Twenty minutes later, Downton haphazardly parked the borrowed sedan in front of the bank.
He straightened his cuffs with a quick, practiced motion, flashed a confident smile at the security guard by the entrance, and strode inside.
The bank was small—just three teller counters and a cramped retail alcove that barely passed for a branch office.
But that was exactly why Downton liked it.
He'd weighed his options carefully. A major institution would be suicide—too many armed guards, too much surveillance. He might not stay dead, but every resurrection cost time. And time was the one thing even immortals couldn't afford to waste. The longer he lingered, the likelier it was that even Gotham's most apathetic beat cop would eventually show up with backup.
No, he wasn't here to start a massacre. Just to withdraw funds—quietly, cleanly. And that required a place just big enough to hold serious cash, but small enough to have minimal security.
This branch fit the bill perfectly.
Downton joined the short line at the counter, hands in his pockets, eyes scanning the room with casual indifference.
Across the lobby, the branch manager's gaze locked onto him immediately. People who handled money for a living developed an eye for it—and Downton's tailored suit, crisp linen shirt, and limited-edition shoes screamed disposable income. Easily five grand, maybe more. That was six iPhones. A month's rent in half of Gotham. Definitely not a regular.
Ryan Bernard—VP of the Gotham East branch of Atlanta Bank—knew his type. Not ultra-wealthy, but comfortably affluent: maybe a junior partner at a law firm, a cosmetic surgeon, or a trust-fund tech bro slumming it in the city's grittier boroughs.
In Ryan's experience, clients like this were the easiest marks. They had just enough wealth to feel savvy but not enough access to see how the game was really played. Stuck in the middle—well-informed enough to think they weren't being played, but too insulated to spot the trap.
Unlike the old-money families or corporate oligarchs, whose advisors would shred a bait-and-switch proposal before lunch.
Ryan approached with rehearsed warmth.
"Good afternoon," he said, extending a hand. "Ryan Bernard, vice president here. A gentleman like you shouldn't have to wait in line—unless you're indulging in some… anthropological fieldwork?"
Downton raised an eyebrow, then chuckled. "No need to queue? That's bold. You've got sharp eyes, Ryan."
"Comes with the territory," Ryan replied with a practiced smile. "Now, may I offer you a seat in our private lounge? Coffee? Something to take the edge off Gotham's charm?"
Downton followed him past the tellers, glancing back at the modest crowd. "Your bank's small, but busy."
"True," Ryan admitted, ushering him into a surprisingly plush lounge tucked behind the main floor. "We're up against Wayne Financial and Kane Capital—Gotham's golden children. But what we lack in size, we make up for in service. People come here because we listen."
He poured a cup of coffee—black, no sugar—and set out a plate of lightly sweetened shortbread. "I noticed your aesthetic leans minimalist. Most of our Asian clients prefer less sugar. Little things matter."
Downton took a sip. It was good. "So they do."
Ryan leaned forward slightly. "Now, how may I assist you today?"
"Cash withdrawal," Downton said simply.
Ryan's eyes lit up. "A loyal customer! That's wonderful. Though… forgive me—if you'll allow a professional observation—you don't strike me as local. Our records are meticulous, and someone of your… profile? I'd remember."
Downton smirked. "You're the first person in Gotham who's figured that out. Maybe I blend in too well."
"Or I just pay attention," Ryan said smoothly. "Now, about the withdrawal—since you didn't schedule ahead, there may be limits. But for a client like you? I'll personally expedite it. Just give me your account number and the amount you need."
Ryan smiled and nodded to Downton, then waited silently for him to provide his account number.
But…
Meeting Manager Ryan's expectant gaze, Downton simply shrugged.
"What account? What deposit? Sorry—I don't have any of those things."
"What?" Ryan was taken aback.
Before he could react, Downton drew a pistol from the small of his back.
The moment he'd entered the VIP lounge, Downton had spotted the security camera. Now, with calm precision, he walked over and disabled it with a single shot.
The gunshot cracked through the bank like thunder. Fortunately—or perhaps by design—the VIP lounge was isolated. Outside, customers and tellers froze in stunned silence.
Inside, Downton pivoted and leveled the weapon at Ryan, who was fumbling for his own sidearm.
"Don't move, buddy," Downton said, voice smooth. "You promised to make things easy for me. Keep your word."
He stepped closer, pressing the muzzle against Ryan's lower back.
"By the way—we haven't finished talking. What account? What deposit? Banks aren't supposed to be inconvenient. If I have to deposit money just to withdraw it, why should I choose Atlanta Bank? What's going to earn my loyalty?"
He tugged Ryan's collar with his free hand.
"You bank managers need to be more flexible. Otherwise, how do you expect to keep valued customers like me?"
With that, he kicked open the lounge door and yanked Ryan into view. The bank lobby erupted.
"Shit!"
"It's a robber!"
"Damn… are all robbers dressed this well?"
"He's not even wearing a mask!"
Panic rippled through the crowd. Customers near the entrance bolted, colliding with security guards and sending chairs skidding across the marble floor.
The bank wasn't large—only four guards total. One remained outside; the other three now trained their weapons on Downton from across the lobby.
Unfazed, Downton slung his left arm around Ryan's shoulders and called out, "How much do you earn a month? Really—why risk your lives for that little?"
He smirked. "Believe me, I'm not here to rob you. I'm here to help your bank."
He gestured vaguely with the gun. "I'm alone. How much cash could I possibly take? For a national institution like Atlanta Bank, this is pocket change. But my visit? It lets you file a nice fat insurance claim and write off a few bad debts. Don't believe me? Ask your manager."
He jammed the barrel against Ryan's temple. Ryan nodded frantically.
Then, in a shaky voice, Ryan shouted:
"Didn't you hear? He wants all surveillance turned off—now—or he'll blow my head off!"
Swallowing hard, Ryan turned to Downton and whispered, "Sir… even if it costs me my life, I have to admit—you've got a point. But for God's sake, keep our conversation quiet."
Then, as if possessed, he whirled back toward the guards.
"Are you all stupid? Turn off the cameras! Now!"
The guards exchanged uneasy glances before one raised his walkie-talkie.
"Turner—kill all surveillance feeds. Now."
A crackle came through.
"Roger that. But… the family hasn't flagged any special activity lately. You sure about this?"
A beat. Then: "Confirmed. Shut it down."
One by one, the lobby monitors flickered and went dark.
Ryan exhaled in relief—then, almost casually, asked, "Whose man are you, anyway?"
Downton chuckled. "Looks like you think I'm some lone wolf. That's your mistake."
Ryan's eyes narrowed. "This is Maroni territory. Our bank has… understandings with them. Those 'security guards'? Half are Maroni enforcers. You walk out of here, and they'll hunt you to the ends of the earth. They're far worse than the GCPD."
He leaned in, voice low. "Take my advice—walk away now. Robbing a Maroni-aligned bank? That's a death sentence."