"I knew it. I knew it."
The big man leaned forward, cigar clenched between teeth.
"They think because the Don's old, they can walk in and piss on his doorstep?"
He took a drag. Exhaled smoke like a dragon with a grudge.
"They're not ambitious. They're suicidal."
East Side bar. Dim lights. Sticky floors.
Bearded. Rugged Built. Second-in-command of the Coca Crew.
A watered-down whiskey sat untouched beside him.
"They weren't here," he said. "They don't get it."
He tapped the bar. Hard.
"The Don doesn't want loyalty. He wants obedience.
He's telling us: if you want a cut, you follow orders."
He looked around.
"That's how he built the Twelve Families. Same play. Different year. These kids? They'll never understand."
Across from him, a thinner man—pale, twitchy—inhaled from a cigarette.
Bar manager. One of Elizabeth Street's Four Bosses.
"Heard the stories," he said. "Our guy was the first head of the street. Worked under the Don himself."
"These Metropolis clowns think silence means fear?"
He snorted. "They hit one of his men and expect him to blink? Naïve. The Don doesn't throw punches."
"No," the bearded man said. "He has other ways to break fingers."
"He's saying it loud," the thin man muttered. "As long as he's breathing, he owns this city."
"And this 'chief physician injured' bullshit?"
Laughter cracked through the room.
"Only rookies believe that. Chief physician? What's he treating? That punk rooster-headed junkie down the block who screams at eggs?"
The bartender wiped a glass. "Hell, I could be chief physician. All it takes is counting money and signing fake certificates. No real patients in Arkham anyway."
"Exactly," the bearded man said. "It's a message.
Falcone shut it down. No hospital. No profit.
If you want back in, you work for it."
He sipped. Grimaced.
"Same play from twenty years ago. Two poppy farms. He dangled them in front of the mid-tier crews. Said, 'Go deal with Anthony—the French prick.' Whoever brought back his head would control both farms."
A beat.
"Next morning, Anthony's face was on a plate. Dessert course."
"They won't last," the thin man said, coldly.
"Those Metropolis fairies should've stayed in their bubble baths. This city eats tourists."
"Going back?" The bearded man smirked. "They won't get the chance. They're already dead. Just haven't stopped wriggling yet."
—
Meanwhile, in Gotham Central Hospital, Schiller hung up the phone.
"Yes, thank you. I'm fine. Just need rest. Truly unexpected…"
Before he could set the receiver down, another nurse walked in—arms full of flowers.
"From the Lauren family," she said.
"Put them there. And take those others away. They're wilting."
She cleared space beside the bed.
It was already cluttered. Bouquets. Gift baskets. Cigars in velvet boxes. A bottle of 1947 Château Lafite stood half-buried under a card from the Twins.
Even the staff whispered:
"If the Don got shot, would it be this bad?"
Schiller wasn't complaining.
This was paid leave.
In two days, he'd collected enough premium cigars to open a members-only lounge.
Someone had leaked his preference. Now his manor smelled like Havana after a hurricane.
The plan? Born from a morning thought:
What if I didn't fight them… but let everyone else do it for me?
He didn't need a warning.
The crew from Metropolis was here for him.
Deathstroke had come before—got paid, then talked down.
His employer wouldn't stop.
After that failure? No solo act.
Now it was a team job.
Normal response? Hide. Hire guards. Wait.
Call the cops?
That was the joke Gotham told itself every Tuesday.
But Schiller wasn't playing defense.
If they hired Deathstroke, these new guys weren't amateurs.
Already killed Falcone's men.
So why run?
Instead, after a quiet word to Falcone, Schiller got "injured."
Badly.
Ask how?
"Long recovery."
Ask again?
"Mood's shot. Brain's foggy."
He was hurt.
Arkham had no chief physician.
Arkham closed.
And suddenly, every boss in Gotham felt poor.
First movers were raking in cash.
Latecomers had invested time, bribes, muscle—building pipelines into the system.
Harvest was days away.
Then—shut down.
No income.
No future cuts.
All because some outsider made the Don look weak?
Unacceptable.
Day one of closure, phones melted.
Bruce got calls, too.
While Schiller was "recovering," Bruce ran Arkham.
Didn't know the plan?
Took him three seconds to figure it out.
So the world's richest man went full himbo mode.
Every capo calling?
Same answer:
"I don't know. I wasn't paying attention. Ask Evans."
Translation:
I'm rich, lazy, and legally untouchable.
Evans, meanwhile, played his role perfectly.
Son of the Don.
Same side.
"Sorry," he said. "Dad's call. Not mine."
Message received.
This wasn't an accident.
It was a test.
The Don had been disrespected.
So everyone would pay.
Want back in?
Prove loyalty.
He points—you shoot.
The bosses weighed it.
Then realized:
These "guests from Metropolis"?
Not guests.
Trash.
Find them.
Kill them.
Bring proof.
Bodies preferred.
Pieces accepted.
To keep the money flowing, they tore the city apart.
Gotham's black market runs on greed, but when profits are threatened, it runs on blood.
Every crew with a stake joined the hunt.
The Metropolis crew had already found Schiller.
Please set up a kill box near his manor.
Waiting for perfect conditions.
Then—boom—Schiller "collapses."
What?
He was attacked by us?
We haven't even tried yet!
They felt like they'd been framed by an Ouija board.
We didn't do anything!
He fell over by himself!
How is this our fault?!
Too late.
Evidence they did it? Easy to fake.
Evidence they didn't?
Victims in the hospital.
The doctor says it was you.
Don says it was you.
Case closed.
They'd prepped a bomb site.
Had a safe house nearby.
Now every gang in Gotham was hunting them.
Their hideout was burned in a rocket strike.
They ran.
Their first move had relied on surprise.
But in the past few days, they'd watched Gotham gangs wage war like small armies:
Gun trucks. RPGs. Someone even rolled out rocket artillery.
Who brings artillery to a knife fight?
Gotham does.
And now it was pointed at them.
Now they were the prey.
The gangs didn't want prisoners.
They wanted corpses.
When they found a hideout, they didn't raid it—
They erased it.
Gotham's black hearts don't just hate outsiders.
They enjoy exterminating them.
Each move cost them.
Supplies lost.
Men left behind to cover retreats.
After three jumps, twelve men became five.
They wanted to run.
But Gotham wouldn't let them.
Rumor spread:
Whoever delivered the first body part got the top share of Arkham's profits.
Suddenly, every crew wanted in.
Not for justice.
For commission.
The hunt went rabid.
FOOTNOTE
Note: Gotham Central Hospital has updated its visitor policy: "Flowers must be inspected for hidden weapons. Cigar boxes will be X-rayed. Also, please refrain from dramatically collapsing in the lobby unless you have prior authorization. Last week, three unrelated heart attacks were ignored because staff assumed they were PR stunts."