"I know I shouldn't be impatient—but time waits for no one, Alfred."
Bruce set down his knife and fork only long enough to speak, then resumed eating with quiet urgency.
"I have to move now if I'm going to drive Downton out of Gotham. He's the city's next great problem—if he isn't already."
He chewed mechanically, eyes distant but sharp.
"His immortality's been confirmed. Right now, his strength is still raw—immature. But only for now. With his death-chasing lifestyle, it won't be long before he evolves through gunfire and repeated resurrections into one of the most dangerous men alive."
Bruce's voice dropped, low and edged like steel.
"This is my only window. While he's still green, I can study him, find his weaknesses, and force him out before he puts down roots. If I let him slip through my fingers now… I have a feeling he'll become a lifelong thorn in my side."
He speared a fried egg with his fork, expression unreadable—though the pressure on the tines betrayed the tension coiled beneath.
Alfred watched him for a moment, then sighed softly.
"We're not the only ones gunning for him, Master Bruce. Perhaps it would be wiser to let others strike first."
He paused, choosing his words with care.
"Yesterday's clash with the Falcones cost them Sabatino—a longtime ally. Downton's actions are already antagonizing Gotham's entrenched powers. If we let their feud fester, it might weaken him for us."
Bruce didn't look up.
"Even if some fool stumbles on Downton's weakness, they won't know how to exploit it. A clumsy attempt could tip him off—let him patch the flaw before I ever get close."
His voice hardened further.
"I don't trust the gangs. I certainly don't trust City Hall. And the GCPD is little more than Falcone's auxiliary. They're all complicit."
A cold fire lit his eyes.
"Downton, Falcone, their whole rotten network—they all deserve to burn. But Downton… he's the spark. And I won't let him ignite this city."
He finally turned to Alfred, his pupils glacial, reflecting the butler's own weary face.
"I'll deliver retribution—in Gotham's name, in its darkness. Each of them will live the rest of their days in fear. This is my vengeance. And I can't wait another second."
Alfred met that gaze—and for a heartbeat, his breath caught.
Fifteen years, he thought. Fifteen years, and he's still standing in that alley. Never left.
The man before him wasn't just Bruce Wayne. He was vengeance incarnate—walking among the living, yet tethered forever to that night.
He hadn't even learned to love Gotham before he began to loathe it. And his hatred for its criminals ran deeper than any love ever could.
Swallowing the ache in his chest, Alfred gave a slow, solemn nod.
"I understand, Bruce. But even vengeance requires the right tools."
He straightened slightly.
"I'll expedite the mask you requested. And I suggest you pay a visit to Wayne Enterprises' R&D division. Lucius hasn't had an easy time in your absence—but his mind hasn't dulled. You might find something useful there."
Bruce's reply was quiet. "I'll go shortly."
He felt the weight of Alfred's unspoken emotions—worry, guilt, disappointment, and beneath it all, unwavering loyalty. No pie chart could map that depth; human feeling defied equations.
Avoiding the butler's eyes, Bruce added, "While I'm at the company, keep tabs on Downton. Monitor all media coverage. And if possible… intercept the call he made to reporter Louise yesterday. Decrypt it. I need to know what he's planning."
"And beyond that," he continued, "gather intelligence across the city. Even quiet periods speak volumes. I need to see the whole board."
"Of course, Bruce," Alfred said, his voice steady. "I'll always be on your side."
He offered a small, familiar smile—the same one he'd given ten, twenty years ago, when Bruce was still a boy in need of comfort rather than a shadow in need of weapons.
That smile stung Bruce's eyes. He set his cutlery down without a word, rose from the table, dressed quickly, and left for Wayne Enterprises.
Meanwhile, not far from the entrance to the Little Italy Gunfight Feast, two early-rising streetwalkers perked up.
"Is that him?" one whispered.
"It's him! I've seen him with my own eyes—call the boss, quick!"
Unaware of their chatter, Downton stood outside the bald shopkeeper's storefront, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched in frustration.
"No way," he muttered, rapping on the locked roller shutter. "Could someone really scare you out of town just by mentioning Falcone?"
He waited ten full seconds. Nothing.
Amused, Downton drew his pistol.
"Old man Downton's here to restock," he announced to the empty street. "Since you're not around, I'll borrow what I need—and pay you back when I can. Falcone hasn't even looked your way yet, and you've already fled to the sticks? Do you really think you've got the guts to sell what's inside that shop?"
Without another word, he fired three rounds into the lock. The shutter shrieked open under his pull, alarms blaring like a wounded beast.
Laughing, Downton ducked inside.
He grabbed the tactical backpack nearest the door and began loading it methodically: two sawed-off shotguns, a compact submachine gun, and a Desert Eagle—holstered at his hip. He left the sleek tactical rifle untouched; too flashy, too traceable.
He stuffed the remaining space with high-yield shrapnel grenades and extra magazines, then strapped a serrated combat knife to his belt.
By the time the first sirens wailed in the distance, Downton was already sprinting toward the Iceberg Lounge, weighed down but grinning.
Revenge, to him, was never a job for tomorrow. If it waited, it meant he'd failed.
After a night's rest—and a pointless 7 p.m. massage he now regretted—he was ready to finish what he'd started with the Dimitrovs. Sabatino had been dead for weeks, yet their patriarch still breathed. Just thinking about it made Downton feel sluggish.
"Might as well work overtime till nine," he grumbled to himself. "Sleep better after a clean ledger."
The problem? He knew nothing about the Dimitrovs—not their routines, not their hideouts, not even their faces.
Which was why he needed the Iceberg Club… and the middleman waiting inside.
Liv stepped out onto the club's steps the moment word reached her. Composed, sharp-eyed, she scanned the street until she spotted him—breathless, armed, and smirking like a man who'd just robbed Death himself.
Back in Little Italy, the bald shopkeeper skidded to a halt in front of his store, mouth agape.
His roller door hung crooked. The alarm still screamed. And inside—nothing. Not a shell casing, not a cleaning rag. Stripped bare.
He'd raced here the second the alert hit his phone—but Downton hadn't been the only one to hear that gunshot.
Like vultures on a drunk girl in an alley, looters had swarmed the place the moment the door fell.
Swallowing hard, the shopkeeper checked his watch.
"Eight-forty in the damn morning! What kind of gun shop even opens this early?!"
He kicked the ruined doorframe, voice cracking with rage.
"Downton, you lunatic bastard—I'll curse your bloodline to the seventh generation! You're insane! Absolutely insane! You'll never get another bullet from me again!"
He spat on the pavement.
"I'm not done with you… Downton."