Blood dripped from the fatal wound of the corpse sprawled on the ground, washing away the dust and pooling into a thick, crimson mud. The air reeked of decay, the stench clinging to Martin's senses, mirroring his disgust.
At Shiva's reminder, a name immediately surfaced in Martin's mind—the League of Assassin.
Shiva was a martial artist, unaffiliated with any organization, and had only a handful of followers. The only large-scale group she had ever interacted with was the League of Assass, one of DC's most formidable talent pools.
According to Gotham News, the assassin league collapsed after the infamous Arkham chaos years ago, when its leader, Ra's al Ghul, perished in the fire. Since then, the once-feared organization had gone silent.
Had Ra been resurrected once again? Or had an even deadlier force unified the remnants of the Assassin Leauge - maybe his daughter.... nah she mid as fuck?
Martin wasn't sure which possibility was worse.
But one thing was certain—if Penguin and the Assassin League had truly joined forces, Gotham's days were numbered.
"I'm done if I take them on alone."
Martin exhaled, mentally preparing to inform Gordon and Batman of what he had uncovered. Facing both the Penguin and the Assassin League without superpowers was a guaranteed death sentence. Reinforcements were a must.
He pulled out his tablet, swiping his fingers across the screen, ready to send an encrypted message. But before he could finish, an eerie sensation—a sharpened instinct—flared in his mind. A silent warning.
Danger.
In an instant, Martin ducked and rolled behind a concrete wall. Bullets whizzed past, embedding themselves in the spot where he had stood just moments ago.
"A sniper? No—automatic fire. Someone skilled."
Pressing his back against the rough cement, Martin scanned his surroundings, searching for an escape route.
"Come out!"
A cold, mechanical voice echoed through the decrepit structure.
Tilting his head slightly, Martin spotted the assailant—the black-armored brute who had tried to stop Shiva that morning. The man stood at the top of the stairs, an automatic rifle locked in his grip, his posture rigid like a well-trained machine.
Rat-a-tat-tat!
The instant the gunman caught sight of Martin, he opened fire. Bullets rained down, chipping away at the concrete wall and showering Martin with debris.
"Great, a relentless killing machine."
Dodging the barrage, Martin muttered under his breath. His instincts screamed at him—this wasn't a fight he could win. Not head-on.
Footsteps approached. Fast. Precise. No wasted movement.
Martin's eyes locked onto a scaffolding structure outside the building. Without hesitation, he lunged for it.
"Think you can run?"
The armored man tracked Martin's movement, his rifle following suit. Bullets ripped through the air, aimed at Martin's intended escape route.
He had already mapped out the entire area, anticipating Martin's moves. In his mind, Martin was already cornered.
But Martin had read him too.
Exploiting the man's overconfidence, Martin skidded to a sudden stop mid-run, twisting his body and kicking up a thick cloud of dust. The distraction was enough—just as the armored brute's vision blurred, Martin launched himself forward like a coiled spring.
Like a toad striking its prey, he closed the distance in an instant, wrapping his arms around the brute's waist. With a sharp pivot, Martin twisted his body, using the enemy's weight against him.
The 200-pound mass of muscle and armor was hurled off balance.
Momentum took over.
The brute scrambled to regain control, stabbing his spiked gloves into the floor to slow his descent, but the weight of his own armor worked against him. He skidded dangerously close to the building's edge, barely managing to latch onto a rusted balcony railing.
Hanging there, he caught a glimpse of something distant—a massive black shape silhouetted against the sky.
"Damn it!" he cursed, seething as Martin disappeared.
Martin, meanwhile, sprinted away from the chaos, heading toward a dilapidated building from the last century.
The brute wasn't far behind. He kicked open the door, storming inside—only to be greeted by the indifferent gazes of Gotham's homeless, their frail bodies sprawled across cardboard beds.
The room stank of abandonment and quiet suffering. These people had long since lost their will to react. Even as the armored man stormed in, their expressions barely changed.
His helmet's scanner swept the area, but Martin was gone.
The stairs were blocked with nailed wooden planks. The elevator shafts were sealed. The life signals of the homeless blended into a chaotic mess, making tracking impossible.
Frustration mounted.
"Cunning little bastard."
For the first time, he felt respect for his target. Martin had outmaneuvered him.
His grip tightened on his weapon. A fleeting temptation—should he fire into the crowd and flush him out?
He hesitated. Then, without another word, he turned and left.
Martin, meanwhile, had already escaped through a hidden passage, scaling the building until he reached the rooftop. A tall antenna loomed over him—once used for radio broadcasts, now repurposed by Gotham's underground as a covert communication hub.
If the criminals could use it, so could Batman.
Picking the lock with ease, Martin pried open the repeater's casing and pulled out his tablet. As his fingers danced across the screen, numbers and symbols flickered, decrypting layers of security.
Even the most complex digital locks eventually yielded to Batman's tech.
"Batman outdid himself with this one."
With a final keystroke, an encrypted file uploaded into the void.
His mission complete, Martin restored the repeater, slipped away, and headed to a nearby clothing store.
The store owner barely blinked at the bloodstains covering him. Instead, they casually pulled a dark-colored outfit from the rack.
"This one hides blood well."
Martin scowled, but the owner merely shrugged. "Been here for decades. Gotham never stops bleeding. Either you get used to customers like you, or you don't survive."
Martin said nothing. He changed, paid, and left.
Just as he stepped outside, his phone rang. Candy, his secretary.
"Mr. Martin, Mr. Cobblepot sincerely invites you to a meeting at the Iceberg Lounge at five this evening. Please be sure to attend."
"Got it."
He hung up, gazing at Gotham's murky sky. The city felt like a noose tightening around his throat.
And he had the sinking feeling it was about to pull even tighter.