Downton had made up for the meal and drinks ruined by a joke at Falcone's—but he'd gotten his revenge at Oswald's. After a hearty French dinner at the Iceberg Lounge, he stepped out into the cool night air, leaving Cobblepot scowling in his wake.
He hadn't taken two steps when a dancer blocked his path.
"This is for you—from my older sister!" she said, chewing gum as she pressed a business card into his hand. A crimson lip print smudged one corner.
Downton glanced at it. Just a number. No name.
"Is your older sister Liv?" he asked.
"Of course! I'm under Liv's protection," the dancer declared, hands on her hips, chin tilted with pride.
Downton studied her—sharp-eyed, bold, with feathers in her hair and fire in her stance. He gave a faint nod.
"At times like this, Liv can't afford too much contact with me. The Falcones already think I'm trouble enough."
He tucked the card into his coat.
"But she's used to being caught in the middle. Go tell her I'll reach out when the time's right."
He turned to leave.
"Wait—you're not gonna tip me?" the dancer called after him, sounding genuinely affronted.
Downton paused, turning back with a raised brow. "Tip?"
"Yeah, tip!" she insisted, miming a flourish with her hands. "Back in the club—you tossed cash like confetti! Whoosh! It was so cool. I even cleared my shift early just to catch a glimpse!"
She struck a dramatic pose, arms outstretched like she was accepting an ovation.
Downton stared for a beat—then burst out laughing. It was the most genuine laugh he'd had all day.
"You," he said between chuckles, "are something else."
He reached into his coat and pulled out a thick envelope, tossing it to her lightly. She caught it with a gasp, nearly stumbling from the heft.
"Take five grand for yourself," he said. "The rest is Liv's—advance payment for next time I need eyes and ears downtown."
She blinked. "Next time?"
"When I come back to the Iceberg," Downton said with a smirk, "Liv's bringing you along. And wear those crimson stockings she's always bragging about—you two are part of the package now."
The dancer grinned, clutching the envelope like treasure. "You got it, boss!"
Downton tipped an imaginary hat and walked off into the Gotham night.
From the rooftop of a five-story warehouse across the street, bathed in the amber glow of the setting sun, Bruce Wayne watched it all unfold. His expression was unreadable.
"Stolen money—so you toss it like it's nothing," he murmured. "Or maybe… you've never seen it as yours to begin with. Just another tool. Another weapon."
A decade earlier, after Thomas Wayne's death, Gotham had banned rooftop billboards and obstructions citywide—partly for safety, partly to stop gangs from using them as cover. That ordinance now made the skyline a perfect highway for someone who moved like a shadow.
And Bruce had been tracking Downton long enough to know: this wasn't generosity. It was strategy.
After witnessing Downton's extraordinary abilities during the brutal clash between the Sabatino and Dimitrov families, Bruce Wayne never stopped watching him.
Tracking Downton directly was nearly impossible—the man vanished without warning, reappearing miles away like smoke on the wind. But Bruce didn't need to follow him. He only needed to watch the players Downton had already tangled with: the Sabatinos with their waterfront smuggling routes, the Dimitrovs and their old-world vendettas. Where violence flared, Downton wasn't far behind.
And tonight, he'd flared again.
Just over 130 meters from the Iceberg Lounge, beneath a sky bleeding orange and violet, Downton stepped onto the curb—pistol in hand—and fired a single round into the front tire of a roaring Lamborghini that had been speeding toward the club.
Bang!
The gunshot cracked like a whip. Tires screeched. The car fishtailed to a halt.
A young man—slicked-back red hair, designer suit, gold chain glinting—leapt out, already drawing his own weapon. "You trying to get yourself killed?" he snarled, leveling the barrel at Downton.
They fired at the same instant.
Downton didn't flinch. The kid collapsed with a cry, clutching his thigh. "I'm not looking to die," Downton said, stepping forward. "I'm looking for money, buddy."
He kicked the gun from the young man's hand with a sharp clack and plucked the wallet from his jacket. Three grand in crisp bills—barely enough to cover a decent suit, let alone what he needed tonight. He tossed the empty wallet back.
Then he slid into the driver's seat.
The passenger—a woman in her early twenties, wide-eyed and trembling—gasped as Downton pointed the gun at her. "Relax," he said, voice low. "I just want the cash. After that, you're free to drag your boyfriend to the ER."
"But… but this car is mine," she stammered, voice shaking with indignation more than fear. "His money? His wallet? All gifts from me."
Downton paused. Then, with a sigh of irritation, he stepped out again and fired a second shot—this one into the young man's other leg.
"Ah! You psychotic bastard!" the man howled.
"Not a simp," Downton muttered under his breath. "Just another trust-fund idiot playing gangster."
He got back in the car. The woman flinched as he revved the engine.
"Please," she whispered, voice thin. "Take the car. Take the money. Just… let me go."
Downton glanced at her—really looked. "Not that simple." He shook his head. "But don't panic. I don't want your car. I want a new wardrobe. And three grand won't cut it." He tapped the gun against his thigh. "So you're going to help me spend it. Fast. Before the cops show up."
Her breath hitched. Then, to his surprise, a slow, nervous smile tugged at her lips. "I… I can make that happen," she said, voice dropping. "My father's on the City Council. If I call him… the police won't come. Not for hours." She swallowed, eyes gleaming with something unsettlingly eager. "Not… all night."
Downton stared at her for a long beat. Then he smacked her lightly on the head—not hard, but sharp enough to sting.
"All night?" he scoffed. "You've got dreams, sweetheart."
He pulled away from the curb, tires biting pavement. Gotham's skyline loomed ahead—dark, jagged, and hungry.
And somewhere in the shadows, Bruce Wayne lowered his binoculars.