upward as if it were about to rip free and crash to the floor. The bag swung wildly for a second, twisting on its axis, before it settled again, and Mark stood there breathing hard, 

 the faint metallic taste of blood in his mouth from where he'd bitten the inside of his cheek without noticing.

A gruff chuckle rolled across the gym from the direction of the office door. "Jesus Christ, kid, you trying to murder the damn equipment?" Ted Grant stepped out of the back room, wiping his hands on a rag that had seen better decades. 

He was shorter than Mark by a good six inches but built like a fire hydrant wrapped in skin and gray stubblel. Ted tossed the rag over one shoulder and crossed the floor. "Haven't seen your ugly mug in here for damn near two weeks. Figured maybe you finally got smart and found a better hobby than turning my heavy bags into piñatas."

Mark straightened up slowly, rolling his shoulders as the burn in his arms started to settle into an ache, and offered a half-smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Sorry about that, Ted. I've been busy. You know how it is, shit piles up and before you know it a couple weeks disappear."

Ted stopped a few feet away, his arms folding across his chest while he gave Mark the once-over. He let out a gruff chuckle that sounded like gravel shifting under tires. "Yeah, I know exactly how busy you've been, kid. Still out there fucking up low-level dealers in the Narrows."

Marks eyes widened. "What do you—"

"Word travels kid, even to an old bastard like me. Half the guys who come in here these days got stories about some masked giant tossing Falcone boys through tables. Sound familiar?" He interrupted. 

Mark tutted under his breath and turned back toward the bag, driving another hard right cross into it. The leather gave a satisfying smack and the chain rattled again. "My grandpa already tried to lecture me on the subject last night. I don't need you climbing on the same horse, Ted. Not today."

Ted sighed and he stepped forward to steady the bag with both hands, holding it still while his eyes stayed locked on Mark's face. "Look, I respect what you're doing out there, Mark. I really do. Back in the day I did it too when the streets were even meaner than they are now. I put plenty of bastards in the hospital. But what are you gonna do when it's all over? When the last Falcone you can reach is either dead or in Blackgate and the city's still spinning the same way it always has? You ever stop to think about that part?"

Mark's jaw tightened for a second as he met Ted's gaze across the bag, the sweat still dripping from his brow and stinging the corner of one eye. "I'll think of that when I get there. Right now getting there is all I've got room for in my head."

Ted sighed again. "It's never that simple, kid. Never is. Life doesn't line up nice and neat like a fight does. But alright enough talking. Put some gloves on. I've got time for a few rounds if you're up for it. Might do you more good than beating on that poor bag."

Mark nodded and walked over to the bench where he kept his sparring gloves. The two of them climbed into the ring a minute later, the ropes giving slightly under Mark's weight as he ducked between them and rolled his neck and bounced on his feet.

They touched gloves in the center and then Mark came out aggressive the way he always did. He threw a looping right hand that whistled through the air, but Ted slipped it countering with a crisp jab that snapped Mark's head back and made his vision spark for half a second. 

Mark pressed anyway, driving forward with a combination that landed two solid body shots that Ted absorbed with a grunt but used to angle himself sideways, turning Mark's own momentum against him and slipped inside and landed a short uppercut that rattled Mark's teeth. "You're leading with the anger again, kid. I can see it in your form. Anger's good for the first punch, but it makes the second and third ones stupid. Breathe, then throw."

Mark snarled something wordless under his breath and kept coming, landing a clean hook to Ted's ribs that made the older man wince and a solid kick that caught Ted on the thigh hard enough to leave a red print through the shorts. For a heartbeat it felt like he was finally closing the gap, but Ted was already shifting, reading the overcommitment like it was written in neon, he stepped inside the next wild swing, clinched briefly and slammed multiple punches to his liver, and then swept Mark's lead leg out from under him. 

Ted stood over him, gloves on his hips, breathing only a little harder than before. "You've got the potential to be a great fighter, Mark. Real great. Power and size like yours most guys would kill for half of it. But you won't get anywhere if you don't sort your damn temper out. It's leading you around like a dog on a chain, and one day it's gonna get you killed out there."

Mark pushed himself up and met Ted's eyes with a stubborn look. "Again."

Ted sighed, but he raised his gloves and nodded. "Alright, kid. Again."

They went five more rounds after that. 

Mark came at Ted with everything he had every single time but Ted was simply on another level, taking that same raw aggression and folding it into something technical and skilful, slipping, countering, and leading Mark into traps that ended with the younger man on the mat more often than not. 

Mark didn't win a single one of those five fights, not even close, and the frustration built in his chest like steam in a pressure cooker, because every time he thought he had an opening Ted was already two steps ahead, reading the telegraph in his shoulders or the slight hitch in his stance before the punch had even begun to uncoil. 

By the final round Mark was breathing harder than he wanted to admit, sweat pouring down his back and stinging his eyes as it mixed with the faint metallic taste of blood where he'd caught the inside of his cheek on a previous exchange, yet he kept coming because quitting wasn't an option, not here, not anywhere. 

He rolled his massive shoulders once more, feeling the burn settle deep into the thick slabs of muscle across his back, and he stepped forward again as the imaginary bell rang in his head.

Ted met him in the center of the ring with that same crooked half-grin as he bounced lightly on the balls of his feet. "You still got that fire in you, kid," he said. "But fire without direction just burns the house down around you. You gonna let it eat you alive again, or you finally gonna try thinking with more than just your fists?"

Mark didn't answer with words; instead he answered with motion, exploding forward in a sudden surge that made the ring tremble as he closed the distance in two strides, his lead hand flicking out a jab that snapped Ted's head back an inch before he followed it with a looping right hook that whistled through the humid air like a freight train. 

Ted slipped the hook by the narrowest margin, the leather of Mark's glove brushing the gray stubble on his jaw, and immediately countered with a crisp one-two that landed square on Mark's midsection, the impacts thudding deep enough to compress the air from his lungs in a grunt. The pain flared inside him, but Mark used it, channeling the sting into a vicious uppercut that rose from his hips and caught Ted under the elbow as the older man tried to parry, forcing Ted to pivot away while Mark pressed the advantage, driving forward with a knee that grazed Ted's thigh and then a spinning elbow that Ted barely ducked under, the rush of displaced air ruffling the thin hair on the back of the veteran's head.

They separated for half a heartbeat, both men breathing heavier now, sweat flinging off their brows as they reset.

Ted shook out his arms. "That's better," he rasped, circling left with a slight limp from the knee that wasn't quite there a moment ago. "You're finally letting the size work for you instead of just bulldozing like a damn freight train. But you're still dropping that left hand every time you load up the right, you keep doing that and somebody with half my speed's gonna plant you face-first before you even feel the counter coming."

Mark's jaw clenched so hard the muscles stood out like cables under his skin, he answered by feinting with his shoulder before launching a real attack, a blistering combination that started with a body shot to Ted's ribs and flowed straight into a high kick that snapped toward Ted's temple like a whip crack. 

