The call connected swiftly. Alfred's voice was calm, measured—unruffled, as always.
"Sheriff Gordon? This is Alfred Pennyworth, from Wayne Manor. I do apologize for the late hour…"
He paused, glancing across the room. The young man seated at the edge of Bruce's bed, polishing off the last bite of a very expensive steak, raised an eyebrow.
"…A rather determined visitor appears to have mistaken Bruce's bedroom for a five-star bistro," Alfred continued, voice dry. "He's eaten my $800 Wagyu. Entirely."
"Wait!" the man interjected, cheeks still full. "You offered it to me!"
Alfred rolled his eyes—not at the phone, but at the intruder—before returning to Gordon. "No cause for alarm, I assure you. He hasn't harmed Master Wayne. In fact, he's… remarkably well-behaved for a man who just scaled the east wing. Yes, thank you—your prompt arrival would be appreciated."
He ended the call and turned fully to the visitor. "Had you not 'accidentally' broken in, I might still have my dinner."
"That does make sense," the man admitted, chuckling softly. He set the empty plate aside with theatrical reverence. "Do I need to clean up myself, Alfred?"
"No," Alfred said firmly. "Just stand there. Don't move."
As Alfred collected the tray, the man stretched leisurely, like a guest at a spa rather than a trespasser in Gotham's most guarded estate.
"Did you cook the steak yourself?" he asked. "If so—exquisite. Truly. A shame the timing's off; I'd love to sample your consommé next time. Or perhaps the chocolate torte?" He sighed. "But duty calls. I've urgent business elsewhere. Best be off."
He turned toward a travel bag slung near the window.
Alfred's expression hardened. A single shot cracked—not aimed to kill, but to command. The bullet struck the floorboards inches from the man's boots.
"Not everyone is privileged enough to taste my cooking," Alfred said, voice low and edged with steel. "I suggest you show some gratitude. And stay put. Or I will shoot."
The man blinked, then grinned. "Cherish it? Your steak is my life. Honestly, I barely care about my own." He straightened, brushing crumbs from his coat. "And please—don't call me 'young man.' I'm Downton. Downton of Downton Manor."
With a genial nod, he hoisted his bag onto his shoulder and took another step—this time toward a holstered Desert Eagle resting on Bruce's dresser.
Alfred moved.
In a blur that defied his age, the butler closed the distance, twisted Downton's arm behind his back, and drove him face-first into the carpet—all in under two seconds. His knee pressed firmly into the small of Downton's spine.
"Dislocated! Dislocated!" Downton wheezed, though he sounded more amused than pained. He tapped the floor with his free hand. "I yield! The championship belt is yours, Alfred!"
"Enough theatrics," Alfred snapped. "Who sent you? What do you want with Bruce?"
"Can't explain," Downton muttered. "I won't believe it myself until I see it."
Alfred tightened his hold. "Stubborn. We'll see how long that lasts."
He was confident. The man beneath him showed no signs of formal training—just street smarts and odd luck. No match for MI5-honed interrogation tactics.
And yet…
Why would an untrained civilian—dressed in clothes singed by gunfire, carrying a duffel stuffed with cash—manage to bypass Wayne Manor's security, slip past motion sensors, and end up eating Alfred's dinner in Bruce's private quarters?
It made no sense.
Before Alfred could press further, Downton went still. Then, with eerie calm, he said, "I'll leave my gun with you. Keep it safe. I'll come back for it—after I finish what I started."
The words hung in the air.
Then—gone.
Not a flash, not a puff of smoke. One moment Downton was there, pinned beneath Alfred's knee. The next—empty carpet. Only the Desert Eagle remained, lying where it had been.
Alfred stared at the spot, utterly still.
Finally, he exhaled, walked over, and picked up the weapon. He ejected the magazine, examined the slide, then murmured under his breath:
"Downton…?"
A beat of silence.
"…Is there even a Downton Manor in Gotham?"
…
Meanwhile, at the Iceberg Lounge.
Watching Downton's body vanish entirely after another spontaneous combustion, Oswald narrowed his eyes—not in fear, but in grudging awe.
What an enviable talent.
But admiration wouldn't calm the chaos. Two riots in quick succession? In this subzero weather—minus forty-four degrees, no less—Carmine Falcone's legendary patience was surely wearing thin.
He turned sharply to his nearest henchman.
"Get me a microphone—now!"
They were near the stage; mics were plentiful. Within seconds, Oswald snatched one and climbed onto a nearby table, his voice cutting through the din like a blade.
"Listen up, Sabatino's dogs! That bastard Downton? Gone. Poof! Like smoke! So ask yourselves—do you really still want to fight?
"Don't forget: both Sabatino and Falcone are in this club right now. You fire another shot, and you're signing your own death warrants.
"Put. Down. Your. Guns.
"If you've got the guts, settle this with your fists. And Sabatino's men—here's my offer: if you can make it out of this club using nothing but your bare hands, I'll let today slide. No reprisals. No debts. Nothing.
"I know you're scared I'll double-cross you. That I'll hunt you down later. But let's be honest—do you honestly think I care enough to remember your faces? Who are you to me?
"But hear this: the second I finish speaking, if one more bullet flies… you'll all be dead before it hits the floor.
"So drop your weapons. Try to run. And if you make it out alive? Live however you damn well please.
"Begin!"
He slammed the mic onto the marble floor. The resulting shriek of feedback made everyone flinch, hands flying to their ears.
When the ringing faded, the gunfire had stopped.
Oswald watched as Sabatino's men scrambled toward the exits, desperation in their eyes. He let out a quiet, derisive snort.
Then, limping slightly, he headed toward the private wing—where the temperature wasn't just cold, but deliberately, unnaturally arctic. Falcone preferred his private rooms chilled like a mausoleum.
Sweating despite the cold, Oswald burst into the room without knocking.
"Boss Falcone—I'm so sorry. This is the second incident in as many nights. I never imagined someone could… come back from the dead! He just—"
"I already know."
Falcone's voice was calm, cutting through Oswald's panic like ice.
"Oswald, tonight is… unusual. This wasn't your failure. Those men—Downton and whoever's pulling his strings—they're not the kind ordinary enforcers can handle.
"I don't blame you. Go back to the lounge. Wait for him. When he returns—and he will return—bring him straight to me.
"This matter… is between me and them. Only we have the right to settle it.
"Now go."
Falcone waved a dismissive hand.
Oswald hesitated, glancing at Sabatino, who stood pale-faced nearby. Downton was about to slit his throat—and Falcone wants to talk to them?
Then it hit him: "Them."
Not just Downton. A group. One powerful enough to make Carmine Falcone—crime lord of Gotham—tread carefully.
Sabatino had stumbled into a war far beyond his pay grade. Even if he survived tonight… his future looked bleak.
Oswald couldn't help the small, smug smile tugging at his lips as he slipped out.
Alone except for Viktor, Falcone lifted his wine glass, swirling the deep red liquid. A single glance toward the door—and Director Savage and Sabatino shot to their feet.
"Sabatino," Savage said smoothly, "those Ukrainian girls you promised…? Aren't you going to show me?"
"Of course, Director! Right this way—two of the finest you'll ever see."
They ushered the women out, leaving only Viktor and Falcone in the dim, frigid room.
Just before the door closed, Falcone's daughter lingered in the hallway, casting one last, hungry look back.
Ever since she'd heard the whispers—that a ghost had rattled her father, that he'd shown fear—she'd been obsessed.
After all…
Who in this city hates him more than I do?
And if this ghost could unnerve Carmine Falcone…
perhaps he was exactly the weapon she'd been waiting for.