"You think you see it all?"
Gordon's throat worked as he swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing beneath the grime of a sleepless night. He leveled his service revolver at Downton, voice sharp with exhaustion and fury.
"Last night, I spent the entire day at GCPD headquarters sifting through case files—everything tied to you.
You broke a pedestrian's leg in broad daylight. Robbed a high-end boutique on East End. Hit an Atlanta National Bank branch—yes, Atlanta, because apparently Gotham wasn't enough for you.
Then you stormed the Iceberg Lounge. Not just caused chaos—you turned half the docks into a graveyard of shattered concrete, plunging support pillars into the harbor like tombstones.
After that? You shattered both legs of a dockworker, snatched the daughter of a Gotham congressman and the Deputy Secretary of Defense, and—oh, incidentally—put a knife to General Lane's daughter.
And that was just the warm-up. You beat a cab driver unconscious, then abducted a woman from the Kane Hotel—
**"—Guests!"** Downton interjected, eyes wide with mock horror. "Mustn't forget the guests!"
Gordon ignored him. "And that was one day. The next morning, before ten, you triggered another stampede at the Kane, stole a Porsche Panamera, and plowed it through a dealership showroom in the Diamond District. Then you emptied an arms cache in Little Italy—every last rifle, grenade, and sidearm gone.
Finally, you marched into Dimitrov's territory, carving a path through his men like a reaper… until I stood in your way.
He jabbed a finger at his wristwatch. "Look at this, Downton. It's 9:30 a.m.
In thirty-six hours, you've committed dozens of felonies. You alone spiked Gotham's crime index by three percent.
And you still have the gall to claim you're the most clear-headed man in this city?
How can you be so shameless—?"
"Wait."
Downton's laughter cut through the tension. Genuine surprise lit his face.
"Only three percent? After all that?
A dozen major crimes… and Gotham's rate barely blinks?
Now that's Gotham for you."
He grinned, giving Gordon a sarcastic thumbs-up.
"With a man like you as Deputy Commissioner, it's no wonder this city drowns in blood every day. You've done your part—brilliantly, I might add.
But your greatest service?
You've shown me, beyond doubt… that good men can't save Gotham. They just make room for worse ones."
He stepped closer, clapping Gordon on the shoulder with mock camaraderie.
"Why am I even telling you this? Men like you—soft, righteous, annoying—you're background noise. Go find your boys, share fried chicken and cheap beer, and watch from the bleachers while I dismantle Yuri Dimitrov.
You play by rules written for saints, yet expect criminals to listen? Don't you know what happens to saints in Gotham?
They get burned at the stake—or worse, ignored.
"Real authority doesn't beg for respect. It commands awe.
And awe isn't earned by kindness—it's forged in fear.
A ruler needn't be cruel… but he must be unquestionable.
You? You're just a lion's cub playing shepherd."
Downton straightened Gordon's crooked collar with theatrical care, then tilted the man's chin toward the skyline.
"If your father hadn't been Carmine Falcone's confidant—if your uncle hadn't been Gotham's Attorney General—you wouldn't be standing here debating morality. You'd be rotting in a ditch, or cleaning toilets for Zsasz.
You think your decency is a choice? It's a privilege.
The powerful can afford to be good. The poor? Kindness gets them killed.
You've watched Gotham through a windshield. I've crawled through its gutters.
So let me show you what I see."
He pointed to the towering spire of Wayne Tower, gleaming coldly in the morning sun.
"Up there? A pride of lions, surveying their domain.
Below? Hyenas—warlords, mobsters, freaks—tearing the herd apart.
Yet the herd never thins. Why?
Because lions and hyenas need the sheep to keep breeding.
And men like you? You're the perfect sheep—born of lions, dressed in wool, convinced your sacrifice means something.
Truth, justice, beauty—they're never what lead an age.
But they're always its banner.
Why?
Because every era's lions choose them—to keep the sheep calm while the feast goes on."
With that, Downton released Gordon and waved dismissively toward the group of officers lingering nearby.
"Stop fucking eavesdropping!" he barked. "Anyone got a cigarette? Get over here and light one for me!"
"I've got one!"
"Mine!"
"Boss Downton—mine!"
Three or four officers rushed forward, waving cigarettes and lighters, jostling for position around him.
As smoke curled into the air, Downton patted Gordon's arm and offered a quiet, knowing smile.
"I told you—you can't change this world. A beast like you will never make a lion afraid."
He exhaled slowly, eyes distant.
"But just wait and see what I can do. If I can make the lions of this era sheathe their claws… if I can even convince the hyenas to drop their sick little habits… then maybe—just maybe—the cattle and the sheep will get to live a little better than before."
The moment the words left his lips, a deafening series of explosions ripped through the nearby laundromat, followed by rapid gunfire. Moments later, Victor Zsasz emerged—bald head streaked with soot, dragging a burly man by the collar.
Spotting Downton surrounded by GCPD officers, Zsasz sneered.
"Look at this," he called out, voice dripping with mockery. "Helping that idiot cop out of trouble again? You've killed people. Broken laws. But they won't touch you—not as long as you don't scare them."
He jerked his chin toward the cowering officers.
"You think you're the good guy, Downton? Kicked me a few times to look noble in front of Gordon? Wake up. The GCPD doesn't protect good people—they bully them."
Zsasz raised his pistol, gesturing sharply at Gordon and the others. "Get lost."
The officers scattered in panic.
Downton ignored them. Instead, he turned through the haze of smoke and studied the dazed, bloodied man slumped on the pavement.
"Yuri Dimitrov?" he asked.
"That's him," Zsasz grinned, clearly pleased with himself. "Didn't expect a man of his rank to lead from the front. I stormed the tunnel, and this fool came charging out like a bull—yelling like he owned the place."
To punctuate the point, Zsasz aimed his gun toward the retreating police and mimed firing. When no one reacted, he threw his head back and laughed—arrogant, satisfied.
Downton gave Gordon one last, firm pat on the shoulder. Then he walked over to Dimitrov.
Grabbing the man by the collar with his left hand, Downton drove his right fist down—
Thump!
Thump!
Again and again, until his knuckles ached.
Then, without hesitation, he drew his pistol.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Three shots. Rhythmic. Precise.
Two to the chest.
One to the head.