Ted blocked the kick with his forearm but instead of retreating he stepped inside the arc, clinching tight against Mark's chest where the bigger man's reach became a liability. Mark tried to shove the clinch apart with a brutal shove of his shoulder, but Ted used the momentum against him, turning the push into a short elbow that clipped Mark's cheekbone and split the skin open just enough for a thin line of blood to well up and trickle down toward his jaw.

The cut stung like fire, but it only fed the furnace inside Mark's chest, and he roared wordlessly as he broke the clinch with a violent twist of his torso, driving forward again. His left hook slammed into Ted's guard so hard the veteran's arms rattled, before a knee drove up into the older man's midsection again, folding him forward half an inch before Ted recovered and slipped away along the ropes. 

Mark pursued relentlessly, the canvas squeaking under his boots as he cut off the ring, throwing a wild overhand right that Ted ducked under at the last possible second, the punch grazing the top of Ted's head and sending a spray of sweat flying across the mat. 

For a fleeting moment it felt even, truly even, like Mark's raw power were finally overwhelming Ted, and the frustration in Mark's chest eased just enough for a savage grin to tug at the corner of his bloody mouth while he pressed harder, landing a clean body hook that made Ted's breath hitch audibly and then following it with an elbow that clipped the veteran's cheek and sent him staggering back two full steps.

Ted recovered faster than any man his age had a right to, planting his feet and exploding back into range with a precision that felt almost supernatural after Mark's brute-force assault. "There it is," he growled through gritted teeth. "You think trying to overwhelm me with speed and power is going to work? Watch, you're still leaving your chin wide open when you overcommit like that."

Then Ted showed him exactly what he meant, slipping inside Mark's next looping punch with a shoulder roll that brought him chest-to-chest again, only this time the veteran chained three short, vicious shots in rapid succession: a hook to the liver that made Mark's knees buckle for half a second, an uppercut that snapped his head back on his neck, and a straight right that landed flush on the fresh cut over his cheekbone, opening it wider so that blood sheeted down the side of his face.

Mark tasted copper flooding his mouth and blinked through the red haze, refusing to back down as he countered with a desperate kick, but Ted was already flowing around the kick like water around a rock, using the opening to circle behind and land a stinging jab to the back of Mark's head that made stars burst behind his eyes. 

The ring seemed to tilt for a moment under Mark's vision, the overhead lights blurring into streaks of white, yet he spun anyway, throwing a wild backfist that Ted blocked with his arm before stepping in close enough that their foreheads nearly touched.

Mark snarled something incoherent and shoved Ted back with both gloves, creating just enough space to launch into his most ferocious sequence yet; a blurring flurry that started with a leg kick, transitioned into a double jab that snapped Ted's head back twice in quick succession, and culminated in a crushing overhand left that connected solidly with the veteran's guard and actually forced Ted to jump backwards. 

The impact echoed like a gunshot in the gym, and for one glorious heartbeat Mark felt the shift in momentum, felt the possibility of finally landing a final blow, but Ted absorbed the blow with a grunt that turned into a chuckle and then came back at him like he had been holding back until now.

The chain of combos came so fast Mark barely registered the first one before the second was already landing. Ted slipped under Mark's counter-punch, drove a hook into his floating ribs that compressed the air from his lungs in a wet gasp, followed immediately with a straight right to the jaw that rattled his teeth and sent a fresh spray of blood arcing across the canvas, then pivoted on his lead foot and slammed a knee into Mark's midsection hard enough to lift the bigger man's heels clear off the mat for a split second. 

Mark's vision tunneled, the world narrowing to the burn in his ribs and the copper flood in his mouth, but before he could recover Ted was already inside again, clinching tight with one arm while the other glove hammered five more short shots into his liver, each impact landing with a dull, meaty thud that sent shockwaves through Mark's entire frame. 

The frustration boiled over into something raw and desperate, and Mark tried one last time to muscle out of the clinch, shoving with all the power left in his massive shoulders, but Ted used that exact surge against him, dropping his level, wrapping both arms around Mark's waist in a lightning-fast double underhook, and then driving upward with a roar.

Mark felt his feet leave the canvas entirely as Ted lifted him clean off the ground like he weighed nothing and for one suspended heartbeat the world hung in perfect stillness. Then Ted pivoted on his heel and slammed Mark down onto the canvas in a thunderous power slam that drove the air from his lungs in a violent whoosh and sent a jolt of white-hot pain racing up his spine. The ring shook from the impact, the ropes vibrating like guitar strings, and Mark lay there on his back for a long momen with blood trickling from the split on his cheek and mixing with the sweat pooling beneath his head. 

"That's the best you've given me in months, kid," he said after a long pause while he extended a hand down toward Mark. "But you still got a long way to go before that fire stops burning you from the inside out."

Mark reached up and clasped Ted's extended gloved hand with his own, the older man's grip hauled him upright in one smooth pull that sent a fresh jolt of pain radiating through his bruised spine and battered ribs. He stood there for a second, before he gave a short nod, "Thanks for the spar, Ted. Appreciate it."

Ted just clapped him on the shoulder with a grunt and stepped back, already turning toward the office while Mark turned away and limped across the ring, each step pulling at the deep ache in his hip and the fire still smoldering in his quads, he ducked between the ropes and crossed the gym floor toward the long wooden bench against the far wall.

He dropped heavily onto the bench, the wood creaking under his weight while he leaned forward and reached for the half-empty water bottle he'd left there earlier, twisting the cap off with a quick flick of his thumb before tilting his head back and letting the cold liquid flood his mouth and spill down his throat. The water did little to cool the furnace still raging inside him. 

As he sat there catching his breath with his elbows on his knees, the frustration he felt coiled tighter in his gut until it felt like it could melt iron. 

He hadn't been good enough again. 

No matter how hard he pushed, no matter how many hours he spent breaking his body against iron and leather, he still couldn't even beat an old man. Though maybe he just went giving Ted enough credit. 

Still the thought gnawed at him, because if he couldn't handle Ted in a controlled environment then what the hell chance did he have when the Falcones sent real killers after him?

The cold shock of a chilled plastic bottle pressed suddenly against the side of his neck made him flinch hard enough that water sloshed over his fingers, he jerked his head up with a grunt of surprise, his eyes narrowing as he looked sideways to see who had snuck up on him. 

A hand was holding the bottle there and when he followed the arm upward he found Dinah Lance already sliding onto the bench beside him. Mark took the bottle without a word, twisted the cap off, and drained the entire post-workout shake in four massive gulps, before he leaned back against the wall with a heavy sigh. "Thanks, Dinah," he said.

"No problem," she answered easily, settling in beside him while she unscrewed the cap on her own bottle and took a sip. She was still in her workout gear; a black sports bra and high-waisted leggings that clung to every curve like they'd been on. She crossed one long leg over the other while she leaned back next to him, close enough that the heat radiating off her bare shoulder brushed against his arm. "Figured you could use something after that beating you just took."

Mark wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and glanced sideways at her again. "When did you get here?"

"Around the third time Ted slammed you on your ass," she said with a small, amused shrug, the corner of her mouth quirking upward as she took another sip and watched him over the rim of the bottle. "I was finishing my deadlifts when I heard the canvas shake and figured I'd come watch the show."

