"Okay. See you in a bit."
Downton gave Oswald a light pat on the shoulder and pushed open the door.
Inside, Victor and Falcone turned as one. Downton stepped in, nodding politely.
"Hello. I'm Downton. Apologies for the wait—I just managed to grab a ridiculously overpriced steak. You know how Gotham's 'fine dining' works."
He crossed the room with calm assurance and settled onto the sofa opposite Falcone, crossing his legs. In one smooth motion, he drew a Desert Eagle and leveled the muzzle—not at Falcone, but at Victor, who stood rigid beside the crime lord.
"Now, since this is our first meeting… I assume the gentleman seated is Carmine Falcone. Which makes you," he said, eyes flicking to Victor, "Sabatino."
"No," Victor said flatly. "Not even close."
He bristled. The assumption stung more than he expected. "I'm Victor Zsasz. I assumed you'd done your homework. Guess I'm still just background noise to you."
A cruel smirk tugged at his lips—too sharp, too practiced.
Downton barely glanced up. "You're smiling like you're about to eat a child. Save it. And Falcone—if Sabatino's not here, why are we wasting time?"
He idly twirled the pistol, eyes glinting with dry amusement as he studied the Don.
One sentence from Victor had been enough. They'd mistaken him for someone else—someone tied to the Court of Owls, maybe, or another player entirely. But Downton had only just arrived. He wasn't "them." He was singular. Alone. And anyone who thought otherwise was already writing their own obituary.
Across the room, Falcone frowned. He'd reached the same conclusion. Secondhand intel was brittle. The "Claw" he'd expected—a ghost from the Court's whispers—wasn't this man at all. This was something rawer. Hungrier. Younger.
And yet… eerily familiar.
Falcone raised a hand. "If Mr. Downton wishes to speak with Sabatino, then summon him. I'm beginning to share his curiosity."
Victor bowed his head. "Yes, sir." He exited soundlessly, boots barely whispering against the carpet.
Falcone had kept Victor close as insurance—against assassins, double-crosses, the usual rot. But Downton? He radiated control, not chaos. Not a Claw. Not a pawn.
Then why had he struck the Iceberg Lounge? Was Sabatino hiding something? Had he overreached?
Falcone's gaze swept over Downton—scuffed shoes, steady hands, eyes that held no flicker of deference. Their eyes met.
And Falcone froze.
Like looking into a mirror thirty years past.
That look—cold resolve wrapped in quiet fury. The same stare he'd worn when he first carved his name into Gotham's underbelly. Before the weight of empire softened his edges.
Before he forgot what it felt like to have nothing to lose.
Downton, mid-thought, suddenly called out: "Victor—wait."
The man paused at the door.
"Bring food. Drinks. Wine, at least. Inviting a guest and offering nothing? That's not hospitality. That's insult."
Falcone gave a slow nod. Victor left without a word.
Now alone, Falcone leaned forward, fingers steepled.
"Before today," he said, voice low, "I thought you were a ghost from my past—a shadow I'd buried long ago. But you're not him. You're… something else."
He exhaled, almost a laugh. "You've done me a favor, Mr. Downton. Reminded me that fear never truly leaves. It just learns to wear a better suit."
Downton tilted his head, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips. "You're still mistaken. Your man called me 'you all'—like I'm part of a chorus. I'm not."
His voice dropped, quiet as a blade sliding from its sheath. "I work alone. Always have. And if another 'me' ever showed up? I'd put a bullet in him before he finished his first sentence."
He held Falcone's gaze, unblinking.
"But you already know that, don't you? You see it—in my eyes. The same fire you once carried. We're not so different, you and I."
Falcone didn't answer. He didn't need to.
Downton clapped his hands once—light, deliberate—and offered a smile that never quite reached his eyes.
"Before meeting you, I wondered what kind of man Carmine Falcone would be.
They say you're the Godfather of Gotham. But let's be honest—your world is far deadlier than anything in The Godfather. This is Gotham.
And you? You're more dangerous than any cinematic don. If I were still the man I was yesterday, I'd stay far away from you.
Because I value my life. And right now… you're one of the greatest threats in this city."
"Oh?" Falcone's lips curled faintly. His thumb idly traced the band of his signet ring. "Only one? Then tell me—who else earns that honor in your eyes?"
"Who else?" Downton chuckled, leaning back. "Your old friends. The League of Assassins. The Court of Owls. Take your pick. Gotham's never short on nightmares."
Falcone studied him—really studied him—for the first time. Then, with quiet amusement:
"That's more than I expected. I thought you were just a reckless young man with an unexpected gift… and a death wish."
"Yes," Downton said, his voice dropping. "Even you call it a gift.
But here's the thing about my 'immortality,' Falcone—it comes with a condition. A small one, but vital."
His hand drifted to the Desert Eagle resting on the table. He tapped its slide once—click—a soft, metallic punctuation.
"I'll give you a chance. Guess the prerequisite. Call it… a test of understanding."
Falcone's eyes narrowed. "An opportunity, then. Though I wasn't your target… I could become one. You're already dismissing me."
He paused, then added dryly, "Still—if I had your gift, I'd rule more than Gotham. I'd rule the world."
"Don't be naïve," Downton snapped. "You think Gotham's deep? You haven't seen how deep the world really goes.
Now—solve it. This isn't a riddle for old men to ponder over cigars."
Falcone exhaled slowly. "It's not a riddle. It's a truth.
Only those who've truly died… know if they can come back."
A silence settled between them. Then, softer: "Even if you've lost your fear of death now… I understand. That first time—standing on the edge, walking straight into it—it wasn't pleasant, was it?"
He rubbed his brow. "So you came for Sabatino. He made you die that first time.
That kind of hatred… it doesn't fade. And you—you're not just dangerous. You're persistent.
The GCPD reports say you vanished during capture… then reappeared after death. So your power isn't just regeneration—it's evasion, too. Untraceable. Uncatchable.
And yet… you're here, calm, rational, smiling—which means your abilities go even further. That confidence of yours? It's not arrogance. It's certainty.
And that… is a problem."
Falcone's gaze hardened. "I won't protect Sabatino out of loyalty. But his death? It's a message. And if I don't respond, every jackal in this city will scent blood.
I'm not the man I was thirty years ago. Back then, I'd have purged Gotham myself. Now? I can't afford to look weak.
So tell me, Downton… even if I see something of my younger self in you—does that mean we're still on a path to kill each other?"
His expression shifted—not to regret, but weary resignation.
Downton tilted his head, then spread his hands in mock sympathy. "Don't pretend sentiment, Falcone. You've buried dozens like me. They died screaming. I should have died screaming too.
Your regret isn't that you can't kill me—it's that you won't. Not yet.
As for me… my first death happened in Gotham. So this city and I? We're bound.
If Gotham were a woman, I'd be the thorn in her side—and the sword at her back.
No, Falcone. We're not destined to be enemies.
But we will fight to the death."