The street didn't explode when the fight paused.
That alone made it wrong.
Gotham was used to violence escalating—gunfire answering fists, explosions answering screams. But as Solomon Grundy strained against the living roots binding his legs, something else took hold of the space between them: a heavy, uneasy stillness. People hid behind cars and doorways, phones half-raised, unsure whether to run or watch.
Eli stood in front of Grundy, shoulders squared, breathing slow.
He felt tired—but not overwhelmed.
That surprised him.
Grundy's strength was overwhelming by any measure. Every movement of the creature shook the ground, muscles powered by necromancy and endless resurrection. Eli should have been crushed. He knew that intellectually. Yet his body moved with a certainty that didn't feel learned so much as remembered.
Grundy roared and tore free of the roots, snapping them with brute force. Rot and soil sprayed as he surged forward again, fists swinging wide with killing intent.
Eli moved.
Not fast enough to blur. Not graceful. But exact.
He shifted his weight just before impact, boots sliding across cracked pavement. Grundy's fist grazed his shoulder instead of caving in his chest, the force shuddering through Eli's bones without breaking them. Eli pivoted, one hand bracing Grundy's forearm, the other guiding the momentum downward.
The monster slammed into the street.
Concrete shattered.
Eli stepped back, pulse steady, mind strangely clear.
It wasn't skill in the way a trained fighter had skill. He didn't think about angles or leverage. His body simply knew where to be. The same way roots knew how to find water. The same way a dockworker knew how to shift weight so a crate didn't crush his spine.
Years of hauling steel and wood had taught him balance without words. The Green layered something else on top of that—not instructions, not commands, but feedback. Every movement sent information back through him: pressure, resistance, the flow of force through ground and muscle.
He wasn't fighting Grundy.
He was redirecting a landslide.
Grundy staggered upright, confusion flickering across his stitched face before rage swallowed it again. "GRUNDY… STRONGER!"
Grundy charged.
Eli braced—and felt the city answer.
Not the swamp. Not the ancient power buried deep beneath it. The small Green. The weeds, the street trees, the stubborn life Gotham tried and failed to erase.
The ground firmed under his feet. Hairline cracks spread outward, roots threading through them like reinforcement. Eli caught Grundy's next blow with both arms crossed, muscles screaming as the force drove him back several feet.
He held.
Grundy's eyes widened.
Eli pushed—not with rage, not with domination—but with intent. The ground beneath Grundy's feet softened just enough to rob him of leverage. Eli twisted, using Grundy's own weight against him, and hurled the creature sideways into a parked bus.
The bus folded.
Grundy crashed through it, roaring.
The watching crowd gasped.
Eli stood there, chest rising and falling, realization settling in.
This was why.
Not because he was trained. Not because he was smarter or faster.
Because he was grounded.
Grundy was power without balance—endless strength, no anchor. Eli was the opposite. Strength flowed through him, not from him. Every movement began and ended in the earth.
Grundy tore himself free again, regeneration already sealing wounds that would've ended anything else. He snarled and turned toward the police line now forming at the end of the street.
"THEM," Grundy growled. "THEM… BREAK."
Something cold tightened in Eli's chest.
"No," he said.
Grundy didn't listen.
Eli slammed his foot down.
The street answered like it had been waiting.
Roots burst up in a wide arc—not violently, not jagged, but thick and deliberate, weaving together into a living barricade between Grundy and the officers. Bullets fired in panic struck the wall and dropped harmlessly to the ground. The roots flexed, absorbed the impact, held.
Eli didn't look back at the police. He kept his eyes on Grundy.
"You don't get them," Eli said. His voice carried—not loud, but certain. "Not today."
Grundy roared and pounded the barrier, fists smashing again and again. Each blow cracked the pavement, but the roots flexed and tightened, drawing strength from deeper soil. The Green wasn't fighting for dominance.
It was enforcing boundaries.
Grundy faltered.
For the first time since he'd risen, his rage stuttered—not stopped, just confused. He stared at Eli through the living wall, something like recognition stirring behind his eyes.
"YOU… NOT… DEAD," Grundy rumbled.
Eli swallowed.
"No," he said. "I'm not."
That mattered.
Grundy screamed and hurled himself one last time at the barrier, but his momentum faltered. The roots didn't push back harder. They simply refused to move. Eventually, even Grundy's endless strength had nowhere to go.
Sirens closed in. Helicopters circled overhead.
Eli felt it then—the attention, the focus, the weight of Gotham's eyes turning toward him. Toward what he was becoming.
He stepped back.
He didn't wait for thanks. He didn't pose or threaten or announce himself.
He turned and walked into an alley.
The roots parted for him, receding naturally into cracks and soil, leaving behind only broken concrete and shaken witnesses. By the time Batman landed on the street in a rush of cape and motion, Eli was gone.
Batman surveyed the scene in silence.
Grundy restrained without lethal force. Civilians alive. Police untouched.
"That's not chaos," Bruce muttered. "That's discipline."
And that unsettled him more than raw power ever could.
Eli walked for hours.
He didn't feel chased. He didn't feel triumphant.
He felt… heavy.
Every step through Gotham brought new sensations. He could feel stress in the ground where buildings leaned too hard. Feel the quiet suffering of roots crushed beneath foundations. Feel the city's constant pressure pushing life down and out.
He stopped near a small community garden wedged between abandoned buildings. Someone had tried to make something grow here. The soil was thin, tired. The plants drooped, clinging to life out of stubbornness alone.
Eli crouched.
He pressed his hand into the dirt.
Not to command. Not to force.
Just to listen.
The Green responded gently. Moisture shifted. Roots stretched a little deeper. Leaves lifted, color darkening by a shade. Nothing dramatic. Nothing unnatural.
Just help.
Eli pulled his hand back, heart pounding.
"I can't fix everything," he whispered to no one.
But he could choose where he stood.
Behind him, the air thickened.
Swamp Thing emerged from the shadows, towering and still, eyes glowing softly.
"You fought without surrendering to it," Swamp Thing said.
Eli didn't look up. "I didn't fight. I… redirected."
Swamp Thing considered that. "You allowed the Green to move through you instead of becoming its weapon."
Eli stood slowly. "If I stop being myself, it wins. Whatever it is."
"The ancient power beneath the swamp would disagree," Swamp Thing replied. "It believes strength exists to be used fully."
Eli met his gaze. "Then it doesn't know Gotham."
Swamp Thing was silent for a long moment.
"You remain different from Grundy," he finally said. "Not because of power—but because you remember life."
Eli nodded. "And I want to keep remembering."
Above them, the city hummed—sirens fading, broadcasts crackling, Joker's laughter echoing faintly from some distant screen. Chaos still brewed. It always would.
Eli looked out at Gotham, gray skin catching neon light, posture calm but resolute.
He could fight.
Not because he was trained.
Not because he was born for it.
But because he refused to let power decide who he was.
And as long as that remained true, he would walk Gotham's streets not as a monster…
but as a man who knew where he stood.