Mark tutted under his breath and he shook his head. "Did it look that bad?"

Dinah let out a giggle, shaking her phone at him so the screen caught the overhead lights and flashed for a second. "You're definitely going viral by the end of the day, big guy. I got the whole power-slam sequence on video, looked like Ted was bodyslamming a damn refrigerator. The comments are gonna write themselves."

"Thanks," Mark said blandly as he leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes for a moment.

Dinah Lance was someone Mark had known for years now, ever since they'd started showing up at the same gym and falling under Ted's tutelage, and even though she was five or six years older than he was and had already kicked his ass more than once in the ring when they sparred, she had become a solid friend. 

She was definitely easy on the eyes too... especially when she was working out, the way she was right now, with those lean, sculpted muscles across her stomach flexing every time she breathed and the tight, rounded bubble of an ass perfectly outlined in those black leggings that left almost nothing to the imagination, the kind of ass that made bounced and rippled and moved in almost every way imaginable. 

Mark wasn't even sure he had a type until he'd first seen her like this, but he'd never tell her that, of course; he didn't have time for something as asinine as a relationship, not with the Falcones still breathing and Luca's face still burned into the back of his eyelids every time he closed his eyes.

His thoughts were dragged back to the present when Dinah nudged his knee with her own. "Hey, don't worry about losing to Ted like that. Even I've lost more rounds to him than I've won, and I've been training with the old bastard longer than you have."

"At least you've won some," Mark commented, the words coming out with a tired half-smile as he cracked one eye open and looked over at her.

"You'll get there," Dinah said, leaning in a little closer so that the faint scent of her coconut shampoo mixed with the clean sweat on her skin. "He is right though, you're holding yourself back with that anger of yours. I can see it every time you step in the ring; it makes you sloppy, makes you telegraph those big shots like you're trying to knock the building down instead of the guy in front of you."

"Not this again," Mark grumbled, rolling his eyes while he reached up and rubbed at the back of his neck.

Dinah flicked his ear with a quick snap of her fingers, the little sting enough to make him flinch. "Yes, this again," she said firmly, turning on the bench so she was facing him more directly, one elbow resting on her knee while she gestured with the half-empty bottle in her other hand. "You're squandering your potential, Mark. You've got the size, the power, the speed that most fighters would sell their souls for, but every time you let that rage take the wheel you stop thinking, and that's exactly how you end up eating canvas over and over. You could be unstoppable if you'd just—"

Mark finished the sentence for her before she could get any further, his voice flat and mocking as he cut in. "—learn to breathe and fight smart instead of letting the anger run the show, blah blah blah."

She shoved him playfully, her palm slamming into his shoulder hard enough to rock him sideways on the bench while she laughed under her breath. "Asshole. I'm trying to help you here."

Mark straightened up, the ghost of a real smile finally tugging at the corner of his mouth despite the ache still radiating through his ribs. "I'll be fine, Dinah. I'll improve, and I'll do it my way."

Dinah sighed as she pushed a loose strand of blonde hair behind her ear and gave him a look that was half exasperation and half fondness. "Fine, have it your way, stubborn ass. But hey since you're finished up, you want to go grab some food? My treat. There's that new Thai place two blocks over."

Mark shook his head slowly, already feeling the pull of the night ahead tightening in his chest like a coiled spring. "I wish I could, but I've got plans tonight. Rain check?"

Dinah raised one perfectly arched eyebrow at him, her blue eyes narrowing just a fraction like she could read his mind, but she didn't comment on it, just nodded  and stood up from the bench in a smooth motion that made the muscles in her thighs and that tight, rounded ass flex visibly under the thin black fabric of her leggings. "Suit yourself. I'm gonna go finish my set before I cool down too much. Try not to get your ass handed to you by any more old men while I'm gone."

Mark lifted one hand in a lazy wave as she turned and walked away, the sway of her hips impossible to ignore even if he tried, and then he pushed himself up off the bench with a groan while he gathered his things. 

It was getting late and he had a date with a certain Mafioso waiting for him at the Estoria.

_____________________________________

Mark dropped onto the rooftop of the Estoria just as full darkness settled over Gotham, he crouched behind the housing of an old air-conditioning unit. It was still a little early so he doubted that his target was here. 

Now was the waiting game. 

A few hours of watching later and Mark finally spotted an armored SUV, and Anthony "Fat Tony" Fabaro climbed out with his entourage of suited muscle. The moment the last door slammed shut and the group disappeared inside, it was showtime.

Mark rose without a sound, crossed the gravel roof in three strides, and kicked the roof-access door inward with a single boot that sent the lock exploding off its housing. The metal door banged open against the concrete wall and he stepped through into the stairwell, and started down the steps two at a time. 

The Estoria was three floors tall: management offices and storage crammed onto the third level where the rooftop access fed straight in, VIP lounges dominating the second floor with its private booths, buffet and exotic bars and dancers, and the main dance floor sprawling across the first. Even from the third-floor landing Mark could hear the music pounding upward as the open central atrium let him glance down and see the first-floor crowd swirling under strobing lights.

He paused for half a heartbeat at the railing, eyes narrowing behind the mask as he took in the chaos below, then turned and walked towards the stairwell leading down to the second floor. 

He would definitely draw attention dressed like this but there was no helping it; he wasn't about to risk his face being seen by half the underworld and he sure as hell wasn't walking in unarmed only to eat a bullet before he reached the right booth. Luckily the third floor was deserted, Mark moved through it quickly, and he reached the stairwell door to the VIP level and eased it open before quickly making his way downstairs and going out into the second floor. 

The second floor hit him like a wave of pure alcohol and sex the moment he stepped out. The VIP area was a haze of crimson lighting and thick cigar smoke, and the unmistakable musk of sex and sweat. Private booths lined the walls each one packed with the city's worst parasites living their best lives: men in tailored suits snorted fat lines of white powder off the bare breasts of laughing women while others lounged back with bottles of thousand-dollar scotch in one hand and handfuls of silicone-enhanced ass in the other. 

A girl in nothing but a sheer black thong was bent over the arm of a leather couch, moaning loudly as some trust fund asshole fucked her from behind while he kept talking business on his phone. 

Nearby another booth had two women on their knees between a pair of laughing businessmen, lips and tongues working around exposed cocks while the men toasted each other with raised glasses. 

A day in the life of the 1%

Platters of caviar and wagyu steak sat untouched beside overflowing ashtrays and scattered pills, the bass from below shaking the crystal chandeliers so that droplets of condensation fell like slow rain onto sweat-slick skin. 

Mark hated every second of it, the sight burning behind his eyes like acid; this was a day in the life of the people who owned the city, no suffering, no consequences, just one endless party while kids in the Narrows starved and mothers gave an arm and a leg just to put food on the table and the rest of Gotham rotted in the alleys they never had to walk.

He waded through the crowd like a battleship cutting through water, the sheer size of him making people part instinctively even as a few of the women noticed and reacted instantly. 

