The night hung low like thick ink, shrouding the city under a veil of darkness. Towering skyscrapers pierced the gloom, their cold steel and glass reflecting the neon lights that flickered like distant stars. Below, the traffic surged relentlessly—horns blaring, engines humming, and lights tracing chaotic paths through the night. The city pulsed with life, but in its veins flowed not just ambition and industry—but also corruption, decay, and madness.
Occasionally, the echo of a distant siren would wail through the air, a piercing cry cutting through the city's pulse like a blade. It was a city of prosperity on the surface, but if you listened closely—truly listened—you'd hear the cry of desperation humming beneath the surface.
At the highest point in the city, far above the lights and noise, stood Wayne Tower—its spire piercing into the storm-heavy sky like a spear. Atop this behemoth structure, perched on the very tip of the lightning rod that clawed into the clouds, stood a figure.
With the help of night-vision binoculars, someone might've seen him: a solitary humanoid silhouette glowing with a brilliant heat signature.
He was young. Perhaps too young.
Rain lashed his body, rolling down his long, black hair and streaming across his sharply defined features. His nose was prominent, his azure eyes cold—like a frozen ocean—and his thin, pale lips pressed together in an emotionless line. Handsome, yet unapproachable. He looked about eighteen, maybe nineteen, but the heavy, weary maturity in his gaze betrayed that appearance.
Then, Crack!
A blinding bolt of lightning split the sky and struck the lightning rod with a deafening roar. It crawled over his body, snakes of blue-white electricity dancing across his limbs and igniting a halo of lightning around him. For a moment, it looked as if the storm had crowned him its king.
But the young man remained still. Unflinching. Unafraid.
He stared into the distance, over the vast expanse of the city. His gaze seemed to pierce through shadows, through rain and night.
He saw homeless men huddling beneath a freeway overpass, warming their hands by a burning oil drum. He saw dock workers unloading bags of flour in the dead of night. He saw a desperate housewife—knife in hand—repeatedly stabbing her husband who had just returned from a long shift at work.
If one had to describe this city in one sentence, it would be this: A City of Sin. A City of Madness.
Boom!
Another bolt tore through the sky and struck again. For a fleeting second, the lightning illuminated the crimson "S" on the young man's chest.
It glowed like molten steel, burning through the rain and darkness.
Anyone familiar with DC lore would recognize the symbol. The emblem of the House of El. The universal crest of hope. More commonly—the mark of Superman.
But this wasn't Superman.
At least, not the one you know.
The young man standing atop Wayne Tower wasn't Clark Kent. He wasn't Kal-El. He was someone else entirely.
He was Jack.
He remembered. Vividly.
He remembered the life of an ordinary man—an all-too-human life.
A happy, if naive, childhood. A slow and uncertain transition into adulthood. The struggle of finding direction in life. He had married—not for love, but because the match was suitable. A child came along. And with it, the crushing responsibilities of work, bills, aging parents, and the quiet erosion of dreams.
He'd lived a life full of struggle and sacrifice, and eventually, as retirement approached, his body gave out—not in some glorious blaze, but quietly, pathetically, in front of a computer, staying up too late for the umpteenth time.
Jack was dead.
Or rather, the man he once was.
Now, he was here—in a different body, in a different world. In a different universe altogether.
He had transmigrated.
And like many transmigrators before him—those fictional ones from the comics and stories he used to read—he had arrived without attachments. His wife would receive compensation from the company. His son had graduated, and his girlfriend came from a well-off family. He left behind little to mourn.
Yes, he met all the requirements: no regrets, no ties, no turning back.
When he first arrived, Jack had panicked. There were gaps in his memory—no knowledge of how or why he was here, no recollection of this new body's original identity.
Just power.
Terrifying, exhilarating power.
He had quickly pieced things together. He was now a Kryptonian, or something very close to it. If he was truly part of the movie universe, then he was effectively unstoppable—a walking god.
That thought gave him comfort.
He watched the Bat-Signal projected into the cloudy sky. Gotham City. There could be no mistake.
The city of criminals, lunatics, and masked vigilantes.
His first impression of Gotham?
A dark pit crawling with broken people.
Still, Jack didn't dislike the city. He understood it. He had seen worse in his past life.
What should he do first?
He pondered for only a second before the answer came.
His legs bent slightly, muscles coiling, cape flapping in the wind. Then, with explosive force—
BOOM!
He launched into the sky.
A shockwave rippled from the rooftop, scattering water and dust. Like a red thunderbolt, he shot through the storm, soaring through the clouds like a missile.
The flight was instinctive. His body knew what to do even if his mind hesitated. He maneuvered like a predator in the sky, cutting through the air with perfect control. Using his hips to generate force, adjusting direction with subtle shifts of his arms and shoulders—like a jet with no need for engines.
In moments, he was above the GCPD rooftop, where the Bat-Signal glowed like a summoning circle.
And then, he dropped like a meteor.
Crash!
Concrete shattered, fragments exploded outward, and a cloud of dust surged.
Police Commissioner James Gordon jumped back in alarm. His coffee cup flew from his hand, splashing hot liquid onto the hem of his trench coat.
A few officers reached for their sidearms out of reflex, hands trembling as they aimed at the figure emerging from the dust.
"Hold your fire!" Gordon barked, eyes narrowing as the dust cleared.
What stood before them was a towering, crimson-caped figure—tall, commanding, and eerily silent.
Gordon's heart sank. Something about this young man felt… wrong. Not villainous, necessarily, but not heroic either. Cold. Distant.
Tension hung thick in the air.
Before Gordon could speak, the young man's voice broke the silence.
"Have you seen me before?" he asked, tone flat but piercing.
Gordon blinked. "What do you mean?"
"Anyone like me?" Jack clarified, stepping forward.
Gordon scanned him again, then shook his head slowly. "No. I haven't seen anyone like you."
No Superman yet.
Interesting.
Jack filed that information away. If the world hadn't yet met Superman, then the balance of power hadn't shifted. There were no league members, no overwhelming threats—yet.
That gave him time. And options.
Gordon, on edge, asked carefully, "What's your purpose?"
Jack looked at him calmly. "Just trying to understand some things. No need to be nervous."
He turned his head, eyes narrowing.
"To be honest," Jack said with a cold smile, "I'm more interested in him."
He pointed toward a shadowed corner of the rooftop.
"Batman."
"What?" Gordon turned sharply.
From the gloom emerged pointed bat ears. A towering, dark silhouette stepped forward, cloak billowing, boots silent.
Batman.
The shadow stretched under the moonlight as he approached. His eyes locked onto Jack, expression unreadable.
He had meant to stay hidden longer, watching, analyzing—but the newcomer had sensed him the moment he landed.
This one's dangerous.
Batman stepped forward.
"Who are you?" he asked in a gravelly whisper.
Jack tilted his head. "Who are you?"
They stood face to face—Jack towering a head taller. He leaned in and muttered, voice low, just for Batman to hear:
"Are you the Knight of Darkness? The Demon of Vengeance? Or just a rich orphan named Bruce Wayne who watched his parents die in an alley?"
Batman froze.
Jack smiled.
"Kids, I'm back."
End of Chapter 1.