About fifteen minutes later, the taxi came to a quiet stop at the curb.
They were less than half a block from the central bus depot. Distant gunfire cracked through the air, and the pulsing thuds of artillery had the elevated light rail above them groaning in protest.
Derek stepped out of the cab, calm as ever. The driver, who'd been casually toying with Magnum rounds between his fingers, leaned out the window and gave a half-hearted wave.
"Good luck out there, pal. Thanks for the tip."
Derek didn't look back. "Keep your luck. I'm not in the business of taking charity from loaded dice."
He tugged a pistol from beneath his coat and started toward the sound of gunfire, head high, pushing through the tide of fleeing civilians like a knife through butter.
The crowd gave him a wide berth. The blood stains and bullet holes in his clothes screamed trouble. Most ducked behind cars or slipped into doorways. But not the cops. Gotham's finest weren't running—they were walking straight at him.
"GCPD!" one of them barked from across the street. "Who're you with—Sabatini? Dimitrov? Speak up!"
Derek raised his pistol, let it hang loose at his side, and flashed a grin.
"Sabatini's crew. You really wanna stand in my way?"
He didn't wait for an answer. He marched forward, brushing past their half-assed barricade like it was a suggestion, not a rule.
The officers watched him go, exchanging uncertain glances.
"Does Sabatini even have Asian guys in his crew?" one muttered.
"No clue. Falcone's people are mostly Italian. Isn't Sabatini under him?"
"Dimitrov's lot are the real Russians. Falcone's got everyone. He's Gotham's king. Wouldn't be surprised if he's got Martians on the payroll."
"You sure?"
"We're on Falcone's dinner list, aren't we? If they're Russians, we shoot. Asians? Should be fine."
"Well, I hope that guy's really one of his. Otherwise, for the kind of bribes we're getting, we oughta be doing more than sweeping floors."
They fell back into their lazy rhythm, letting Derek vanish into the smoke.
The closer he got to the battle, the more the city came alive—muzzle flashes, choking smoke, the ground shaking from the occasional boom. He swallowed hard.
The weight of the Desert Eagle on his hip helped calm what nerves he had left. With bullets whizzing past like angry hornets, he crept toward two thugs crouched behind a pile of debris.
One of them, a stocky Russian with a shaved head, was popping off wild shots from behind cover. He paused when he saw Derek approaching.
"Who the hell're you supposed to be?" he barked. "The boss doesn't have any Asians!"
Too late.
Derek fired.
BOOM.
The thug's chest exploded in a mist of blood and bone.
The Desert Eagle was never meant for people. It's a gun made to stop bears—and this guy wasn't even half as tough.
The second thug was sprayed with his buddy's guts. He screamed, raised his weapon, and let loose in blind panic.
Bang-bang-bang-bang!
The rounds weren't aimed well, but one hit home. Derek staggered. His chest felt like it'd been kicked in by a horse. Breathing hurt. He didn't know if it was a lung shot, but it sure felt like it.
His hand trembled from the Eagle's brutal recoil, but he pushed forward.
Two steps. Then he pressed the muzzle to the screaming thug's forehead and—
BOOM.
Silence, except for the ringing in his ears. His face was slick with something—blood, maybe worse. He wiped it off with his sleeve, gagged, and spat twice. Blood foam.
"Jesus," he muttered.
From farther down the block, more Russians saw him.
"Shit! We've got Falcone's men behind us!"
"They just smoked Yuri!"
"What the hell are the cops doing?!"
"They're bought! Falcone's dogs walked right through!"
Four or five of them broke from cover and charged. Derek raised the Eagle, shot one through the throat. The others opened fire. Bullets tore into him—chest, thigh. He dropped.
Gotham's gangsters weren't sloppy like the ones back in Lagos or Johannesburg. These guys could shoot. Even Batman took hits here.
Flat on the pavement, Derek fought to stay conscious. His body screamed. The pain blurred everything. He didn't bother firing back—he couldn't even see straight.
One of the Russians kicked him in the ribs.
"Where the hell did this guy come from?" the man growled, raising his pistol.
Bang.
A headshot to finish the job.
But the moment the bullet hit—
He burned.
Flames erupted from Derek's broken body, consuming it like dry kindling. In seconds, there was nothing left but ash drifting on the wind.
From a rooftop several blocks away, a bearded vagrant watched through a pair of high-powered binoculars. He froze.
Then, with steady hands, he reached into his coat and pulled out a camera. Two rapid shots of the alleyway. He muttered into the hidden mic clipped to his collar.
"Alfred... been gone seven years and even the dead in Gotham are getting weird."
"Pardon?" came Alfred's voice, puzzled and polished, faint behind the static.
"Nothing. Took a photo. You'll see."
Bruce Wayne lowered the binoculars. He'd only just returned to the city, but the darkness in his chest never slept. He couldn't sit still. Couldn't wait.
He needed to see justice again. Even if it started with blood and fire.
Tonight, he walked the streets as a nobody, a drifter. The perfect shadow.
No way he was missing this gang war.
Meanwhile, behind the Gotham Museum of Natural History, tucked in a side alley...
"Ahh, son of a—this sucks," Derek wheezed.
He stumbled to his feet, shirt torn and stained. Still alive. Still bleeding.
He ejected the empty mag, reloaded, holstered his sidearm, and limped out to the road.
"Taxi!"
Within minutes, he was back where he'd started—at the police checkpoint.
The cops were still shooting the breeze.
"I figured that guy was some secret weapon of Falcone's."
"He died fast, at least. Took out three, though. Not bad."
"Kid had guts. Shame. If he'd lived, I'd've bought him a drink."
"I've been on the take for years. Only killed once. That guy beat my count in ten minutes."
Then someone gasped.
"Holy shit. Did you see that?!"
"What?"
They turned to follow the stare.
And froze.
"What the—?"
"Is that...?"
"It's him! It's that same Asian guy!"
"Didn't we just watch him die?!"
"Are we stuck in a time loop or something?!"
Derek marched toward them, pistol in hand. Calm as ever.
"Move," he said simply.
They parted like the Red Sea, stunned.
On the rooftop nearby, Bruce exhaled slowly.
"Alfred," he said into the mic, "you were right."
"Sir?"
"The dead in Gotham never rest."
He raised the camera and clicked the shutter.
A man come back from the grave.
This wasn't over.