A tall redhead in a dress that barely covered her ass slid up against his side, running manicured nails down the hard plates of his chest while she purred, "Hey, big guy, you new security? You look like you could handle a girl like me why don't you take that thing off and join me and my friends?"

 Another, a brunette with pupils blown wide from whatever she'd snorted, grabbed his forearm with both hands and pressed her body flush against him, grinding her hips as she laughed breathlessly, "God, you're built like a fucking wall come on, daddy, we got a booth with room for one more." 

Mark ignored them completely, shrugging the hands off without a word and pushing forward through the press of bodies and perfume and spilled liquor while scanning the private booths for his target. 

The Maroni men weren't hard to spot if you knew what to look for—silk shirts unbuttoned to show gold chains and chest hair, the same smug tilt to their chins, the way they kept one hand near the bulge of a hidden pistol—but toward the very center of the VIP floor he finally found what he was looking for; a cluster of four Falcone guards in dark suits standing shoulder-to-shoulder around a curved leather booth. 

Inside the booth, sprawled like he owned the whole damn world, sat Fat Tony himself, the capo laughed at something one of the girls draped across his lap had whispered in his ear, a half-empty bottle of cognac in one fist and a fat cigar clamped between his teeth.

Mark started making his way straight toward them, but he had barely closed half the distance when the nearest Falcone guard stepped forward and planted a hand hard against his chest plate, shoving him back with enough force to make him take a step back. "Fuck off," the man snarled, his other hand already drifting toward the pistol holstered under his jacket. "This booth's private, asshole."

Mark stood there for a moment after the shove rocked him back a single step, his eyes narrowing behind the mask as he sized up the two guards who had stepped out to meet him while the other two held position tight around the booth. 

All of them were huge and well over six feet tall with the kind of thick necks and barrel chests that came from years of steroid-fueled enforcement work, but only one of them came within a few inches of Mark's own towering height and none of them carried the same dense, hardened mass that made his frame look carved from stone. 

He looked straight past their scowling faces and locked eyes on the figure lounging in the booth behind them. "I want to talk to Fat Tony," he growled out.

The lead guard let out a harsh bark of a laugh that sprayed spittle across Mark's chest plate, his face twisting into a sneer while the veins in his thick neck bulged. "Who the fuck do you think you are, coming in here and demanding shit? This ain't a soup kitchen for masked freaks, asshole. Now turn around before I put a bullet in your fucking skull." He leaned in closer, reeking of whiskey and cheap cologne, and raised his hand again to shove Mark back harder this time. 

But Mark's hand snapped out and clamped around the man's wrist, stopping the push dead in midair with a force that made the guard's bones grind together audibly. The sudden halt sent a ripple through the entire group; all four enforcers tensed at once, their hands already diving inside their jackets for the pistols holstered beneath their jackets. 

"Easy, boys. Let the big bastard through. I wanna see what reason the idiot thinks he can crash my table." The guards relaxed by fractions, shoulders dropping as they stepped back a half pace, and the one whose wrist Mark still held ripped his hand free with a vicious yank, spitting a curse under his breath before he moved aside with obvious reluctance. Mark shoved past him anyway, shoulder checking the man hard enough to send him stumbling into the velvet rope while he closed the remaining distance to the booth.

Fat Tony looked up at him through a haze of cigar smoke, he took a long pull from the thick Cuban clamped between his teeth and blew a thick cloud straight into Mark's masked face. His massive gut strained against the silk shirt unbuttoned to his navel. "If you're looking for work, kid, head downtown tomorrow after noon. I'm getting fucked up tonight and I don't do interviews when my dick's still wet and my nose is numb, Hehehehe." He laughed at his own joke, while one of the half-naked women on his lap giggled and pressed her breasts harder against his arm.

Mark's jaw tightened beneath the mask. "I'm not here for work."

Tony's laugh trailed off into a confused chuckle as he wiped his mouth with the back of a meaty hand. "Then what the fuck are you here for? You crash my booth, scare my girls, and act like you own the place. Spit it out before I have the boys toss you off the balcony."

"Luca Falcone," Mark said. "I want to know where he is."

Tony's face morphed in an instant, the lazy smile sliding away and leaving behind a hard frown. "The fuck you want with him?" he growled angrily enough that the girls around him went suddenly quiet.

"I have unfinished business with him."

The capo stared at him for a long second, then threw his head back and laughed again, the sound rolling out of his barrel chest and drawing matching laughter from every guard and girl within earshot until the whole booth shook with it. When the laughter finally died down Tony wiped a tear from the corner of his eye and leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Nobody has business with Luca anymore, not since he and his brother fell out years ago. He went dark and stayed dark. You think some nobody is gonna waltz in here and get an address? You're either stupid or suicidal, kid."

Mark's hands curled into fists at his sides, the leather creaking. "Tell me where he is," he demanded, the anger bleeding through his voice like venom.

Tony's expression soured completely. "Fuck off kid. You're annoying me now." He flicked his thick fingers in a lazy gesture toward the enforcers. "Get rid of this prick."

The grab came from behind before Mark could react, two strong hands clamping onto his shoulders and yanking him backward, but Mark twisted inside the grip, switched the hold, and drove his fist straight into the man's face with a wet crunch that flattened the guard's nose and sent a spray of blood arcing across the nearest table. 

The enforcer howled and dropped, but before Mark could lunge for Tony two more guards seized his arms and hurled him backward with everything they had. He sailed through the air, crashed into a cluster of empty chairs, and rolled back to his feet in one fluid motion.

"Whack this fucking prick!" Tony bellowed, scrambling up from the booth with surprising speed for a man his size.

Mark launched off the floor like a missile, driving a heavy boot straight into the chest of the nearest enforcer with enough force to feel the sternum crack; the man flew backward like a rag doll and smashed through the neighboring booth, sending bottles and half-naked bodies scattering. 

Mark kept moving, leaping forward into a superman punch that connected with the jaw of the second guard just as the man cleared his pistol from its holster; the impact lifted the enforcer clear off his feet, teeth exploding from his mouth in a red mist while his head snapped sideways at an unnatural angle and he crumpled to the floor in a heap of twitching limbs.

The tallest of the four recovered fastest and charged with a roar, slamming his shoulder into Mark's midsection and driving him back several steps until the edge of a marble-topped bar dug into his spine. Mark slammed both fists down onto the man's broad back once, twice, three times, each hammer-like blow landing with meaty thuds that made the enforcer grunt in pain, before he hooked a boot behind the man's ankle, kicked the leg out from under him, and threw him backward with a savage twist of his hips. 

The guard crashed spine-first into a long buffet table loaded with food and drinks; the wood splintered under his weight, platters of caviar and chilled oysters flying everywhere as broken glass and spilled liquor soaked into the carpet around his broken form.

By then the remaining two had their guns out and leveled, the muzzles flashing as they opened fire in the confined space. Mark ripped the shield free from its harness and brought it up just in time; the bullets hammered into the metal with deafening clangs, flattening on impact and sending sparks and ricochets whining off into the walls while the girls screamed and dove for cover. 

