About fifteen minutes later, the taxi pulled discreetly to the curb.
It idled less than half a block from the bus station. The distant staccato of gunfire and the deeper thump of heavy weaponry shook the street—even the elevated light rail overhead seemed to tremble in response.
Downton stepped out of the car without a word, his expression unreadable. The taxi driver watched him go, idly rolling a .357 Magnum round between his fingers.
"Hey, buddy," the driver called after him. "Good luck—you've earned it."
Downton didn't turn. "I don't need luck."
He drew a pistol from his waistband and strode into the chaos, moving against the tide of panicked civilians fleeing the gunfire.
Blood spattered his coat, and fresh bullet holes marred the fabric. Pedestrians who'd been watching the skirmish from a safe distance scattered at the sight of him. A few blocks down, GCPD officers in tactical gear spotted him and raised their weapons.
"GCPD!" one shouted. "Identify yourself! You with Maroni or Zsasz?"
Downton smirked and gave the muzzle of his pistol a lazy flick. "Tell your bosses I work for Falcone."
The officers exchanged uncertain glances. Falcone was still a name that carried weight—even now, in the shifting underworld of Gotham.
One lowered his rifle slightly. "Falcone doesn't use Asians."
"Maybe he's branching out," another muttered. "Or maybe it's a setup."
"We're paid to block Maroni's boys and Zsasz's freaks—not shoot up Falcone's new hires," the first officer said. "Let him pass. If he's lying, he won't make it fifty feet."
They parted just enough to let him through.
As Downton advanced, the gunfire grew louder—closer. Smoke curled through shattered storefronts, and the air tasted of cordite and burnt rubber. He swallowed hard, the weight of the Desert Eagle in his hand a grim comfort.
He spotted two armed men crouched behind a flipped delivery van, firing blindly down the street. Russians—Zsasz's usual muscle, judging by their tattoos and crude vests.
One of them saw him and barked, "Who the hell are you?"
"Our boss doesn't hire slant-eyes!" the other snarled, swinging his rifle around.
Downton didn't wait.
Bang!
The Desert Eagle roared. The man's chest exploded—not just blood, but bone and tissue—splattering his partner in gore. The sheer stopping power of the round sent the body crashing backward.
The second thug screamed, blinded by viscera, and emptied his magazine wildly in Downton's direction.
Rat-tat-tat-tat!
A round clipped Downton's side—just below the ribs. He grunted, staggering but staying upright. The impact burned, then numbed. Breathing hurt. His right hand throbbed from the Eagle's recoil, but his legs still worked.
He lunged forward, seized the surviving thug by the collar, and jammed the smoking barrel against his temple.
Bang.
Warmth sprayed across his face—blood, brain matter, something unnameable. He wiped his cheek with his sleeve and spat, then coughed, tasting copper.
Down the street, more of Zsasz's men spotted him.
"Falcone's hit squad!" one yelled. "They're flanking us!"
"They took out Ulychenko!"
"The cops just let him through—Falcone owns them!"
Four armed thugs charged, screaming curses in Russian.
Downton raised his pistol and dropped the lead man with a single shot to the forehead. Before he could reset, gunfire ripped through his chest and thigh. The impact hurled him backward onto the asphalt.
He lay still, playing dead. Adrenaline masked the worst of the pain, but his vision blurred, and his grip on the Desert Eagle weakened. He knew better than to waste ammo now—his aim was shot, his breath shallow.
Downton lay motionless in a spreading pool of blood. One of the gang members nudged him with his boot, then slammed a hard kick into his ribs—more out of spite than necessity.
"Damn it," the thug spat, glaring at the unconscious man. "Where the hell did this Asian guy even come from?"
He raised his pistol and fired once more—point-blank—into Downton's skull.
Bang!
Blood and bone sprayed across the pavement.
But then—
"Holy crap!"
"What the hell?!"
"He's— he's burning!"
"He just turned to ash!"
"Gone! He's gone!"
The gang members stumbled back, wide-eyed, as Downton's mangled body erupted into sudden, silent flame. Within seconds, nothing remained but drifting soot and the sharp scent of ozone dissolving into the Gotham night.
On the rooftop of a derelict building three blocks away, a disheveled figure crouched in the shadows, binoculars pressed to his eyes. The homeless man stiffened.
Then, with practiced calm, he raised a compact digital camera and snapped two quick shots of the empty alley where Downton had vanished.
"Alfred," he murmured into a hidden comm, voice rough but unmistakably Bruce Wayne's, "I've only been gone seven years… and now even the dead in Gotham don't stay dead?"
There was a pause. On the other end, the faint clink of fine china echoed through the line.
"Sir," Alfred replied, ever composed, "the dead in Gotham have never stayed still. But I'd very much like to know what you just witnessed."
"Nothing definitive," Bruce said, already scanning the surrounding alleys. "I took photos. I'll bring them back to the Cave."
He lowered the binoculars, jaw tight. Despite having just returned to the city, the old fury still burned—hotter, sharper than ever. He couldn't go home. Not yet. Not while Gotham bled in silence.
For the past week, he'd walked its streets disguised as one of its countless forgotten souls. And tonight's gang war? He wouldn't have missed it for the world.
Meanwhile, behind the Gotham Natural History Museum in Burnley, ragged breaths tore through the darkness.
"Ugh… damn it," Downton groaned, his clothes torn, his skin streaked with grime and fresh blood. He ejected the half-empty magazine from his pistol, slammed in a fresh one, and shoved the weapon into his waistband.
He took a steadying breath, then jogged toward the street.
"Taxi!" he called, voice hoarse but steady.
Moments later, he was back at the intersection where the police had first encountered him—before the ambush, before the bullets, before the fire.
The officers were still there, clustered near their cruisers, voices low.
"I swear that Asian guy was Falcone's new enforcer," one cop muttered.
"Killed clean, took out three before they dropped him," another added.
"Hell, I've been on the force twenty years and haven't put down half that many," a third said quietly. "At least not without orders."
Then—silence.
One of them froze, eyes locked down the street.
"…What the fuck am I seeing?"
The others turned.
And saw him.
Downton—alive, walking, pistol in hand—approached like a man risen from a nightmare.
"Holy shit," someone whispered.
"Groundhog Day or a ghost?"
"That's impossible…"
Downton didn't stop. He raised his weapon just enough to clear their path. "Move."
The officers—stunned, superstitious, maybe just plain scared—parted without another word.
High above, Bruce's breath caught.
"Sir?" Alfred's voice was alert now. "You sound… unsettled."
Bruce didn't answer right away. He raised his camera, zoomed in, and captured Downton's face in crisp detail—alive, alert, impossible.
Then, quietly, with something like awe beneath the gruffness:
"You're right, Alfred. The dead in Gotham never stay still."
But this… this is something else entirely.