Downton had no idea Bruce was watching him.
Or rather—he didn't care if he did.
He stepped over the police cordon without hesitation, boots crunching on broken glass, and marched straight to the spot where he'd just died.
The battlefield had thinned since last time. The Russian gangsters were scattered, their lines crumbling. The Italians—Falcone's men—were closing in for the kill.
Downton didn't care who won. He only cared that no one walked away with a gun still in their hand.
Bang.
He dropped the nearest Russian with a clean headshot, snatched the man's pistol, and kept moving—two guns now barking in rhythm as he carved a path through the chaos.
Across the street, Falcone's crew had just breached the Russian barricades. One of them—a wiry thug with a jagged scar across his cheek—spotted Downton and grinned, flashing yellowed teeth.
"Well done," the henchman called out, voice slick with false camaraderie. "You actually slipped behind the Dimitrovs' lines. After this, I'll make sure the boss gives you credit."
"Screw you," Downton said.
He turned his gun and fired.
Bang.
The henchman collapsed, eyes wide, mouth still half-open in surprise.
For a heartbeat, everyone froze.
Then Downton emptied both magazines into the first wave of Falcone's men storming the position—five bodies hit the ground before the echoes faded. Cleaner. Faster. Ruthless.
Last time, he'd barely survived the first volley. Now? He was honing his edge in real time.
The remaining gangsters—Russians and Italians alike—stared in stunned silence.
"Damn it—he's not one of us!" someone shouted.
"He's a madman!"
"Whose side is he on?"
"Kill him!"
"Friedley's dead!"
"To hell with him—he's already dead! No one walks away from that!"
In an instant, every gun in the street swung toward Downton.
Bullets tore through the air like hail.
Less than five seconds later, he fell—again. His body erupted in flames, a brief, flickering pyre in the cold Gotham rain, casting just enough heat to mock the city's indifference.
Then—inhale.
Heavy breathing. Rain pelting his face. Two pistols in his hands, cool and dry.
Since his first death that morning, Downton had gained a strange gift: whenever he died, he reappeared—whole, unharmed—at a random spot near where he'd fallen.
It was a second chance. A cruel, unpredictable one—but a chance nonetheless. And Downton wasn't the kind to complain about the fine print.
He scanned his surroundings. Rubble. Wet asphalt. The distant groan of the elevated train. Nearby, two gaunt figures huddled beneath the tracks, warming themselves over a trash-can fire.
Homeless. But alert.
The moment Downton moved toward them, they bolted.
He raised a pistol skyward.
Bang.
"Stop right there!"
They froze—mid-stride—then turned slowly, hands raised, eyes wide with the instinct of men who'd seen too much.
"I didn't see anything!" one stammered.
"Yeah, me neither!" the other added, backing away in tiny, trembling steps.
Downton didn't close the distance. "Where am I?"
The first man swallowed hard. "Narrows Island. The armpit of Gotham. You won't find taxis here—hell, if you can afford shoes, you're basically royalty. We're lucky to scavenge a half-eaten sandwich from a dumpster."
They exchanged a glance—then bolted in opposite directions.
Downton watched them go, lips tightening.
"Narrows Island," he muttered. "Figures. Arkham's probably a ten-minute walk from here."
He tucked his guns away and started down the cracked sidewalk, stepping onto the rain-slicked tram tracks. The Narrows lived up to its name: every storefront boarded, every window shattered, every soul wrapped in rags. His torn coat didn't stand out—not here. In the Narrows, decay wasn't a condition. It was the default.
After five hundred meters of silence—just rain and distant sirens—a car finally rumbled down the street.
Downton stepped into the road and raised his arms.
Tires screeched. The car skidded to a halt, driver's door flying open.
"You fucking blind, pal?!" the man snarled, already reaching into his jacket.
Downton had his pistol pressed to the driver's temple before the man's fingers grazed the grip.
"You want extra attention?" Downton growled. Then he swung his second gun toward the back seat. "Out. Now."
A figure in the rear—calm, composed—leaned forward slightly. "No problem. Don't shoot." A pause. A faint, almost amused exhale. "You look like you're in a hurry. I don't mind giving you a ride."
The man in the back seat opened the car door and offered Downton a thin, practiced smile.
Then he nodded to the driver—whose own service pistol was pressed hard against his throat.
"Anthony," the man said, voice calm, "put the gun down. We're not here to hurt anyone."
He turned to Downton. "This gentleman's in a hurry. Let's be… accommodating. Why don't we take him first?"
Without waiting for an answer, he gestured to the seat beside him. "Come on in."
Downton didn't hesitate. He stepped into the car, rainwater streaming from his coat onto the leather seat—and onto the man's trousers.
The man didn't flinch. Instead, he reached under the seat and handed Downton a dry towel.
"Gotham's rain soaks deeper than most," he said. "I've got spare clothes in the trunk if you need them. Anthony—stop sulking and drive."
"Yeah, yeah," Anthony muttered, slamming the door. He shot Downton a venomous glare as he slid behind the wheel. "In this hellhole, I swear—I should've just floored it. Compassion's a liability."
He spat out the window. "Where the hell you headed, anyway?"
"Downtown. Near the bus terminal."
Anthony snorted. "Downtown? You deaf or just suicidal? There's a war going on down there—Falcone's men versus the Russians. Whole blocks are burning."
Downton didn't answer. He simply pressed the pistol harder against the back of Anthony's skull.
Anthony stiffened, then exhaled sharply. "Fine. You're the boss today."
The engine rumbled to life, and the car pulled away from the curb. Rain drummed against the roof.
From the back, the calm man leaned slightly toward Downton. "You work for Falcone? Or are you with the Ivankovs? Either way—what were you doing out on Narrows Island? That's Arkham territory."
He reached into a small cooler between the seats, pulled out a flask, and unscrewed the cap. "Whiskey? Helps with the chill. Gotham's rain doesn't just freeze your bones—it gets inside your head."
Downton swatted the flask away with the barrel of his gun. The liquor splashed across the man's vest.
Then the muzzle pressed against his chest.
The man didn't flinch. He adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses with slow precision and offered a rueful smile. "Strong liquor stains worse than rainwater. That was my good suit."
"Shut up," Downton growled.
Bang.
The bullet tore through the man's vest—just grazing his ribs—and punched a neat hole in the door panel behind him.
He sucked in a sharp breath, eyes watering, but didn't cry out. "Point taken," he said, voice strained but steady. "I'll be quiet."
For the next half hour, he kept his word.
The car rolled to a stop at the edge of downtown—where smoke coiled into the storm clouds and distant gunfire echoed between ruined storefronts.
Downton stepped out without a word, vanishing into the haze.
From the driver's seat, Anthony turned to the wounded man. "Boss… we're just letting him walk?"
The man—still breathing carefully—unbuttoned his ruined vest and reached for a clean shirt in the trunk. "He won't last ten minutes down there," he said softly, slipping into the fresh clothes. "Gotham eats men like him for breakfast."
He rolled down the window, watching Downton's silhouette disappear into the chaos.
Then, almost to himself, he murmured, "But if by some miracle he survives… tell Falcone I expect compensation. For the suit—and the inconvenience."
A pause. A faint, chilling smile.
"And if he ends up at my hospital… well. I'll be waiting."