The moment the gunfire paused Mark surged up from his crouch and charged forward, swinging the edge of the shield like a battle axe; it caught the first guard's kneecap with a gruesome crunch of shattering bone and cartilage, the joint folding inward at a hideous angle as the man howled and dropped, clutching the ruined leg while blood poured from the torn skin. 

Mark followed through with a rising uppercut that connected under the second guard's jaw, lifting him off the ground and snapping his head back so violently that a spray of blood and spit flew from his mouth as he collapsed unconscious beside his screaming partner.

Tony had already seen enough; the fat capo was waddling away as fast as his legs would carry him, shoving past terrified patrons toward the stairs leading down to the main floor. 

"Get back here!" Mark shouted, but another enforcer lunged from the behind and grabbed him around the waist and shoving him around, firing a point-blank shot from his gun straight into Mark's chest. The bullet slammed into the armored vest like a sledgehammer, driving the air from Mark's lungs in a violent whoosh and throwing him off his feet; he hit the floor hard, pain exploding through his ribs as if a car had plowed into him at full speed, the impact leaving him gasping and dazed while stars burst across his vision.

The enforcer stepped forward to finish the job, pistol rising again, but Mark's hand shot out and snatched a heavy champagne bottle from the nearest overturned table; he threw it upward and shattered it across the man's face in an explosion of glass and blood, slicing deep gashes into cheeks and forehead while the guard reeled backward screaming. Mark kicked the pistol from his hand with a boot that connected hard enough to break fingers, then pushed himself up and shoulder-barged the bleeding man with the full weight of his body, sending him crashing through another booth. 

However another enforcer was already reaching for a dropped gun on the floor; Mark pivoted and hurled the shield like a discus, the heavy edge catching the man's outstretched arm with a sharp, wet snap that broke both bones clean in half, the limb bending backward at a grotesque angle as the guard shrieked and collapsed clutching the ruined limb.

The world tilted for a moment as Mark was still dealing with being shot; Mark staggered, ripped the mask up just enough to expose his mouth, and vomited a thin stream of bile and blood onto the carpet between his boots, the acid burning his throat while his chest throbbed with every ragged breath. 

When he straightened he caught sight of Tony still waddling desperately down the wide staircase toward the first-floor dance floor while he shouted for backup.

"Fuck!" Mark snarled, snatching the shield from where it had clattered to the floor and breaking into a run after him.

He reached the second-floor landing, glanced once at the sheer drop to the writhing crowd thirty feet below, and decided the stairs were too slow. He vaulted the railing without hesitation, one hand snapping out to snag the thin support line of a dangling speaker rig that hung from the ceiling, but the swing went wrong almost immediately. 

His momentum carried him too wide, the line snapping through his fingers, and he slammed hard into the massive speaker stack mounted against the wall. The impact drove the air from his lungs in a grunt, the metal casing buckling under his shoulder as feedback screeched through the sound system and sparks showered down onto the dancers below. Pain flared across his ribs where the vest took the worst of it, but he shook it off, climbed out of the wreckage with shards of plastic and wire clinging to his body, and spotted Tony still shoving through the edge of the crowd, only yards from the exit doors.

Mark pushed off the speaker housing and dropped straight down, which ended with him crashing feet-first into the center of the dance floor. Bodies scattered like bowling pins, screams cutting through the music as he landed in a crouch that cracked the glass  his boots. 

He rose immediately, shoving forward through the press of sweat-slick bodies, ignoring every stare or comment that the passerbys had. Elbows and shoulders clipped him from all sides, but he bulldozed ahead, his eyes locked on Tony's retreating back while the crowd parted around his armored bulk like water around a battleship.

Tony reached the edge of the dance floor and grabbed the nearest Maroni lieutenant by the lapels of his shiny shirt, panting and red-faced as he jabbed a thick finger back toward Mark. "That masked freak is here for me! Take him the fuck out!" 

The Maroni man's eyes widened and he barked a single order over his shoulder. A dozen of his crew surged forward from the surrounding dance floor, shedding their jackets and pulling out knives and lengths of lead pipe from under the bar. Likely cause guns would empty the club in seconds and send the paying clientele screaming into the street and bring cops. No one wanted that kind of heat tonight. 

The first attacker lunged with a switchblade, aiming for the soft spot under Mark's ribs, but Mark twisted at the waist and drove his knee upward into the man's face with enough force to shatter the orbital bone and drive the broken shards back into the socket. Blood sprayed in a hot fan across Mark as the man dropped, screaming and clutching the ruined half of his face, but two more were already on him. 

One swung a lead pipe in a wide arc that connected hard with Mark's left shoulder, the impact jarring through the armor plating and sending a deep bruise blooming beneath the Kevlar weave, while the second slashed a long hunting knife across Mark's thigh. The blade sliced through the outer fabric and bit deep into the meat of his quadriceps, opening a six-inch gash that immediately welled hot blood down his leg and soaked the tactical pants. 

Mark roared and retaliated grabbing the pipe-wielder by the throat and slamming his head down onto his rising knee; the nose exploded in a wet crunch and the man's teeth scattered across the dance floor like dice. He kept the grip, using the limp body as a weapon to swing into the knife-man's face, before Mark dropped the human battering ram and stomped down on the knife-man's wrist, grinding the bones into pulp beneath his boot until the blade clattered free and the screams turned into high-pitched animal sounds.

Three more closed in fast. A tall enforcer with a broken bottle jammed the jagged glass toward Mark's throat, but Mark caught the wrist mid-thrust, twisted until the elbow joint popped backward with a wet tearing sound, and then headbutted the man so hard the forehead split open like an overripe melon. 

Another came from the side with a length of rebar, cracking it across Mark's back hard enough to dent one of the smaller plates and send a lance of pain up his spine, but Mark spun inside the arc, drove an elbow into the attacker's throat that crushed the windpipe flat, and followed with a savage stomp to the knee that bent the joint sideways at a ninety-degree angle, the pop loud enough to cut through the music. 

The last of the first wave tried to circle behind with twin knives, slashing at Mark's hamstrings, but Mark's shield came off his back in a blur and he rammed the edge into the man's groin with all his weight; the impact pulped soft tissue and cracked the pubic bone, dropping the attacker to his knees in a howling heap while blood soaked through his pants in seconds.

The crowd had started to thin now, people scrambling for the exits as the violence turned the dance floor into a slaughterhouse, but the biggest threat was still coming. 

A roar like tearing metal split the air behind Mark, and he turned just in time to see one of the Maroni crew convulsing. 

The man's body swelled grotesquely, muscles ballooning outward until he grew andstood nine feet tall, his skin stretched tight and veins pulsing like ropes under the surface, fists the size of cinder blocks. 

"Fuck... a Meta." Mark was hoping not to encounter one of them, they were pretty rare so he thought the likelihood was low enough.

Seemed he was wrong.  

The meta human charged with a bellow that shook the glasses on the bar, and before Mark could fully brace the giant slammed a haymaker into his chest that lifted him clear off the floor and hurled him twenty feet backward. The armored vest absorbed the worst of the crushing force, but the breath still exploded from Mark's lungs and pain detonated through his sternum like a grenade. 

