I step inside the railway station, and the moment I see him, I launch myself straight onto the tracks. Using the momentum, I kick off hard, propelling myself toward the opposite platform. Mid-flight, I clench my fist and draw it back.
He crosses his arms defensively, bracing for impact.
My punch connects with devastating force. The blow shatters through his guard—I feel the sickening crack of bone beneath my knuckles as his arms fracture from the sheer impact. The force sends him hurtling backward through the air. He slams into the goods train stationed on the far platform with a thunderous crash, the metal reverberating from the collision.
I land on the platform, dust and debris scattering around my feet.
He collapses to the ground in a crumpled heap, blood spattering from his mouth as he coughs violently. Despite the damage, his eyes lock onto mine—filled with murderous intent. From the other platform, I hear the thunder of footsteps. His reinforcements are rushing forward, flooding through the stairs toward me.
Seeing his allies doesn't worry me—quite the opposite. I'm almost bored.
I pull a cigarette from my pocket, then notice a lighter lying on the ground where he'd been standing before I sent him flying. I pick it up and raise it to the cigarette.
Before I can light it, he screams like a madman to his approaching crew: "Kill this motherfucker!" He jabs a trembling finger in my direction, his broken arms forgotten in his rage.
His allies surge forward. One of them closes the distance fast, throwing a wild haymaker straight at my face.
I sigh.
Can't I smoke in peace?
The punch hurtles toward my face—but stops mid-swing.
The attacker freezes, fist trembling inches from my nose. One of his allies shouts, "Why'd you stop?"
He doesn't answer. Instead, he coughs—a wet, violent sound—and blood sprays from his mouth. He stands there, rooted in place, eyes wide with shock. Then he crumples to the ground.
My fist hovers in the air, still extended. The strike had been too fast for them to see.
Two more rush forward, rage overriding caution. Without lowering my hand, I casually kick the fallen body. It skids across the platform like a bowling ball, slamming into both charging attackers. All three go flying in a tangle of limbs.
Finally.
I light the cigarette, take a long drag, and exhale slowly. The smoke curls upward in the station's stale air.
"Ahh... what a great day we're having," I mutter to myself.
Seeing this, my opponent's fury boils over. He reaches into his coat and pulls out a small tube filled with red liquid.
I frown. Something's wrong.
I raise my guard.
His own allies recoil in fear, their faces twisted with what looks like... trauma? Like they've seen this before and wish they hadn't.
He pops the cap and drinks greedily, gulping down every drop. The empty tube clatters to the ground.
For a moment, nothing. Then—
His broken arms crack and snap as the bones knit themselves back together. The blood vanishes from his lips. His wounds close. He rises to his feet, but he's different now—bigger, muscles bulging beneath his clothes. A thick, oppressive killing intent rolls off him in waves, making the air itself feel heavy.
His eyes lock onto mine, burning with twisted rage.
He takes a single step—and vanishes.
I start to raise my hand, but I'm too slow.
Too slow.
His fist crashes into my chest like a high-speed train slamming directly into my heart. The impact is catastrophic. I feel my ribs shatter, and then I'm airborne—sent flying backward off the platform.
I crash onto the tracks, gasping, coughing up blood. My vision swims. Through the haze of pain, I hear it—the blaring horn of an approaching train. The same track I'm lying on.
Above me, he laughs—a wild, unhinged sound that echoes through the station.
Then he says it. Those words. The ones he should never have spoken.
The ones that piss me off more than anything else.
I let out a sigh.
The punch was so devastating that I can't even stand. My body won't respond. Above me, my opponent watches from the platform, savoring the moment. He knows his power-up will run out in thirty seconds.
The train is twenty seconds away.
He's waiting for me to die.
I lie there on the tracks, broken and bleeding. With trembling fingers, I pull out another cigarette and light it. The smoke tastes like copper—my own blood mixing with tobacco.
I take a slow drag and exhale.
"Hmm... thirty seconds, huh?"
The train's horn blares. Fifteen seconds now.
I close my eyes for a moment, feeling the vibrations through the rails.
"...Ah."
I tap my leg against the rail. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Then, with one brutal strike, I slam my heel into the ground with blinding speed.
The sheer force of the impact launches me upward. Stones and dust explode into the air around me, debris scattering across the platform. The train rushes past, missing me by inches—so close I feel the rush of wind tearing at my clothes.
I lock eyes with him mid-flight.
"Ten seconds left," I say.
The words barely leave my mouth before he's already moving—desperately dodging backward as my fist screams toward his face.
Our eyes meet again for a split second.
Behind us, the train thunders through the station without stopping, its deafening roar filling the air as we clash on the platform.
Then we both vanish.
We become blurs—moving so fast the naked eye can't track us. Fists and feet clash in a storm of violence. Punch. Block. Kick. Counter. Each strike aimed to kill.
And we're moving.
The train rockets forward at full speed, and we fight alongside it—matching its pace stride for stride. Our battle rages on the platform edge, then spills onto the narrow concrete beside the tracks. The world blurs past us as we keep up with the speeding locomotive.
CRACK! His fist whistles past my ear.
SLAM! My kick crashes into his ribs.
We're a hurricane of motion, trading blows at impossible speed while the train thunders beside us—windows flashing past in streaks of light, the wheels screaming against the rails. Platform pylons whip by. We dodge around them without breaking rhythm, our fight perfectly synchronized with the train's velocity.
Five seconds left on his power.
In his final moment, as his power fades, he gasps out: "Who... the fuck... are you?"
I light another cigarette, take a drag, and let the smoke curl from my lips. A smirk tugs at the corner of my mouth.
"I'm Batman."
He stares at me for a heartbeat. Then he coughs—a violent, wet sound—and blood pours from his mouth.
"Bullshit..."
His eyes glaze over. He collapses onto the tracks, dead.
I glance down at his body one last time, then turn and start walking. The cigarette dangles from my lips as I leave him behind on the rails, the sound of the departing train fading into the distance.
With each step, I feel it—my ribs knitting back together, the pain dulling, the blood drying. My body is already recovering, slow but steady.
I keep walking.
Keep smoking.
Just another day.