Twelve minutes later, just outside the Diamond District's City Square, Batel wrestled his sedan to a stop behind a wall of gawking civilians. Horns blared; tires screeched. He didn't care. His boss was in the middle of it again.
He slumped against the steering wheel for a heartbeat, then grabbed his pistol and shoved the door open. The crowd barely parted—too busy filming on their phones to notice the danger rolling in.
"Unbelievable," Batel muttered under his breath, slipping back into the cadence of his old Falcone days. "Just like Gordon said—you can't go five minutes without lighting Gotham on fire."
He fired three shots into the air.
The effect was immediate. Screams tore through the plaza as people dropped to their knees, hands clamped over their heads. Batel stepped forward, voice booming with borrowed authority—
"Falcone family business! Civilians, clear the—"
He cut himself off mid-sentence.
Right. Not Falcone anymore.
His chest tightened. What the hell was he supposed to say now? His boss didn't even have a proper name for their operation—just cryptic orders, midnight raids, and a smirk that promised chaos.
Across the square, Downton—dressed in a tailored coat stained with someone else's coffee—had one hand twisted in the collar of a man clutching a limited-edition Louis Vuitton tote. With practiced ease, he plucked the man's wallet free and flipped it open.
Then he heard the gunfire.
Downton's head snapped up. His eyes scanned the crowd until they locked onto Batel. A slow, predatory grin stretched across his face.
"Well, well," Downton called out, voice smooth as shattered glass. "If it isn't—Batel? Still clinging to that dead name like it'll save you?"
Batel flinched. His gun trembled. "I—I misspoke! Didn't mean it! Honest mistake—"
"Save it," Downton snapped, tossing the empty wallet aside. He shoved the now-pale civilian away and strode forward, cash already tucked into his inner pocket. Two grand from a guy in designer loafers—Gotham never failed to reward the observant.
He raised his own pistol high.
"The Dead Souls are on duty!" he announced, voice ringing with theatrical menace. "All non-essentials—move!"
Three more shots cracked the air. The crowd scattered like frightened pigeons.
In three strides, Downton was at Batel's side. He didn't bother with pleasantries—just kicked Batel's shin hard enough to make him yelp.
"They call us Gotham's Dead Souls," Downton said, holstering his weapon with a flourish. "And I love it. Can't die if I tried—and our boss? He's not going anywhere. So from now on? That's who we are."
He jerked his chin toward Batel's car. "Now take me somewhere I can change. Got a date with a senator's daughter tonight. Can't meet her smelling like cheap scotch and cheaper blood."
Batel nodded frantically. "Y-yes, boss! Right away!"
He scrambled to open the passenger door. Downton stepped toward it—
—when a voice cut through the thinning crowd.
"That yellow-skinned rat! Falcone's gone soft if he lets scum like you strut through his city!"
Downton froze. One foot still on the pavement, one hovering over the car's threshold.
His head turned slowly.
The voice had come from a small family near the edge of the square—a man in a rumpled blazer, his wife clutching a wide-eyed little girl no older than six.
The woman shrank back, pulling her daughter close. The husband, face flushed with bravado and fear, stood his ground.
Downton's smile didn't waver. But his eyes went cold.
He stepped fully out of the car.
"Police officer, are you?" Downton mused, closing the distance with lazy, measured steps. "How… civic-minded."
The man puffed his chest. "Yeah! And I've never heard of any 'Dead Souls'! You think you can just threaten people in broad daylight? Falcone won't stand for this!"
Downton stopped inches away. He placed a hand on the man's shoulder—almost friendly.
Then, softly: "Tell me… are police officers bulletproof?"
Saying this, Downton gave the man's shoulder a light, almost paternal pat—then stepped smoothly in front of his wife and child, reaching toward the little girl.
The man who'd insulted him stiffened. His family—his weakness—was in Downton's path. He took a half-step forward, fists clenched.
But then he saw Bartel.
Fifty yards away, perched on a fire escape, the enforcer had his rifle leveled, barrel glinting under Gotham's sickly streetlights. No hesitation. No warning. Just cold, lethal focus.
The man froze.
And so he watched—helpless—as Downton ruffled his daughter's hair with surprising gentleness.
"You've had chances," Downton murmured, shaking his head. "Too many, honestly. And still… nothing."
He let his hand rest on the girl's small back. "How old are you, sweetheart?"
"She's five," the mother blurted, voice trembling. "Please… please don't—"
"Don't what?" Downton cut in, tone almost wounded. He placed a steadying hand on her shoulder—not her backside. "You think I'd hurt a child? Please. If I were the kind of man who laid hands on innocents, I wouldn't last a week in this city… let alone inherit it."
He studied her face—pale, tear-streaked, but proud beneath the fear. "You're not like the others," he said softly. "No dowry-chaser. No social climber. Just… unlucky in love."
A humorless smile. "Tell me—what did you see in him? His charm? His backbone? Because from here, all I see is a mouth that flaps and a spine made of wet paper."
He leaned in slightly. "And that little girl? She's got your eyes. Not his."
The woman gasped, then collapsed into sobs.
Suddenly, the child wriggled free and threw her arms around Downton's waist.
"Handsome Uncle!" she chirped, beaming.
Downton blinked—then chuckled, crouching to her level. He offered his forehead like a nobleman accepting a kiss. She planted one loud, sticky smooch right between his brows.
"Mommy! He's even prettier than that movie star you like!"
Downton's grin turned genuine—briefly. "Well," he said, standing, "if she vouches for me, maybe I'll go easy on your dad."
He gently steered the mother toward the nearby park. "Take her somewhere quiet. Let her play. This"—he glanced back at her husband—"won't take long."
The woman hesitated.
"Go," Downton said, voice dropping like a guillotine.
She fled, clutching her daughter close. The girl's cheerful "Bye, Handsome Uncle!" echoed as they disappeared into the trees.
Downton turned.
The man was still standing—barely.
Downton didn't raise his voice. He simply drew his Desert Eagle and pressed it to the man's temple.
"Kneel."
Thud.
The man hit the pavement like a sack of bricks.
"Good," Downton said. "Now you'll remember how to speak to your betters."
He didn't wait for a reply. He never needed one.
From his coat, he produced a sawed-off shotgun—more club than firearm—and swung it down hard across the man's shins.
Crack.
Again.
Crack.
And again—until bone gave way to pulp, and the street ran red.
When he finally stepped back, blood speckled his face like war paint. Bartel wordlessly handed him a handkerchief.
"Think he'll live?" Downton asked, wiping his cheek.
"Barely," Bartel replied. "But he'll never walk. And after tonight? His wife won't look at him the same."
Downton snorted. "He lost two legs. I lost an afternoon of peace. Feels disproportionate."
He dragged the bloodied cloth through his hair, slicking it back with grim efficiency. Then tossed it aside.
Without another word, he strode through the parting crowd—every face averted, every breath held—and slid into the back of his idling sedan.
Bartel climbed in behind the wheel. "Where to, boss?"
"Metropolis," Downton said, pulling out a burner phone. "Drive. I'll call ahead—find out where our mutual friends are waiting."