Downton set his fork down, gave the woman a casual wave, and drew his pistol from his waistband.
After chambering a round, he fired two shots into the ceiling.
Bang! Bang!
The reports echoed like thunder in the hushed restaurant. Even the woman—seasoned, hardened—flinched. Around them, patrons froze for a heartbeat before chaos erupted: some dove under tables, others bolted for the exits.
Had Downton wanted a hostage or a heist, he could've picked off a fleeing diner, dragged them back, and turned the Kane Hotel dining room into a siege zone.
But that wasn't his goal.
He wanted chaos—enough panic to make the security detail hesitate before pulling their own triggers.
As the crowd surged toward the exits, Downton snatched up a small boy abandoned in the stampede. He pressed the muzzle of his pistol gently against the child's cheek and grinned.
"Young man," he said, voice almost cheerful, "how'd you like to go on an adventure with Uncle Downton?"
The boy—no older than five—shrank back but held his ground. "You're lying," he whispered, clutching Downton's coat collar. "You're a bad guy."
Downton chuckled. "Nonsense. You're a hostage now. Smile for the cameras!"
Still laughing, he raised a hand toward the stunned security guards across the lobby and gave them a mock salute.
Then, cradling the boy like a football, he swaggered down the grand staircase of the Kane Hotel, through the manicured front garden, and onto the rain-slicked Gotham street.
Spotting a gleaming Audi R8 idling at the curb, Downton smashed its driver-side window with the butt of his pistol. The middle-aged man behind the wheel barely had time to gape before Downton yanked open the door and shoved him out.
"Good morning, friend!" Downton called, sliding behind the wheel. "Have a wonderful day in Gotham!"
The man stood there, fists trembling. "That's my brand-new car! I bought it three weeks ago—just... just don't wreck it, alright?"
Downton winked. "I'll drive it like it's mine—which, for now, it is! You can pick it up at the precinct... if there's anything left."
With a roar of the engine, he peeled away, fishtailing past startled pedestrians. In the rearview, the man's face twisted in helpless fury.
Downton wove through oncoming traffic, clipping fenders and side mirrors as GCPD cruisers converged. He barely slipped through their tightening cordon, tires screaming, before slamming the Audi into the glass façade of a BMW dealership two blocks over.
Amid the blaring alarms and screaming civilians, he stepped out of the wreck, brushed shards of glass from his coat, and walked calmly against the tide of fleeing onlookers—no hurry, no fear.
High above Gotham, Jim Gordon watched it all unfold through binoculars from the open door of a GCPD helicopter.
Beside him, a tactical sniper adjusted his scope. "Got a clean shot on Downton, Lieutenant. Your call."
Gordon exhaled slowly. "And if you miss? Or if he's wearing body armor? He's got half the city running in circles. One wrong move and he torches a school bus just to prove a point."
He lowered the binoculars. "We wait. We track. We contain."
Later that night, over a glass of cheap bourbon in a back booth of The Iceberg Lounge, Gordon met with Carmine Falcone.
"You know this man Downton?" Gordon asked, voice low.
Falcone swirled his drink, eyes unreadable. "No. But he smells like someone's project."
Gordon didn't ask what he meant. He already knew.
Because in Gotham, nothing happens in a vacuum.
Not when your father once dined with men who wore owl masks.
Not when your uncle's name appears—once, then never again—in Court records older than City Hall.
The Gordons weren't just cops. They were part of Gotham's hidden architecture. And though Jim had turned his back on that legacy, it hadn't turned its back on him.
If he'd played the game—if he'd bowed to the Court, taken Falcone's hand, looked the other way—he'd be Commissioner by now. Maybe even Mayor.
But Jim Gordon chose a different path.
And in Gotham, choosing right often means being the only one left standing… in a very deep hole.
As for last night—after his meeting with Falcone—Gordon had exchanged intelligence with the crime boss about Downton.
From that conversation, Gordon now understood a few terrifying truths about Downton's capabilities.
Death didn't stop him. Not really. Every time he was killed—or even captured—he simply reappeared elsewhere, resurrected at random.
So how am I supposed to capture him? Gordon thought, frustration knotting his gut. What good would killing him even do?
He shook his head helplessly and turned to the sniper perched beside him in the chopper.
"Call it off. Let him go. But put a few plainclothes units on him—track his movements, keep him in sight at all times."
Gordon's voice tightened. "He might go after the Dimitrovs next. Or he could interfere with the Metropolitan operation."
He exhaled sharply. "Falcone's already moved men into Dimitrov territory. We still need to seal off that battleground—damn it!"
"As for Metropolitan," he continued, "General Lane arrived at his daughter's side last night. The military's set a trap they believe is viable. If Downton takes the bait and meets reporter Lane in Metropolitan, he'll be walking straight into a cage—under military control."
Gordon's expression darkened. "Honestly? I hope he leaves Gotham. Without him… the city's already lost. But if he stays? God only knows what kind of chaos he'll unleash."
He fell silent for a moment—then frowned. Something had just occurred to him.
"No," he said slowly. "He also visited Wayne Manor yesterday."
The helicopter crew tensed.
"We still don't understand Downton's patterns," Gordon went on, voice low and thoughtful. "But every target so far has followed a pattern: gang strongholds, the ultra-wealthy, high-end banks and boutiques. Whoever—or whatever—he's after, it's tied to power and privilege."
His eyes narrowed. "Wayne Manor fits that profile perfectly."
"Wayne Manor?!" one officer blurted out.
The name sent a ripple through the cabin. No one had considered it.
After all, in Gotham, the Waynes weren't just wealthy—they were mythic. Even though Bruce had only returned seven years after vanishing, the family's reputation remained untouchable. Their philanthropy, their clean business practices… they were the one bright spot in a city drowning in grime.
Now, reminded by Gordon, the officers exchanged uneasy glances—some tinged with bitter amusement.
Let's be honest: the GCPD wasn't fond of the elite. And the idea of Gotham's most untouchable dynasty getting humbled by some anarchic madman like Downton?
Well… it wasn't exactly unwelcome.
Meanwhile, at the very estate Gordon feared might become a target…
Alfred Pennyworth carried a silver tray up the grand staircase, gently nudging open Bruce Wayne's bedroom door with his shoulder. Inside, Bruce sat hunched over his desk, sketching furiously, notes scattered around him.
He hadn't turned—yet he spoke without missing a stroke.
"Remember to knock next time."
Alfred offered a wry half-smile. "Indeed, sir. And I would—if I weren't trying to spare myself the sight of you already awake."
He set the tray down beside a half-finished coffee cup and began arranging cutlery with practiced care.
"Even if it means wasting a breakfast I spent half the morning preparing, I'd rather you sleep. You didn't get back until four. It's barely eight-twenty."
He paused, voice softening. "Less than four hours of rest won't sustain you through another Gotham night. Whatever you're planning—whatever mission you've taken on—your mind needs a body that can keep up."
Bruce didn't look up. "Time doesn't wait, Alfred."
He turned the sketch toward the butler.
Alfred's eyes lingered on the drawing—a sleek, bat-like cowl with subtle ear-like protrusions. He gave a slow, knowing nod.
"This is the mask you've settled on, then? I'll break down the schematics and discreetly contact our materials suppliers worldwide."
But his tone turned cautious. "You're moving far ahead of schedule. Are you certain you're ready?"
Then, gently: "Or… is this sudden shift because of her? That defense secretary's daughter—the one who vanished, then reappeared like a ghost?"
He met Bruce's gaze. "Changing your entire timeline for someone who just walked back into this city… that's a risk, Master Bruce. He can afford to make mistakes. We only get one chance."