He hit the floor rolling, but the meta was already on him, massive hands clamping around Mark's waist and hoisting him overhead as if he weighed nothing. The giant brought him down spine-first across a raised speaker platform; the plastic and metal caved inward with a shriek, driving fresh agony through Mark's lower back and cracking two of the smaller protective plates. 

Then the fists came again. 

One hammered into Mark's left side, cracking a floating rib despite the Kevlar and sending a hot spike of pain through his lung; another smashed across his masked jaw, snapping his head sideways and splitting the skin inside his cheek so that blood flooded his mouth. The meta grabbed Mark's arm and twisted it behind his back until the shoulder joint screamed in protest, then drove a knee the size of a wrecking ball into his gut, folding him in half and forcing another gout of vomit and blood to spray across the broken dance floor. The man then lifted him up and threw him across the dance floor slamming straight into the DJ booth. 

Mark's vision tunneled, the strobing lights blurring into streaks of red and white while the meta walked towards him, coming for a finishing blow that would cave his skull in. 

In that instant the world narrowed to a single frozen image from thirteen years ago: 

Luca Falcone's pistol pressed to his mother's forehead, her eyes finding Mark's across the room one last time before the gunshot tore her away in a red mist. The memory ignited something prima inside him, 

Igniting a bottomless rage that flooded his veins like molten steel, burning away the pain and the dizziness until only fury remained.

"RAAHHHHHHHHHGHG!!!!" He exploded upward with a roar that drowned out the music, jumping up and driving his forehead straight into the meta's nose with enough force to flatten it into a pulp of cartilage and blood that sprayed across both their faces. 

The giant staggered, but Mark was already moving,. He grabbed the massive wrist with both hands, wrenched it sideways, then drove his knee repeatedly into the same arm until the humerus snapped clean in two, the broken end punching through the skin in a white spike. 

The meta howled and swung wildly with the other arm, but Mark ducked inside, slammed a palm-heel strike up under the giant's chin that shattered the jawbone in three places, and then wrapped both arms around the thick waist. With a surge of pure hate-fueled power he lifted the nine-foot monster clear off the floor, pivoted once, and brought him down in a thunderous slam against the ground. Making vertebrae pop like firecrackers along the giant's spine. 

Mark didn't stop. 

He rolled the broken body over, straddled the massive chest, and rained down elbows and hammer-fists that crushed the orbital sockets, fractured the cheekbones, and turned the nose into a crater of pulp. Finally he seized the meta's head with both hands, lifted it high, and slammed it downward with every ounce of his rage; the skull met the dance floor with a sickening crunch that shattered the embedded LED lights beneath the planks, sending a spiderweb of cracks outward and a spray of blood and brain matter across the shattered glass. The giant's body convulsed a few times before it lay still in a widening pool of red.

Most of the crowd had fled by now, the dance floor finally clear except for the broken bodies and the pulsing emergency lights. That meant the reinforcements had a clean line of sight. 

Mark heard the metallic clack of slides being racked behind him and muttered, "Shit," as he snatched the shield from the floor and broke into a desperate sprint toward the bar. Gunfire erupted in a roar, as bullets whining past his ears and punching into the wooden tables around him. Two rounds slammed into his left thigh in quick succession, tearing through muscle and grazing bone in white-hot agony that nearly buckled his leg, while a third punched into his upper arm just below the shoulder plate. 

He kept running, blood spraying from the wounds with every stride, and at the last second he leaped, diving over the bar in a full-body slide that sent bottles and glasses exploding around him. Bullets chewed into the wood above his head and shattered the mirrored shelves behind the bar in a glittering cascade as he curled behind the bar. His chest heaved with ragged breaths that pulled at the cracked rib and the massive bruise blooming across his sternum from the earlier gunshot. 

With a growl he snatched three liquor bottles while tearing strips of rag with his teeth and jamming them deep into the necks as makeshift wicks before lighting each one with his lighter. 

The rags caught fast, burning with a blue-orange glow, Mark rose just enough to hurl the first Molotov in a high arc over the bar; it sailed through the air trailing fire and shattered against the chest of the nearest gunman, engulfing the man in a sudden whoosh of flames that roared up his torso and turned his screams into high-pitched animal shrieks while he staggered backward clawing at his melting jacket and the skin blistering black beneath it. 

The second and third followed in quick succession, one exploding across the floor in a spreading pool of fire that caught two more shooters at the knees and sent them toppling forward into the inferno, their legs kicking wildly as the flames chewed through cloth and flesh with wet popping sounds, and the third catching a fourth man square in the face so that his hair ignited like dry tinder and his eyes boiled white in their sockets before he collapsed thrashing.

Mark vaulted the bar in the next heartbeat, shield already ripping free from his back, and he twisted mid-air to hurl it upward with every ounce of strength left in his arm; the shield spun and slammed into the overhead lighting rail that held the spinning disco lights and strobes, the impact shearing through the bolts with a screech so that the entire rig tore loose and plummeted downward, crushing two more gunmen beneath its weight and pinning another's legs. 

He landed hard on the floor but he was already surging forward, grabbing the nearest enforcer by the collar and yanking the man's body around as a human shield just as another gunman opened fire from across the room. Bullets punched into the enforcer's back with wet thuds that sprayed warm blood across Mark's chest plate. 

While the dying man convulsed in his grip Mark reached down with his free hand, snatched the combat knife from the enforcer's waistband, spun once, and whipped the blade end-over-end through the air; it buried itself to the hilt in the shooter's shoulder with a meaty thunk. 

Without pausing Mark dropped the thug, lunged at the next closest threat, and clamped one massive hand around the man's throat in a choke slam that lifted him clear off the ground before driving him down spine-first onto the edge of an overturned table. Mark then released the throat and snapped a roundhouse kick across the side of the man's head that connected with a crack like a melon splitting and sent the body spinning limply into a pile of broken chairs. 

He snatched the fallen pistol from the floor in the same fluid motion, racked the slide, and leveled it at the final gunman who was scrambling to his feet with his own weapon rising; Mark squeezed the trigger in a rapid string of shots that walked upward from the man's knees, each round punching through the joint with a spray of blood and shattered bone until both kneecaps were reduced to ruin and the enforcer collapsed screaming.

Mark scooped up his shield without breaking stride and burst through the shattered front doors of the Estoria into the night air. "Where did that fuck go..." Mark muttered angrily to himself. 

People on the sidewalk recoiled in horror at the sight of him as he was as renched head to toe in blood that was not all his own, fresh wounds still leaking dark rivulets down his thigh and arm, mask streaked with gore and his chest heaving like a wounded animal. 

The two bouncers at the entrance quickly recovered from their initial shock and charged him. The first bouncer threw a wild haymaker that Mark blocked cleanly on his forearm plate, before he drove a short, vicious punch straight into the man's liver; the bouncer folded with a wet gasp, eyes rolling back as his legs gave out, and Mark caught him by the collar on the way down and slammed his head sideways into the brick wall with a crunch that left a red smear on the mortar. 

The second bouncer tried to tackle him, but Mark pivoted and brought the edge of the shield down across the man's back like an axe, dropping him face-first onto the pavement where he lay twitching and groaning.

