Downton, of course, had no idea what Bartel was thinking. He glanced at Victor Zsasz—furious, yes, but moving with unsettling efficiency—and offered him an appreciative smirk.
Unlike Downton himself just moments before, Zsasz charged ahead with brazen confidence, even taking the lead.
But Downton saw through the act. Zsasz might look reckless, but he was anything but. He never ran a straight line toward enemy fire. Instead, he hugged walls, darted around corners, slipped behind broken doors, and used rows of industrial washing machines as cover.
His movements were theatrical—almost performative—but always tactical. Every step kept him within arm's reach of shelter, ready to vanish behind it at the first sign of trouble.
Not that he often needed it. Zsasz's eyes were unnervingly sharp, his draw impossibly fast. Those unblinking, lidless eyes—pale and hawk-like—tracked every twitch of movement. By the time an enemy registered his presence, Zsasz's bullet was already punching through their forehead or chest.
And just like that, Zsasz cleared the laundry room's break area—somewhere Downton had failed to secure on his own.
Once the last body hit the floor, Zsasz gave a curt wave. The dozens of Falcone gunmen behind him split into six squads, each peeling off down different corridors.
Zsasz's own target lay below: the underground passage. Intel placed Yuri Dimitrov there.
Against most gangs, Zsasz might've worried about them fleeing.
But Russians?
They'd never retreat—not after their hideout had been breached. It was a point of honor. A matter of blood.
Still, before descending, Zsasz had another problem.
Damn it—the cops.
Less than a minute after the assault began, Jim Gordon screeched in with three patrol cars, sirens cutting through the chaos.
One glance, and Gordon's eyes locked onto Downton. His stomach dropped.
"Again?" Gordon snapped, voice tight with disbelief. "Don't you ever stop causing trouble? Or is your resurrection contract written in mayhem, you bastard?"
He stepped forward, gun leveled—not at Zsasz, not at the Falcone men, but squarely at Downton—pushing through his own officers.
Downton chuckled, raising his submachine gun just enough to show he wasn't intimidated. "Shouldn't I be asking that, Commissioner Gordon?"
He paused, feigning sudden realization. "Oh—wait. You're not commissioner yet. Still just a deputy, huh? Always cleaning up Gotham's messes while the brass hide in their offices."
He took a slow step closer. Gordon instinctively stepped back—but caught himself, jaw clenched, refusing to yield further.
Downton pressed on, nudging the barrel of Gordon's service pistol aside with his own chest. Then, with theatrical nonchalance, he blew a puff of air across the muzzle.
Turning to the nervous line of cops behind Gordon, he grinned. "Tell me—do you enjoy following this man? Chasing ghosts while your precinct fills with cold cases? You circle this city a dozen times a day and catch nothing but paperwork and body bags."
He spread his arms. "Face it—the GPD should rename itself the Gotham Morgue Bureau. At least that'd be honest. And you lot? You only ever collar small-time players like me. Go ahead—arrest me. But look around. The shooter was one of Falcone's. I'd love to see you try him."
With a mocking bow, Downton stepped left, gesturing for Gordon to follow—like this were all a game.
Across the room, Victor Zsasz had watched the exchange with growing disgust. Now, he stalked over.
From ten feet away, he fixed Gordon with a look of utter contempt, then raised his twin pistols.
"Get lost," Zsasz snarled. "This is Falcone business. Not your circus."
He paused, eyes narrowing as realization struck. "Wait… you brought them," he hissed at Downton. "The cops—they're here because of your last stunt. I told you they'd be a problem if they showed up too fast!"
Without waiting for a reply, Zsasz fired three sharp rounds into the ceiling.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Then he leveled both pistols at the police line, voice dropping to a venomous growl.
"This ends now. Walk away. Better yet—go buy fried chicken and coffee across the street. Watch the Dimitrovs die from a safe distance."
He fired two more shots into the floor near Gordon's feet.
Bang! Bang!
A third shot cracked the air.
Finally, a few officers flinched, lowering their rifles.
"Ahem… Commissioner Gordon," one officer mumbled, avoiding eye contact, "Falcone's just cleaning up a rival gang. You know how it is."
"Yeah, Commish," another added, shifting nervously. "The Dimitrovs? Total scum."
"Sir, my wife just gave birth—I really need to take the day off."
"Look… my mortgage, my kid's tuition… Falcone's 'bonus' keeps half the precinct afloat. I'm heading across the street."
"Who wants fried chicken? My treat!"
The officers exchanged glances—then scattered before Gordon could issue a single order.
Left alone on the rain-slicked sidewalk, Gordon clenched his jaw, fingers tightening around his service revolver.
From across the street, Victor Zsasz stepped forward—not with a rifle (he never uses one), but with his usual calm lethality. He tapped Gordon lightly on the shoulder with the butt of his knife.
"Commissioner," Zsasz said, his voice disturbingly conversational, "Boss Falcone's always held you in… high regard. And you've been very cooperative with the family over the years."
He leaned in, eyes glinting. "So how about a little more cooperation? Your daughter's heading to college soon, isn't she? Tuition's steep these days."
"Shut your mouth!" Gordon snarled, raising his pistol. "I've never taken a dime from Falcone—not one red cent! And I won't be blackmailed by scum like you!"
Zsasz merely smiled—then pivoted, drawing his blade and pointing it lazily toward the precinct across the street.
"You didn't take it… but your men did. Think of them, Jim. Think of your family."
"ENOUGH!"
A blur of motion—then Zsasz staggered forward, sent reeling by a brutal flying kick to the back of his knees.
He whirled, furious, to see Downton—a rogue detective with a reputation for chaos—standing with arms crossed, smirking.
"What the hell was that for?! We're on the same side!" Zsasz hissed.
"I kick who I damn well please," Downton shot back, flipping him off. "Now get your psycho ass to that laundry room and finish the job—Yuri Dimitrov's holed up in there. Go."
Zsasz's lips curled, his fingers twitching toward his knife. But after a tense beat, he spat on the pavement and stalked off, muttering, "I'll carve your name into my skin one day…"
"Take a number," Downton called after him. "Get in line behind eighty others!"
He turned to Gordon, who stood frozen, pistol half-raised, eyes narrowed in wary confusion.
"You really think a straight-arrow cop like you deserves to have a lunatic like Zsasz hold a blade to his throat?" Downton asked, clapping Gordon on the shoulder with rough camaraderie.
"Know why I kicked him? Because yesterday, I was you. Idealistic. Useless.
But I died in this city… and crawled back out of its guts. Learned one truth: you've got to be meaner than the monsters to herd 'em.
When they call me radical, they start calling him… reasonable. That's how you bend the scale.
So cut me some slack, Jim. Get closer.
They say I'm crazy…"
He grinned, rain dripping from his brow.
"…But I'm the only one who sees clearly."