Rat-a-tat-tat!
Thump.
Downton hit the pavement hard—not from a fall, but from the void itself. One moment, nothing. The next: asphalt, gunshots, and the stink of Gotham rain.
"Hmph. Typical," he muttered, brushing grime off his coat.
The city didn't bother hiding its rot. Even with a full-blown gunfight echoing through the alleyways, City Hall was laser-focused on one thing: the kidnapped daughter of the Deputy Secretary of Defense. As if abductions only mattered when they involved people with last names in headlines.
To Gotham's elite, a missing homeless man was just another ghost. But snatch someone like Haino? Suddenly, it was a national tragedy—heinous, unforgivable, a crisis.
Downton wouldn't have even known about the shootout if he hadn't been dumped here like trash. But survival came before curiosity. First, figure out where "here" was.
He scanned the street. Wayne Bank. Burnley district. Perfect.
A middle-aged man in a rumpled suit had already frozen mid-step, eyes wide, phone pressed to his ear.
"No, I'm serious! An Asian guy—just appeared! Like out of thin air!"
Downton sighed. Civilians. Always so eager to summon the cavalry.
He stepped forward, drawing his pistol smoothly, and tapped the man's bald crown with the barrel. "Hey."
The man yelped, dropped the phone, and bolted without a backward glance.
Downton caught the device before it hit the ground. On the other end, a dispatcher droned, "—stay calm, sir. Officers are en route. You're near Wayne Bank in Burnley, correct? We're dispatching—"
"Wrong number," Downton cut in. "New guy on the line."
Silence. Then: "Who the hell is this?"
"Name's Downton. You've probably seen my face on the news. If not, call Gordon. Or better yet—check Gotham News. My headline's probably still trending."
He hung up before the dispatcher could sputter a reply, then tossed the phone toward a street kid leaning against a lamppost, juggling a faded "Now Hiring" sign.
The kid fumbled the catch. "Uh… what's this for?"
"Consider it karma," Downton said, flashing a dry smirk. "Sell it. Buy yourself a meal. Or better yet—a bus ticket out of this city."
He turned and walked away from the gunfire.
Normally, he'd wander toward the chaos—take in the spectacle, maybe tip the scales if it amused him. But it was already 7 p.m., and after a day like today, all he wanted was a hot shower, a stiff drink, and a foot massage that didn't come with strings.
He flagged a cab. The driver—a wiry man in a backwards baseball cap—rolled down the window.
"Hotel with massage services," Downton said, sliding into the backseat. He handed over a crisp twenty. "The rest is yours if you don't ask questions."
The driver sniffed the bill like it was perfume, then grinned. "You got it, boss."
The nearest hotel—the Kane—was only three hundred meters away, just around the corner. He'd made nineteen dollars and eighty cents, and it tasted like ash in his mouth.
Downton slid into the back seat of the cab and turned toward the faint echo of gunfire still ringing in the distance. "What the hell was that back there?" he asked the driver. "Whose territory just got lit up?"
"That's Sabatino's block," the driver said, eyes darting in the rearview. "Falcone's man. Dunno who'd be dumb enough to hit him—unless it's the Russians."
He shifted uncomfortably. "They went at it hard at noon. Hundreds dead. Water trucks spent half the afternoon hosing down the street. I drove past earlier—saw four city body wagons. Still couldn't haul all the corpses. And get this: Gotham General sent five ambulances. Not one survivor. These guys didn't just fight—they butchered each other."
The cab screeched to a halt in front of the Kane Hotel.
Downton jolted forward, then shot the driver a sharp look. "You didn't even finish your sentence."
The driver grinned, proud. "But this? This is a place for a man of your class, boss."
Downton almost laughed. "Then why the hell didn't you just say 'Kane Hotel' when I asked?"
Before the driver could answer, Downton cracked the butt of his pistol across the man's skull.
The cabbie howled—then choked on the sound as a wad of cash smacked him in the face.
"Not bad," Downton said, tucking the gun away. "You're right about one thing: I've always had expensive taste. Never spend less than a grand on a night out." He snatched the driver's newsboy cap off his head. "Nice hat. Borrowing it. The rest'll cover your stitches, you idiot."
The driver sat stunned, blood trickling into his eye, thousand-dollar bills fluttering into his lap.
Downton didn't wait for a reply. He stepped out, adjusted the cap low over his brow, and strode into the Kane like he owned it.
No front desk pleasantries. No key card. He bypassed the lobby entirely, heading straight for the third-floor restaurant. A quick scan—nothing out of place—then up to seven.
The hallway was quiet, plush carpet swallowing his footsteps. He stopped at Room 714 and hammered on the door.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
"Room service!"
A muffled voice snapped from inside: "I didn't order anything!"
"I said—room service!" Downton bellowed, pounding harder.
The door flew open. A young man stood there, sheet barely clinging to his waist, face flushed with irritation—until he saw the gun.
"I told you, I—!"
Downton grabbed a fistful of hair, yanked him inside, and jammed the barrel into his mouth.
The young man froze. Downton pressed a finger to his own lips—shh—then slowly withdrew the gun.
He shut the door behind them.
"Turn around," Downton ordered, shoving him toward the bedroom.
Inside, a woman lay sprawled on the bed, fingers lazily tracing idle patterns through her pubic hair. She looked up—and screamed.
"Quiet," Downton growled, vaulting onto the bed and silencing her with the cold steel of his pistol pressed against her tongue.
Eyes wide, she nodded frantically.
He turned to the young man, who stood trembling near the dresser. "Find something to tie her up. Now."
"I—I got it!" The kid scrambled, yanking the cord from a hairdryer, then ripping HDMI cables from the TV and PC. "Will this work?"
Downton didn't answer. He was already scanning the room—windows, vents, closet. This wasn't a social call. It was a setup.
And someone was about to walk right into it.