"We need to get the fuck out of here and back to Sals!" 

Marks eyes snapped up just in time to see Fat Tony's massive frame squeezing into the back of a black SUV idling at the curb, the door slamming shut as the engine roared to life and the car peeled away. 

"No!" Mark roared, the word tearing out of him, and he broke into a sprint after the retreating taillights, cursing viciously under his breath as the SUV pulled farther and farther ahead. 

He scanned the street frantically, spotted a sleek black motorcycle parked against the curb with its owner gone, and made his choice in an instant; he dropped to one knee beside it, yanked the combat knife from his belt, jammed the blade into the ignition housing, and twisted hard until the wires sparked and the engine coughed to life. Mark swung his leg over the seat, gunned the throttle.

The city blurred past while he weaved between cars at breakneck speed, the wind whipping blood from his wounds and stinging the cuts on his face as the motorcycle's engine screamed beneath him. 

He closed the gap with relentless focus, breaking every speed and traffic law until he pulled up alongside the SUV on the passengers side. Through the tinted window he caught a clear glimpse of Tony's pale, sweating face twisted in shock and rage, the capo's mouth opening in a string of curses that Mark couldn't hear over the roar of engines but could read perfectly on his lips. 

The Maroni lieutenant in the passenger seat pulled his gun out and rolled the window down before firing with a pistol; the first shots cracked past Mark's helmet as he swerved, then he released the handlebars entirely, pushed off the foot pegs, and leaped from the speeding motorcycle onto the roof of the SUV with a thud.

Tony wrenched the wheel hard left and right in a desperate attempt to shake him off, the SUV fishtailing wildly across the lanes while Mark clung on , his boots scraping for purchase and fresh pain lancing through his injured thigh every time the car bucked. 

The Maroni lieutenant climbed halfway out the passenger window, torso twisting upward with the pistol raised to put a bullet through Mark's skull, but Mark slammed his fist on the man's outstretched arm, before grabbing a fistful of the lieutenant's collar and yanking him the rest of the way out. 

The man struggled and clawed at Mark's arm even as he dangled, but Tony saw his chance and spun the steering wheel in a violent full rotation; the SUV whipped into a screaming donut that hurled both Mark and the lieutenant off the roof like rag dolls. 

They tumbled across the asphalt in a tangle of limbs and sparks, the lieutenant rolling away with a broken scream while Mark hit the ground hard on his back and kept rolling.

He recovered faster than any man should have been able to, already drawing the grapple gun from his thigh and firing it in one smooth motion; the line shot out and latched onto the SUV's rear bumper with a solid clank. 

Mark was yanked forward violently, dragged along on his back behind the speeding vehicle, luckily the shield had managed to take the worst of the scraping and save his spine from being worn down to paste. The world became a blur of spinning streetlights and oncoming headlights; he was thrown sideways by the momentum, nearly crushed under the wheels of a swerving sedan that veered at the last second.

Gritting his teeth against the fire in every nerve, Mark began hauling himself hand over hand up the taut grapple line, muscles burning and blood slicking his gloves as he pulled closer and closer to the rear of the SUV. When he reached the bumper he surged upward, planted one hand on the trunk, and pulled himself onto the roof again, then leaped forward in a single powerful bound that carried him over the windshield and onto the hood. 

He then smashed both fists straight through the glass in an explosion of glittering shards that rained down across Tony. Mark reached inside, seized the steering wheel with one hand, and jammed it hard to the right. The SUV lurched violently,m before it flipped end over end. 

Mark was hurled clear of the wreck in the first full rotation, his body spinning through the air like a broken doll before he slammed across the pavement in a bruising slide that tore fresh gashes along his already ruined tactical gear. 

The SUV continued flipping behind him, roof caving inward with each impact until it finally came to rest on its side in a twisted heap of smoking metal and leaking fuel. 

Mark's slide ended abruptly when his back collided with a solid brick wall at the edge of the alley, his vision tunneled instantly and everything simply went black.

...

Mark's vision swam back in hazy fragments, the world tilting and blurring at the edges like a badly developed photograph. 

The smoldering wreck of the SUV lay on its side twenty yards away, irs fuel leaking in a puddle that reflected the streetlights and the orange flicker of flames still licking at the undercarriage. 

Every breath felt like knives twisting between his ribs, and when he tried to push himself upright against the brick wall behind him, a fresh wave of agony rolled through his body.

Blood still oozed steadily from the gashes, warm and sticky, soaking the inside of his pants and making his gloves slick as he planted one palm against the wall and forced his massive frame upward with a low, guttural groan that echoed off the alley walls. His legs trembled under his own weight, the injured thigh threatening to buckle, but he locked his jaw and stayed on his feet, his eyes narrowing through the haze until they locked onto movement farther down the narrow passage.

Fat Tony was limping away, one hand braced against the damp brick as he dragged his fat ass deeper into the shadows, the other clutching his left leg where a long shard of glass had torn through his pants and left a bleeding gash that painted a trail behind him with every step. 

The capo's breath came in ragged pants, sweat pouring down his face. He leaned harder against the wall, staring down at the ruined leg with wide, disbelieving eyes. 'This can't be happening. This has to be some kind of nightmare. I'm Fat Tony Fabark, I make problems disappear, not the other way around. Some masked freak doesn't just leave me bleeding like a stuck pig in a fucking alley.'

His free hand fumbled inside his torn jacket for his phone, fingers shaking as he pulled out the shattered device, the screen cracked into a spiderweb of fractures and the casing bent beyond repair. He mashed the power button uselessly, cursing under his breath when nothing happened, "You motherfucking piece of shit!"

Heavy footsteps echoed behind him, each one landing like a hammer on concrete. Tony spun around with a snarl, yanking a snub-nosed revolver from inside his jacket and firing wildly toward the sound, but a gloved hand shot out faster than he could track, clamped around the barrel, and forced the gun upward so the bullets punched harmlessly into the brick overhead, sending down a shower of dust and fragments. The same hand twisted roughly, wrenching the weapon away, and then a brutal punch slammed into Tony's face with the force of a sledgehammer. 

Cartilage crunched, blood exploded from both nostrils in twin jets, and the capo screamed in high-pitched agony as he stumbled backward, clutching his ruined nose while tears and blood streamed down his cheeks.

"Get the fuck away from me!" Tony howled, swinging wildly with both fists, his voice cracking with pain and terror. "I'll kill you! I swear to God I'll fucking kill you!"

Mark walked forward slowly, ignoring the fresh blood dripping from his own wounds. "Where is Luca Falcone?" he demanded, each word dripping with barely contained fury. 

When Tony only spat blood, Mark closed the distance in two strides and drove a fist into the capo's soft gut, folding him in half with a wet wheeze. He followed with an uppercut that snapped Tony's head back and split his lip wide open, then grabbed him by the collar and slammed him against the wall hard enough to crack the brick behind his back. "TELL ME WHERE HE IS!!!"

