Thinking fast, Downton yanked his submachine gun from its holster and kicked the door open.
The moment it flew inward, he found himself staring at three half-dead men sprawled near a sink, barely clinging to consciousness, their breaths ragged and eyes glassy.
Downton made it quick.
But as the last man slumped to the floor, a door hidden in the restroom wall slammed shut—and beneath his boots, another door in the tiled floor groaned open.
A figure pushed through from below, half his body emerging before his eyes locked onto Downton's. He froze mid-climb, then snapped his pistol up with a snarl:
"Damn it—don't fucking push me! I'm not dying today—"
Rat-a-tat-tat!
Downton didn't hesitate. The man crumpled backward into the passage below, two live grenades tumbling from his grip as his body hit the stairs.
"No wonder I heard so many voices," Downton muttered. "This place connects everywhere."
He spun to retreat—but too late.
One of the grenades detonated right in his face.
The blast seared his eyelashes off. Shrapnel ripped through his chest and arms like claws of hot steel. He staggered, blood already welling through a dozen punctures in his suit.
"Gah— that hurts!" he growled through gritted teeth, almost laughing. Shrapnel always hurt worse than bullets.
Grinning through blood-stained teeth, Downton lurched toward the open trapdoor—just as a hand shot out from below, pistol blazing.
A round punched through his calf. He dropped hard, but managed to shove his backpack under the trapdoor's edge before it could slam shut. Then, with a final surge of strength, he yanked a grenade from his bag and rolled it into the dark.
BOOM!
The explosion thundered up through the floor, drowning out the creak of another door swinging open across the lounge.
Five—maybe six—gunmen stormed in, firing blindly through the smoke.
Thud! Thud!
Bullets slammed into Downton's torso. He barely kept upright, wrenching the trapdoor fully open before collapsing through it.
Thump!
"Ugh!" The impact jolted every wound. Downton roared against the pain, sprawled on cold concrete.
Not ten feet away, the surviving gunmen—now regrouped in the underground corridor—saw him down and whooping.
"He's finished!"
"Put him down!"
"Why's he alone?!"
"The boss is screaming on the radio—end him!"
Russian accents barked over the din as they opened fire in unison.
Downton dragged his SMG from his pack and emptied the entire magazine down the passage. He didn't aim. Didn't need to. Chaos was his ally now.
Then—silence. Smoke. Darkness.
And suddenly, he wasn't in the tunnel anymore.
He stumbled into a vast, marble-floored hall—submachine gun dangling from his grip.
Gasps erupted.
"Ahhh!"
"It's a robber!"
"How'd he get in here?!"
"Security's useless—take him out!"
"He's armed!"
Amid the panic, Downton rolled his eyes at the half-dozen rent-a-cops charging toward him with batons and sidearms.
"Bad luck, fellas," he rasped. "Looks like I walked into a bank."
Before the words fully left his mouth, a storm of bullets tore through his chest.
And inside Gotham Bank, flames bloomed.
A moment later—
Huff.
Downton exhaled sharply and cautiously scanned his surroundings.
Good. This time, he hadn't materialized inside a bank vault or a police precinct. Just the back seat of a car. Familiar, even.
But the bald man beside him? That was… less ideal.
Before Downton could process it, instinct took over. His submachine gun snapped up, pressing hard against the man's ribs.
Simultaneously, cold steel kissed Downton's temple.
He felt the muzzle's chill—and laughed.
"What a coincidence, Victor Zsasz," Downton said, grinning. "Looks like I wound up in your car!"
He flicked a glance out the tinted window. Gotham's skyline loomed—those same jagged towers he'd just seen minutes ago.
"Oh, even better—heading toward Dimitrov's territory, aren't you?" He chuckled. "Sorry to rain on your parade, but I've already been there. Their gunmen are… enthusiastic. Nearly blew my head off twice before lunch."
Still smirking, Downton holstered his weapon and slung an arm around Zsasz's shoulders.
Zsasz's jaw tightened. A muscle twitched near his eye. But he didn't pull the trigger.
As one of Falcone's longest-serving enforcers—ruthless, yes, but loyal—Zsasz knew Carmine wanted Downton close. Cultivated. Kept alive. So he swallowed the urge to paint the leather seats red and slowly lowered his pistol back into its holster.
"Cut the act, Downton," Zsasz growled. "Don't pretend this was luck. You chose to appear in my car. You came to warn me."
He thumped the driver's seat twice. The car screeched to a halt.
Without looking, Zsasz jerked his chin toward the henchman on Downton's right.
"Get out. Find another ride."
The gunman didn't hesitate. He yanked the door open and vanished into the Gotham fog.
Now alone in the back, Downton shifted slightly away—then patted Zsasz's arm like they were old friends at a bar.
"Thanks, Victor. Three's a crowd back here. Much better like this."
"Enough games." Zsasz slapped his hand away, eyes sharp as broken glass. "Tell me your plan. You didn't teleport into my sedan just to crack jokes."
Downton just grinned, unzipping his backpack to reload his submachine gun with practiced ease.
"I told you—it's a coincidence. Mostly." He clicked a fresh mag into place. "I don't care what you do in Dimitrov's turf… but I do want his head. Personally."
Zsasz narrowed his eyes. "So that's why you're here? To stake your claim?"
He leaned in, voice dropping. "And you threatened me… with an empty gun."
Downton's grin widened. "Exactly. Because I didn't want you dead, Victor."
He leaned closer, voice softening just enough to sound almost sincere.
"Before I went to the Dimitrovs, I had a little chat with Liv about you. Said you were the most admirable man in Gotham. Ruthless, efficient—loyal, even when it hurts. Go ask her. She might've even recorded it. You never know with Liv."
He chambered a round with a crisp snick. The gun's muzzle settled once more against Zsasz's chest.
"Falcone won't rule forever," Downton said, quiet but firm. "But I'm just getting started. I want you alive to see it. And when the time comes… I want you to choose me."
His eyes locked onto Zsasz's. No smile now. Just steel.
"So here's your choice, Victor: me… or death. And you only get to pick once."
He tilted his head, almost playful again.
"I'd be very rational, if I were you."