Axel shoved open the door to the gun store.
Before he even stepped inside, he spoke.
"Give me a gun."
Behind the counter, a balding owner sat reading a newspaper. At the sound of Axel's voice, the man lifted his eyes over the rim of his glasses and looked him up and down.
"You do not look like someone who can afford one," the owner said flatly. "So why should I sell you a gun?"
He folded the newspaper and frowned as his gaze lingered on Axel's clothes.
They were in bad shape. Thick, dried bloodstains soaked through his linen shirt, and his pants were riddled with bullet holes. One leg was torn badly enough that dark leg hair showed through. His pockets were completely flat, obviously empty.
Axel noticed the scrutiny and walked up to the counter without a shred of embarrassment.
"If you want me to pay," he said, knocking his knuckles against the wood, "you could at least let me see the damn thing first."
He leaned in slightly.
"Just a pistol. And hurry up. I do not have time to play dress up."
The owner snorted.
"That part I believe. A pistol, huh? I could hand you a Glock, but that's boring. People like you usually want something with personality."
Something about Axel's calm eyes unsettled him. There was fire there, buried deep and burning hot. Against his better judgment, the owner bent down and pulled two pistols from beneath the counter.
"M1911 and a Mark XIX," he said. "Old men like me appreciate classics. The first is reliable, the second hits like a truck. These are my prized pieces, so do not get any stupid ideas. Since business is slow, I can give you a discount."
As he spoke, he calmly loaded bullets into both guns.
Axel raised an eyebrow.
"Damn, old man. Full service and everything. You are not worried I'll grab one and blow your head off?"
The owner did not even pause.
"This is Gotham, kid. If I were scared of that, I would have been dead decades ago. If you try it, go ahead. I'll still be faster."
He set both loaded pistols on the counter, his hands resting firmly on them. His posture made it clear he could fire at a moment's notice.
Axel did not hesitate.
He shoved the owner's left hand aside, snatched up the Mark XIX, and racked the slide in one smooth motion.
In the same instant, the owner grabbed the M1911 and leveled it at Axel's chest.
Axel grinned.
"I already have a gun," he said. "So why the hell would I pay?"
He raised the Desert Eagle and aimed it at the man's head.
"Show some respect for the toy you just handed me."
The owner's eyes narrowed, but he did not fire. Instead, he slightly shook the gun in his hand.
"You're about the same age as my son," he said slowly. "So I'll give you one chance to rethink how you talk. And let me give you some advice. Gotham already has more killers than it needs. You are alive, kid. Being alive means you should give a damn about staying that way."
Axel laughed quietly.
"Why should I cherish life?" he replied. "What doesn't kill me makes me stronger, and what actually kills me just makes me a whole lot worse for everyone else."
He glanced down at the gun in his hand.
"So this is a blued Desert Eagle. Figures. Guess you really are a redneck old white guy."
He shoved the pistol into his waistband and turned toward the door.
The owner stared at him for a moment, then broke into a crooked smile.
"You've got guts," he said. "Fine. Consider that gun rented."
He tossed a box of ammunition across the counter.
".44 Magnum. If you're still breathing tomorrow, come back and pay what you owe."
He paused.
"What's your name? I should at least know who to chase for my money."
Axel caught the box without looking back.
"Axel," he said. "Axel of Downton Manor."
He walked out without another word.
The owner watched him go, his finger twitching on the trigger. He could have fired. He knew it. He also knew Axel knew it.
In the end, he lowered the gun.
Gotham never lacked gunmen or robbed stores. He had killed in self defense before and would again. But this one was different.
"Axel," he muttered.
"If that kid really doesn't care about dying, then why the hell should I care about a gun?"
He picked up his newspaper again.
The headline made him pause.
Bruce Wayne had returned to Gotham.
His gaze drifted upward, as if passing through the walls and settling on the tallest building in the city.
Wayne Tower.
Gotham was Wayne's city.
And its emperor was back.
---
Outside, rain poured relentlessly. Axel squinted through the downpour, the dim streetlights barely cutting through the gloom.
Gotham was always like this, trapped under permanent clouds. Humid, oppressive, miserable. Axel hated it, but the city seemed to love him.
That morning, he had been in his hometown, stocking shelves at the community supermarket he had just taken over. A thunderstorm rolled in, lightning cracked, and in a single flash, his world ended.
And another began.
The moment Axel realized he was in Gotham, he tried to leave. He checked newspapers, dates, everything. No Batman. No Superman. No Flash. No costumed lunatics yet.
Perfect.
He bought a ticket to Metropolis immediately.
Compared to Gotham, Metropolis without Superman was practically a vacation. Stay there a few days, then move to Washington. Lay low for years. When that got dangerous, leave the country altogether.
It was a solid plan.
It lasted exactly one bus ride.
On the way out of Gotham, the bus got caught in a gang firefight. Rocket launchers lit up the street. Axel's coat disappeared in the explosion.
So did Axel.
Gotham lived up to its reputation. Before noon, he had already died once.
Now, soaked by rain, his body burned with heat and rage. He raised a hand and flagged down a taxi.
The driver cracked the window, gun already in hand, and aimed it at Axel's waistband.
"You'd better just want a ride," the driver warned.
"I do," Axel said calmly. "Take me to where the gunfight happened. Near the Gotham Bus Transfer Center."
He slid into the back seat, ignoring the weapon. The driver eyed the bullet holes in his clothes uneasily.
"The Italian mob and the Russians are going at it today," the driver said. "That area belongs to the Sabatini family. Falcone's people. You don't look like either side. You really should not be sticking your nose there."
"Drive," Axel said.
The driver swallowed and nodded.
"I'll drop you half a block away. I don't want trouble."
Axel pulled ten bullets from the ammo box and tossed them onto the front seat.
"No cash," he said. "That's your fare."
The driver's face split into a grin.
".44 Magnum rounds are not cheap," he said.
---