"I don't know!" Tony gasped, blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth as Mark punched him again across the jaw, rocking his head sideways and loosening more teeth. "I swear....I don't fucking know! He went dark years ago! Nobody at my level gets told shit like that! Please—stop—"

Mark's rage boiled hotter with every denial. He grabbed Tony by the throat, lifted him a foot off the ground, and drove another fist into his ribs, feeling at least two crack under the impact. Tony screamed again, legs kicking uselessly, but still he babbled the same useless excuses between sobs and coughs of blood. Finally Mark released him, letting the fat man collapse to his knees, then snatched the dropped revolver from the ground and pressed the muzzle hard against Tony's forehead, the metal digging into the sweaty skin right between his eyes.

"Last chance," Mark growled, thumb cocking the hammer with a loud click that echoed down the alley. "Where. Is. Luca."

Tony's eyes went wide with animal panic, his whole body trembling as he started stuttering and pleading, words tumbling out in a desperate flood. "Wait wait, please! I—I can find out! I know people! Give me a day, two days, I'll ask around, I'll pay whatever it takes! Don't do this, man, I got a wife, kids! Fuck, I got grandkids! I'll give you money, girls, anything you want just don't pull that fucking trigger! I'm begging you!"

Mark's finger tightened on the trigger. "Say goodbye."

"Enough!"

The single word cut through the alley like a blade,  Mark whipped around, gun still raised, to see a dark silhouette drop silently from the fire escape above, landing in a perfect crouch at the mouth of the alley. The figure rose slowly with his cape flaring behind him like living shadows as he stepped. 

Batman.

Mark's grip tightened on the revolver until the leather of his glove creaked. "What the hell are you doing here?" he spat. "This is none of your business."

Batman approached without hurry and stopped a few yards away, his gaze shifting past Mark to the broken, bleeding form of Fat Tony still on his knees. "You've left quite a trail of destruction tonight," he said. 

Mark's jaw clenched. "None of it would've happened if this scum had just answered my questions. He knows where Luca is. He's protecting him. I'm not leaving until I get what I came for."

Batman studied him for a long moment. "You're injured. Agitated. Put the gun down and go home for the night. I'll deal with Fat Tony."

Mark let out a harsh, bitter laugh that turned into a cough as pain lanced through his ribs. He tossed the revolver aside with a clatter, the weapon skidding into the shadows. "I'm not going anywhere until I get my answers." He turned back toward Tony, only to see the fat capo already crawling desperately on his hands and knees toward a rusted sewer grate at the end of the alley.

"Where you think you're going," Mark snarled, spitting a thick gob of blood onto the ground before stalking after him.

A gloved hand landed firmly on his shoulder from behind. "You've done enough for tonight," Batman said quietly. "You need to see a doctor. Let this go."

Mark shrugged the hand off with a violent twist of his torso. "Get lost."

The hand returned, heavier this time. "Mark—"

That was all it took. 

Mark roared, a primal sound of pure frustration and anger, and threw a haymaker with every ounce of his remaining strength. Batman ducked smoothly under the punch, the fist sailing harmlessly over his cowl and slamming into the brick wall beside him instead. The impact shattered the mortar and sent a spiderweb of cracks racing outward, chunks of brick crumbling to the ground in a small avalanche while Mark's knuckles split open anew and fresh blood welled between his fingers.

"Calm down," Batman urged as he sidestepped another wild swing, then another, moving with effortlessly making every one of Mark's powerful blows look slow and clumsy. "You're only making this worse for yourself."

Mark pressed forward, throwing a rapid combination that Batman avoided with minimal movement, slipping inside the guard and landing a jab to the solar plexus that made Mark grunt but didn't slow him. 

Then Mark connected solidly for the first time, snapping a kick into Batman's midsection that actually drove the Dark Knight back a few metres. Mark didn't waste the opening; he turned and charged after Tony, who had managed to pry the sewer grate loose and was already lowering himself  into the dark hole below.

"Get back here, you fat piece of shit!" Mark swore under his breath, rushing forward as fast as his wounded leg would allow.

However he wouldn't get far as Batman slipped behind Mark in complete silence, one arm snaking around his thick neck while the other fired a grappling line upward. The line went taut and yanked both of them skyward, Mark's boots kicking uselessly as they were dragged straight up to the rooftop above the alley. Batman released him at the apex, throwing him forward so that Mark hit the gravel roof hard and rolled before pushing himself up immediately.

"You let him get away!" Mark raged, his voice cracking with raw fury as he advanced on the caped figure. "All of this! Everything I did tonight was for nothing because you had to play hero and stop me! He was right there!"

Batman stood motionless at the edge of the roof, saying nothing at first. "You need to calm down and go home. You're bleeding out, if you keep this up I'll have to take you down."

"No, I won't go home!" Mark snarled, closing the distance, his massive fists clenched at his sides. "Now get out of my way."

Batman didn't move. He simply stood there, refusing to yield even an inch.

Mark attacked without another word, throwing everything he had left into the assault. He led with a powerful right cross that would have shattered concrete, but Batman leaned back just enough for the fist to whistle past his jaw, then countered with a lightning-fast palm strike to Mark's sternum that compressed the already bruised ribs and forced a pained grunt from the younger man. 

Mark followed with a savage left hook and a knee strike aimed at the midsection, both of which Batman deflected, using Mark's own momentum against him to spin inside and deliver an elbow to the kidneys that sent fresh spikes of agony radiating through Mark's lower back. Despite the pain, Mark kept coming, landing a solid glancing blow to Batman's shoulder that actually made the Dark Knight shift his weight, then another heavy punch to the chest that elicited a grunt.

But the difference in combat ability became brutally clear within seconds. Batman flowed around Mark's attacks like water, never wasting energy, turning every aggressive lunge into an opening. He slipped under a wild overhand right, launched a kick into Mark's already wounded thigh that buckled the leg and drew a roar of pain, then chained it into a spinning backfist that cracked across Mark's masked jaw and split the skin beneath. 

Mark staggered but refused to drop, swinging a desperate haymaker that Batman ducked beneath before rising with an uppercut that lifted Mark's chin and rattled his teeth. 

The combination continued without mercy; Batman stepped in close, delivered a rapid series of short, devastating strikes to the body that targeted the gaps in the tactical vest: a palm to the liver, an elbow to the floating ribs, a knee to the solar plexus that folded Mark forward with a gasp. 

Before Mark could recover, Batman grabbed his arm, twisted it into a lock that strained the shoulder joint to the brink of dislocation, and then swept his legs out from under him with a kick to the back of the knee. As Mark fell, Batman drove a final strike to the base of the skull sending the world spinning into darkness once more.

Mark collapsed face-first onto the gravel roof, unconscious before his body fully hit the ground, blood pooling slowly beneath him from the reopened wounds.

Batman stood over the fallen young man for a long moment. He reached up to his comms link and activated it with a quiet click. "Arginold," he said. "I found him. He's injured but he's okay."

On the other end, the old man's voice came through rough with exhaustion and relief. "Thank you, Bruce. I appreciate you doing this. I just... I don't know what to do with him anymore."

"It's okay," Batman replied, glancing down at Mark's still form. "I'll take care of him."