"Ahhh!"
The policewoman jerked back so hard she nearly lost her balance—only Downton's firm grip on her shoulders kept her upright.
But the sudden movement sent his takeout box flying. Crispy fried chicken scattered across the grimy floor.
Downton sighed, rolled his eyes, then reached past her.
"You just murdered my dinner," he said, plucking a Coke from her belt. "So consider this your penance."
Before she could react, he cracked it open and took a long, loud gulp.
"Phew!"
He exhaled a fizzy breath, then tossed the half-empty can over his shoulder with a careless flick.
Ignoring the stunned officers around him, he waved cheerfully at Zsasz, who stood a few yards away, still grinning like a man who'd just won the lottery.
"Hey, Vic! One little kill—that's all it took to put that smile on your face?" Downton called, strolling over. "Man, you're sentimental. I love it!"
Zsasz's grin faltered. His fingers twitched. The amusement drained from his eyes like water down a gutter.
"Damn it," he muttered.
Seeing Downton—alive, smug, unbroken—so soon after putting him down shattered whatever dark satisfaction he'd been nursing.
"I thought I was doing you a favor," Zsasz spat. "Giving you peace. Quiet. A clean exit. But you? You're not human. You're a monster."
He raised his pistol, barrel steady, voice low.
"Still… you kept your word. So I owe you nothing. Go rot in whatever hell you crawl back from. I've got Dimitrovs to finish."
Downton chuckled, unfazed. "Oh, now you're calling me the monster? Trying to push me away? Cute."
He waved a hand. "Go on. Do your thing."
Zsasz didn't wait. He turned sharply and vanished into the laundry room, already scanning for his next target.
The moment he was gone, Downton sidled up to Gordon and slung an arm around his shoulders.
"My war with the Dimitrovs? Over," he said, grin wide but eyes sharp. "Now it's your turn."
Then, with theatrical flair, he clasped his hands together and held them out toward Gordon—palms up, wrists touching like a man offering surrender.
Gordon blinked. Then his face lit up.
"You… you're turning yourself in?"
"That's right!" Gordon's voice cracked with hope. "Downton—now that it's done, you can do the right thing. Let the law take over. Live with a clear conscience—"
"Damn it!" Downton snapped, yanking his hands closer. "All that crap I told you—was crap!"
He leaned in, voice dropping to a growl. "Since when did 'following the law' bring peace? That's fairy-tale nonsense. Try cuffing me again—I dare you."
"Huh—?"
Gordon barely processed the words before instinct kicked in. He whipped out his cuffs and snapped them around Downton's wrists in one smooth motion.
But before he could secure him, Downton wrenched free, raised his cuffed hands high—and spun toward the line of officers across the street like a performer taking a bow.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" he announced, voice ringing off the brick walls. "You're about to witness real magic!"
He winked.
"Don't blink."
And just like that—hands still locked in steel—he vanished. Not a sound. Not a ripple. Gone.
Watching the lingering flame left behind by Downton, Bartel—standing in the distance—nodded knowingly, started his car, and sped off, following the locator's signal.
On the street, the officers exchanged uneasy glances before crowding around Gordon.
Gordon's face was grim. He'd just witnessed Downton vanish again—effortlessly, impossibly—as if the laws of reality bent to his will.
How was he supposed to deal with a criminal like that?
Just thinking about Downton's near-invulnerability and his uncanny ability to disappear at will sent a chill down Gordon's spine. And then there was Zach's warning: Downton wasn't just powerful—he could grow stronger without limit.
Damn it. Why did a monster like this show up in Gotham?
These truly were troubled times.
As Gordon wrestled with despair, a murmur rose among the officers.
"Dom's untouchable," one muttered. "We can't do a damn thing."
"Gotham's about to change," another said. "Falcone's powerful, sure—but he's still just a man. And no man stands a chance against someone like Dom."
"That's right," a third added. "If I had half his power, I wouldn't just rule Gotham—I'd rewrite the whole damn country."
The last comment came from Officer Rachel. Her bluntness drew stunned silence—followed by nervous chuckles.
A few feet away, a Black officer rolled his eyes. "Rachel, you say that like you've never seen loyalty," he said wryly.
His partner, a white detective, smirked. "Or stamina."
They shared a look, then a quiet laugh—brief camaraderie in a city that offered little of it.
Gordon exhaled slowly, watching them.
Foolish, he thought. Absolutely foolish.
He'd actually believed this fractured, weary force—half of them compromised, the other half barely holding on—could take down something far worse than any criminal Gotham had ever known.
He was the only honest cop left in the GCPD. Over twenty years on the force, and every step forward had been a Bartel. Maroni. Fish Mooney. Oswald Cobblepot. Each name still echoed in Gotham's neon-lit alleys—each one his enemy once, and some still were.
And it wasn't just the Italians. The Irish had Sean Riley. The Japanese, Akahara. The Brits, Moxon. Ukrainians followed Alexandra. Romanians bowed to Dragos.
Gotham—America's great port—had always been a melting pot of power, corruption, and blood.
For years, Gordon had taken grim comfort in one fact: despite Chinatown's presence, no major Asian syndicate had ever taken root in Gotham. Their bosses preferred the shadows of New York or L.A., laundering money, building empires under the guise of legitimacy.
But now…
Gordon looked up at Gotham's ever-clouded sky.
When they do move… they don't just knock on the door. They drop a bomb.
No Asian bosses before.
Now? They'd thrown a living legend—maybe a living god—right into Gotham's lap.
He rubbed his temples, voice barely a whisper:
"Where the hell did Downton come from? No tax records. No Social Security number. Nothing in any database across the U.S."
He might as well have fallen from the sky.