The dream world was meant to be a crucible—a place to sharpen instincts, test limits, maybe even cheat death.
For others, perhaps.
But for Downton?
If he had to work even here, in the one place meant for escape… what was the point? He wasn't training to become a weapon. He was trying not to become a mule.
Rest was rest. Survival during the day—dodging bullets in alleyways, reading the twitch of a trigger finger before it fired—was exhausting enough. Why turn his dreams into another battlefield?
Avoiding death is its own victory, he reminded himself. Walking away is a skill, too.
With that thought, he lowered his guard—literally. His raised arm dropped to his side as he scanned the dreamscape.
It was unnervingly real. Too real. The scent of damp pavement, the hum of distant traffic—it had woken him more than once, heart hammering, convinced he'd been shot in his sleep.
But no one said he couldn't reclaim it.
Last time, he'd died on a bus. So this time? He never boarded.
Next time the Dimitrov-Sabatino war spilled into his path? He'd take a different route.
Instead, he strolled past the Gotham bus stop and found a quiet park nestled between brownstones. Winding through the trees, he spotted a patch of shade beneath an old oak, its roots curling through the grass like sleeping serpents. He lay down. Closed his eyes.
Sleeping… in a dream.
The absurdity almost made him laugh. Yet as the minutes blurred, a deep calm settled over him. Had he actually rested here?
A voice cut through the haze:
"Hey. Wake up. It's getting dark—even in here."
Downton opened his eyes.
Not on grass. Not under trees.
But in the dim, plush suite of the Kane Hotel.
He sat up slowly, sheets pooling around his waist. Moonlight spilled through the curtains, casting long shadows across the floor—where three figures lay unconscious, bound and gagged, just as he'd left them.
Hostages? Assets? He didn't dwell on it. Survival didn't require justification, only results.
He rose and walked to the full-length mirror in the dressing room. His reflection surprised him.
Before this… he'd been unremarkable. Lean, but soft. Now? Muscle carved his frame—pectorals defined, shoulders squared, arms corded with strength earned not in the gym, but in evasion, tension, and the strange physics of dream-recovery.
He dropped to the floor and began push-ups.
Forty used to exhaust him.
Now?
"One hundred… one fifty… two hundred…"
He didn't stop until two hundred sixty. Only then did the burn finally rise, sharp and satisfying.
So this is the trade, he realized. Avoid death in the dream—live longer in it—and wake up stronger.
Why fight when you could outlast? Why kill when you could slip away? Reality was brutal enough.
He showered, letting the hot water scour away the last traces of dream-dust.
After dressing, he knelt beside the woman who'd been awake the longest—watching, waiting. He untied the cord binding her wrists, careful but firm.
She didn't move fast. Didn't speak. Her eyes flicked to the pistol holstered at his hip, then back to his face.
Smart.
By the time he toweled his hair dry, she'd freed the other two. Downton pulled out a thick envelope—his last two grand—and pressed it into the hands of the two masseuses.
"For your trouble," he said. "And your silence."
They blinked. Then, understanding dawning, they nodded quickly.
"Thank you, sir," one murmured.
"We'll… remember you kindly," added the other, already gathering her kit.
No fake cheer. No awkward blessings. Just professionals who'd seen too much of Gotham to pretend otherwise.
At the door, they paused.
"If you ever need discretion again… ask for Sixteen or Thirty-Six."
"Don't say 'oh,'" Downton said with a dry smile. "Just go."
They left without another word—no bowing, no forced smiles. Just two figures vanishing down the hall, heels clicking softly against marble.
Only after the elevator doors slid shut did the two masseuses finally exhale—and then hug each other tightly.
"That was terrifying! How could someone be so brazen?"
"I know! And he used electrical wires? Wires! The least romantic thing in the world!"
"It was a robbery—had to be. He robbed the suite, then paid us for massages afterward!"
"And ordered one for her too—the actual victim! He's got… standards."
...
Leaving the women's chatter behind, Downton stepped back into the suite. The moment the door clicked closed, he drew his pistol and leveled it at the woman sitting stiffly on the edge of the bed.
She didn't flinch. Her mouth twitched into something between a grimace and a sigh.
"You don't need the gun," she said quietly. "I stayed up all night thinking it through. I get it now."
She met his gaze, voice steady but weary. "Money? Life? Take whatever you want—just don't kill me like you did last night."
Downton's eyes narrowed slightly—but he didn't correct her.
Instead, she pulled the sheet tighter around herself, then lay back deliberately, arms at her sides. "I'm not fighting you. If you want… more, just be gentle. I'm sensitive." She gestured toward the closet. "Or if it's cash you're after—my bag's in there. Four grand in bills, two Wayne Enterprises debit cards. PIN's 0419."
Downton holstered his pistol.
"Alright," he said.
He walked over, picked up her blouse from the floor, and tossed it onto the bed. Then he gave her shoulder a light, almost brotherly pat—startling her.
"Get dressed," he said. "Then take me to breakfast. Hotel restaurant. Close enough."
She blinked. "...Whatever you say."
She rolled her eyes—not in fear, but exasperation—and dressed quickly. Ten minutes later, they were seated across from each other at Kane's, the hotel's upscale bistro.
As she stirred her coffee, her eyes darted toward the lobby. Two men in dark suits stood near the concierge desk. Another lingered by the pastry case.
"Don't bother scanning for threats," Downton said, buttering a croissant. He tapped his fork against his plate. "They're here for me. Snuck in last night under cover—but today? No mask, no hat. Of course they recognized me."
She swallowed. "Then… are you using me as a hostage? Leverage?"
He paused, studying her. "You really think I spent all night tying you up just to use you as a bargaining chip?"
"Well, you did tie me up," she muttered. "And we shared a bed. And I bought you dinner. The least you could do is show some consideration."
Her voice dropped. "I don't care about the money. But if this ends with me sobbing on the evening news—ruined makeup, mascara everywhere—my board will never let me live it down."
Downton snorted. Then, without warning, he speared a forkful of scrambled eggs and held it out.
"Is this consideration?" he asked dryly.
She stared at the fork. Then took the bite.
"After this meal," he said, "we part ways. Never see each other again. And for your sake—hope the next guy who breaks into your suite isn't as gentle as I was."
She flushed. "Wait—you didn't even—!"
He raised an eyebrow.
"You didn't sleep with me!" she hissed, mortified. "Not even a little! Are you… not into women?!"
Downton pushed back his chair, stood, and dropped a twenty on the table.
"Don't flatter yourself, sweetheart," he said with a smirk. "I'm done eating. And you? You're lucky I'm not the type who collects souvenirs."
He turned and walked out—leaving her staring after him, equal parts relieved and insulted.