"Oswald?"
Downton jammed the barrel of his Desert Eagle into the man's mouth, eyes narrowed in suspicion.
"Don't say a word yet—let me confirm."
He jerked his chin toward Liv, who had been edging backward through the shadows.
"Liv—this guy really isn't Sabatino?"
She froze. Swallowed. Nodted once, stiff and reluctant.
"He's… definitely not Sabatino."
"Damn it."
Downton yanked the gun free, wiped the spit from the muzzle on Oswald's expensive lapel, and holstered it with a grimace.
Oswald coughed, then straightened his tie with trembling fingers. "Mr. Downton, is it? Look—regardless of who hired you or how much they paid, I'll double it. Triple it, even!"
He spread his arms, voice slick with practiced charm. "I'm not asking you to abandon your mission. By all means—go after Sabatino. That snake doesn't deserve to breathe the same air as men of taste."
His eyes flicked toward his own men. "Ask any of them! Minutes ago, that animal humiliated me in front of my crew. I want him gone."
A beat of silence. Then, from the crowd, one of his thugs stepped forward eagerly.
Oswald gave him an approving nod—
—only for the man to shout, "Boss Sabatino! Stop playin' penguin! You think a stupid costume fools us?"
Oswald's face went pale. "What—? You imbecile!"
"I've served you for years," the thug insisted. "You think I don't recognize your voice? Stand tall, boss! Show some spine!"
Bang.
Downton shot the thug between the eyes. Before Oswald could react, the gun butt slammed into his cheek, splitting his lip. Downton laughed—a dry, humorless sound.
"Even your frame-up reeks of loyalty. Pathetic."
He circled Oswald, studying him like a specimen. "Relax. I know you're not my target. Sabatino's Italian—tall, broad. Not… compact like you."
Oswald's eye twitched at "compact," but he forced a smile. "Oh, absolutely! I'm just a humble doorman compared to Sabatino—barely worth notice."
Downton smirked. "Don't sell yourself short, Penguin. Before I came to Gotham, I'd never heard of Sabatino. But you?" He patted Oswald's cheek. "You're iconic."
At the nickname, Oswald's jaw clenched so hard his teeth ground. But the gun's cold weight against his temple kept him smiling.
"You're too kind, Mr. Downton," he said, voice dripping honey. "'Penguin'… such a nostalgic name. Brings back childhood memories!"
Downton leaned in. "Only a fool would believe that. You'd love to gut me right now, wouldn't you? Tell me—if our roles were reversed… would you let me walk?"
Before Oswald could answer—
Crack!
A sniper round punched through Downton's shoulder. He staggered, cursing.
"Bloody hell—!"
To everyone's shock, it was Oswald who roared in outrage. In one swift motion, he snapped open his signature bulletproof umbrella, shielding them both.
"It's Sabatino's men!" Oswald hissed. "They don't care if I live or die! Don't kill me—kill them!"
"I used you as a shield and still took a bullet!" Downton snarled, pressing Oswald forward as bullets sparked off the umbrella. "You're worse than useless!"
Behind the reinforced canopy, Oswald's eyes burned with cold fury. Without turning, he growled, "Then let go of me! If you're so tough, go die heroically and clear my line of fire! I'll handle the rest!"
He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. "When you inevitably crawl back from the grave—if you do—I'll have Sabatino's head on a platter. Consider it a… professional courtesy."
Downton glared—then drove his knee hard into Oswald's backside.
"Shut up and hold the damn umbrella."
"Even at a time like this, you're still trying to test whether I'm truly indifferent to death? Well—true gold fears no fire. And your idea? Not bad."
Downton shot a wry glance toward the Penguin. "We'll have a proper talk after this is over. Also—why the hell didn't you make that bulletproof umbrella bigger?"
Without waiting for a reply, he hurled Penguin away like a sack of wet laundry.
The moment the tiny umbrella's cover vanished, gunfire erupted. Bullets tore into Downton before he could react. He staggered, blood already soaking his side, and barely managed to drag his mangled body behind a heavy gambling table.
Gritting his teeth, he grabbed a string of grenades from his belt.
"Don't worry about me, boys," he croaked, forcing a grin. "I'll be back!"
He yanked the pins and lobbed the grenades toward Sabatino's men.
The explosions followed one after another—concussive, deafening, filling the room with smoke and screams. But Downton didn't hear any of it clearly. He was already slipping away.
In his fading haze, he thought he saw a slender figure floating near the ceiling—watching him with quiet curiosity.
He raised a weak hand in greeting… then let his eyes close.
Huff.
A sharp breath dragged him back.
Downton blinked. "Where…?"
He was lying on an enormous bed draped in silk and cashmere. The room was opulent—ornate moldings, antique furniture, soft light filtering through tall windows. If not for the fact that he'd just been shot full of lead, he'd have called it paradise.
He patted the absurdly plush bedding, then swung his legs over the edge. His boots sank into a thick carpet as he walked toward the door, the fibers crunching faintly underfoot.
He pushed the door open—and froze.
A long corridor stretched before him, lined with gilded mirrors, oil paintings, and porcelain vases that probably cost more than most Gotham tenements.
"Now this," he muttered, "is what you call a wealthy family!"
"Indeed," came a calm, accented voice from behind him. "Facts require no embellishment, sir."
Downton turned slowly.
An elderly man stood there—lean, impeccably dressed in a butler's uniform, one hand steady on the grip of a pistol, the other holding a plate with a sizzling steak.
The gun never wavered as the man stepped forward.
"State your name," he said, "and—more importantly—your reason for being here."
Downton shrugged off his coat and let it drop. "Even if I gave you a name, you'd have no way to verify it. And as for why I'm here… do you honestly think I'd lie and say I know how I ended up in this bedroom?"
He raised his hands, turned fully around—and deliberately showed the pistol tucked into his waistband.
"See?" he said, voice easy despite the blood still drying on his shirt. "My attitude isn't in my words. It's in what I do. And right now? I'm relaxed enough to ask—may I try that steak?"
The old man's lips twitched—almost a smile.
"Fascinating," he murmured.
Setting the tray on a nearby side table, he kept the gun trained on Downton while stepping forward. With practiced efficiency, he disarmed him—tossing both the pistol and Downton's satchel several feet away. As the bag landed, a few banknotes spilled out. The butler's eyes flickered over them—just once—before returning to Downton's face.
Then he ran a quick, thorough pat-down.
"The bullet wounds are real," he observed. "Blood, trauma… but your skin? Unbroken. Not a scratch. I've served this house for decades, and I've never seen anything like it."
He paused, then added, "My name is Alfred. You're in Wayne Manor. Now—may I finally have your name and purpose?"
Downton's eyes widened. "Wayne Manor? I—honestly didn't expect that."
Alfred gave a slow, courteous nod. "You claim not to know how you arrived, nor how you breached the manor's innermost chambers. Fortunately, Master Bruce returned to the city earlier than expected. And I, anticipating… unusual circumstances… brought my sidearm. Otherwise, you might have succeeded."
He stepped back, retrieved the steak from the tray, and offered it to Downton—still keeping the pistol aimed steadily at his chest.
"But I truly hope," Alfred added, voice mild but edged with warning, "that all you wanted was this steak. If so, the Wayne family won't begrudge you a meal."
Without lowering the gun, he reached into his pocket and began dialing the Gotham City Police Department.