Facing Downton's gun, Zsasz couldn't help but roll his eyes.
"Didn't you say you wanted me to live—to see Falcone's old age? Then why force a choice on me so soon?"
"Heh heh… You've lived this long and still haven't figured it out?"
Downton pressed harder on Zsasz's hand, drawing a sharp grunt from him.
"Don't hit me like that!"
Zsasz yanked his hand free, snatching the submachine gun from Downton's grip before continuing.
"Speaking of which—that blank shot earlier… You probably ran out of bullets before you even died, didn't you? All that nonsense you spouted about me? Honestly, I have to admire how fast you spin excuses."
He leveled a cold stare at Downton.
"As for your 'choice'—as long as Falcone remains in Gotham, I belong to the Falcone family. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
With that, Zsasz flashed a wicked grin.
Downton studied him for a beat, then nodded slowly—almost satisfied—and holstered his weapon.
"So… as long as Falcone stays in Gotham, you'll remain his loyal dog?"
He leaned back lazily in the car seat, crossing his legs with theatrical nonchalance.
"No problem. Once I drive Falcone out of this city, you'll be mine. First, I'll handle the Dimitrovs. Then I'll have a little fun with the old man himself."
He gestured vaguely toward the skyline.
"Gotham's a young city—it doesn't belong to relics. Falcone will learn that. Even if I weren't here, some other upstart would've made him see it. The new tide always washes over the old. There's no ship left for him on this sea."
Downton's voice dropped, almost reverent.
"Because I came… the times have changed, Zsasz."
Zsasz glanced at Downton's torn, bloodstained clothes and grinned, flashing a row of perfectly white teeth.
"Yeah, Downton—times have changed. All kinds of filth like you keep crawling out of the gutters."
He leaned forward slightly, eyes gleaming.
"The fact that you can't die? That's… fascinating. If you get the chance, could I try it myself?"
"What the hell are you trying to say?" Downton sneered, swinging the gun down toward Zsasz's crotch.
Zsasz threw his hands up. "Don't joke like that! When I say 'try,' I mean—let me kill you. With my own hands."
His tone turned serious.
"I don't want to bring trouble to the Falcone family—especially not something as unpredictable as you. But I do want to kill you myself. So I'm asking now: give me the chance. Let me end you my way, on my terms, at a time and place of my choosing."
Downton laughed—light, careless. "Sure."
"Like I said," he added, twirling the pistol lazily, "true gold fears no fire. If you want to kill me? Go ahead. But since I'm letting you try… you owe me one condition."
He leaned in, voice low.
"Protect Yuri Dimitrov for me. While I keep coming back, don't let that bastard slip away. I want to finish him myself."
"No problem," Zsasz said instantly—and offered a high five.
Downton slapped his palm against Zsasz's with a dry smack.
Zsasz eyed Downton's calloused, scarred hands, then shook his head.
"Downton…" he said suddenly.
"Your power is incredible—beyond anything anyone's imagined. But your actual skill?" He barked a short laugh. "It's like watching a child ride a wild boar. Everyone fears the beast, but you? You'll get thrown off and trampled if you're not careful."
He pointed at the shredded remains of Downton's shirt, the dark stains beneath.
"Look at you—killed by a handful of low-level thugs. What a gruesome, pathetic end."
Zsasz's lip curled in open disdain.
"If I were you, I wouldn't waste that gift. Train. Hone your combat to the peak of human ability. Combine that with your immortality, and you'd be the most dangerous man alive."
He clicked his tongue.
"Tsk, tsk… what a waste. A real tragedy. I'd bet your fighting skills aren't even as sharp as Oswald Cobblepot's at the Iceberg Lounge."
His contempt radiated like heat.
Downton clapped a hand on Zsasz's shoulder, his grin sharp as a scalpel in response to the other man's mockery.
"Zsasz… I can't even die! Do you have any idea how unbearable that is?
Every sunrise is guaranteed. Every wound seals itself before it can bleed. There's no stakes, no consequence—just an endless stretch of now.
So I've made a rule: live hard, laugh loud, and savor every damn second—because boredom is the only thing that can truly kill me.
And the worst part? No one's hunting me. Not really. Why would they? I can't be finished. Not by blade, bullet, or bomb.
You—lucky bastard—you have to fight to survive. You get to feel fear, urgency, meaning. I look at you and I'm green with envy!
Hahahaha!"
His laughter echoed, brittle and smug, making veins throb along Zsasz's temple.
When the mirth finally faded, Downton leaned in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur.
"And here's the real kicker—I'm always getting stronger. Not tomorrow, not next year… right now. My limits? They don't exist.
One day, I'll shrug off a nuke like a summer breeze. So tell me—why would I waste time learning tactics?
Heh… When a yawn can crack continents, strategy becomes a joke for the weak."
He paused, eyes glinting as he studied Zsasz's furrowed brow.
"What's spinning in that skull of yours? Doubting me?
Save your breath. I'm not lying—and you're not worth the effort of a lie. You'll see it soon enough.
If someone stronger shows up? Fine. I'll wait. A week. A year. Ten. They hit a ceiling. I don't.
You grind in the gym hoping to lift a car. Me? I'll wake up one morning and shoulder the planet just to feel something new.
So why chase your path? To sweat, strain, and bleed for power I'm handed like free coffee?
Or just to feed your jealousy?"
Downton chuckled again and gave Zsasz's thigh a patronizing pat.
From the driver's seat, the chauffeur turned slightly. "Boss Zsasz… we're here."
"Then move!" Zsasz snarled, shoving the car door open. He spat onto the asphalt like it owed him money.
Snatching up his walkie-talkie, he barked into it:
"Alright, listen up! That immortal freak thinks training's a joke? Then show him what teamwork looks like!
And heads-up: if you die today, don't expect a payout. Yeah, Falcone might send your family a check—but I'll steal it and blow it on champagne and lap dances!
So stay alive, you bastards!"
With a final curse—"Goddamn infuriating prick!"—Zsasz charged toward the laundry entrance, twin pistols drawn.
Two blocks down, hidden in the alley's gloom, Batel froze mid-step, eyes wide as saucers at the swarm of black SUVs flooding the street—Falcone's private army, rolling in like Judgment Day.
"T—This can't be happening…"