Looking at Yuri's shattered skull, Downton closed his eyes and spread his arms wide—as if offering himself to the city he'd sworn to break.
A slow, hissing exhale escaped his lips.
"Hssss… whoosh…"
Behind his eyelids, another version of himself flickered into view.
Just like in last night's dream: the other Downton sat relaxed on a worn leather sofa, a cigarette dangling from his fingers, lips curved in a weary but relieved smile.
Then, gently, the phantom dissolved—breaking into motes of golden light that drifted toward the standing Downton and sank into his skin like embers returning to flame.
Instantly, his instincts surged back, sharper than before.
He could now extract the power of death itself.
It had begun when he first set foot in Gotham. The war between the Dimitrov and Sabatino families had acted as the spark—awakening his latent talent. And because they'd ignited it, their fates became the crucible in which his power would be forged.
So he'd hunted them. Not out of vendetta, but necessity. He'd pushed them toward the abyss, step by step, until their blood sealed his evolution.
Only after both families were extinguished had his ability reached its true form.
It was deceptively simple—three core principles:
First, upon the loss of freedom, consciousness, or life, he could choose to be reborn—or forcibly teleported to safety. (The choice wasn't always his; the system had its own logic.)
Second, every death made him stronger—not just in body, but in perception, reflex, and will.
Third, he could perfectly reconstruct the moment of each death in his mind, reliving it again and again to dissect his enemies' patterns, weaknesses, and fatal errors.
When he'd returned from death yesterday, only the first function had been active—rebirth without growth.
But after Sabatino fell, the second layer unlocked: dream simulations of death, where he could voluntarily "die" in countless ways to claw back the power owed to him.
Now, with Dimitrov's corpse cooling at his feet, the final piece clicked into place.
No more dreams. No more waiting.
Strength came immediately with each death—his own or another's bound to his fate. And with it, crystal-clear reconstructions of the death scene, ready for tactical dissection.
This was his talent in full bloom.
Complete.
"Hoo…"
Downton exhaled sharply and opened his eyes. The world looked sharper—the streetlights crisper, the air thicker with meaning.
He clenched his fist. A quiet hum of power vibrated beneath his skin. A small, satisfied smile touched his lips.
Beside him, Zsasz snorted. "Heh. Really? You're moved? It's just Dimitrov. Barely worth the bullet."
"You don't understand, Zsasz," Downton said softly, raising a hand to cut him off.
He stowed his pistol back in his pack and dropped down onto Yuri's lifeless chest as if it were a bench in the park.
His gaze swept over the distant line of police officers—frozen, hesitant, unwilling to close the distance—then settled on Zsasz, who stood with arms crossed, brow furrowed in thought.
"Zsasz," Downton said, voice low but clear, "do you realize what this means? At this very moment… I've lost the last shred of hatred I had for this world."
He paused. "Can you grasp the weight of that?"
Zsasz let out a dry chuckle and shrugged. "Don't ask me. I don't understand—and I don't wanna."
Downton nodded, not offended. He lit a cigarette, drew in smoke, and let the silence stretch like a taut wire.
Then, tapping ash from his shoe soles, he rose again.
"You're right," he said, grinning now—wide, unburdened. "You don't understand. And that's fine, buddy. All you need to know is this: I'm fearless now."
He swept an arm toward the skyline of Gotham, his voice rising with quiet triumph.
"My last grudge against this city is gone. Now… it's time I settled my fate with it."
He laughed—light, almost giddy—and flashed a peace sign toward his left.
"Hey! Make sure that shot flatters me!"
Zsasz blinked. "Huh? Shot? Someone's photographing this?"
His eyes snapped toward the street corner.
There—perched like a vulture in a tailored navy suit—stood a man with a sleek phone raised, snapping pictures with cold precision. Corporate. Clean-cut. Bold.
Zsasz whirled toward the cops, voice cracking like a whip.
"Are you all blind?! Do you think this scene gets broadcast to every newsfeed in Gotham?!"
"Shit—!"
Snapped from their stupor, three officers lunged forward, swarming the photographer and yanking the phone from his grip before he could even blink.
"All you do is take pictures—are you insane?!"
"What even are you photographing?" another cop barked. "Haven't you seen a good citizen helping the GCPD wipe out scum like the Falcones?"
"Phone confiscated!"
"Get lost!"
When the GCPD meets a civilian with a camera, they don't ask questions—they make examples.
Minutes later, the white-collar worker lay sprawled on the curb, bruised and phoneless, his glasses cracked as he scuttled away.
A young officer—nervous, eyes darting—clutched the confiscated phone and approached the two figures at the edge of the chaos: Victor Zsasz and Downton.
She swallowed hard, then offered the phone to Downton.
"B-Boss Downton… this is evidence. I thought you should have it."
Downton took it with a grin. "Appreciate it. Honestly, I wanted him to snap a pic. Nothing like free publicity—especially when it shows how useless the GCPD is… and how devastatingly handsome I am."
He laughed—then crushed the phone in his fist, twisting it into a mangled knot of plastic and metal.
Zsasz's eyes narrowed. He stared at Downton's hand, then barked, "You've got that kind of strength… and you claim you've never trained? Bullshit. You lied to me in the car."
"Infinitely stronger?" Zsasz's voice dropped, venom lacing every syllable. "You really expect me to believe that?"
From across the street, Commissioner Gordon—jaw clenched, hand on his holster—snapped forward.
"'Infinitely stronger'? Explain. Now."
Downton didn't even look at him. "Shut it, Gordon. Tell you what—set me up with your daughter. Then we'll talk."
And before Zsasz could react, Downton lashed out with a flying kick.
It wasn't subtle. It wasn't sneaky.
And Zsasz dodged it easily.
But the moment he landed, Downton had his pistol out, barrel leveled at Zsasz's forehead.
"Can't keep your mouth closed, can you?" Downton hissed. "You wanna die, Victor?"
"You're the one shouting about becoming infinitely strong—about blowing up the moon—in front of armed cops!" Zsasz shot back. "Are you trying to get the President to kneel before you?!"
"You just described it better than I did!" Downton snarled. "Now the whole damn precinct knows!"
In a flash, he hurled the pistol like a javelin.
Zsasz caught it—bare-handed—and staggered, his palms already bruising from the impact.
Downton held out his hand. "Give. It. Back."
"Here," Zsasz growled. "All of it."
He tossed the gun back—then drew two of his own, stepping forward until the cold steel pressed against Downton's temple.
"Remember your promise," Zsasz whispered, voice trembling with fury. "You said I could kill you—once. I think now's the perfect time."
"I could've waited," he added, finger tightening on the trigger. "Planned something poetic. But you? You're infuriating. I can't stand another second of you."
Bang!
The bullet struck true—burying itself deep in Downton's brain.
But instead of blood, flame erupted.
Downton's body dissolved into ash and embers, vanishing in a breath.
Zsasz stood frozen—then exhaled sharply.
"...Awesome."
He grinned, raising his hands like a madman celebrating a miracle.
Then—
A scream ripped through the street.
"GHOST!" someone shrieked from the fried chicken shop behind the police line.
The officers spun around.
And there he was—Downton, completely unharmed, holding a grease-stained box of chicken. He slung an arm around a stunned patrolwoman, took a loud bite, and winked.
"How'd I look? Pretty dramatic, right? Haha!"