By noon the next day, the job was done.
The security overhaul ran like a dream, lean, mean, and bulletproof in all the places that mattered. The payment hit his offshore account before he'd even left the building, six digits and change, clean as rain. He packaged his final report, sent a secure digital copy to their main network, and handed a physical flash drive to Mercy Graves when she arrived.
"Full install package and documentation," he said. "Encrypted with your internal cipher. No backdoors left behind."
Mercy nodded, slipping the drive into her jacket. "Efficient."
She set a business card on the counter between them. It was matte black, the lettering only visible when it caught the light, a phone number and nothing else.
"Call if you're interested in more work," she said.
Marcus smirked. "Open invitation, huh?"
"You've got the skills," she said simply, then turned and walked away. The click of her heels echoed down the corridor until it was just him and the faint hum of the servers.
Marcus pocketed the card. He didn't plan on calling. Not now, anyway. But it never hurt to keep a door slightly ajar.
His twenty-first birthday was tomorrow. Legally, he'd been drinking for years thanks to a perfect set of forged IDs, but there was something symbolic about being officially legal. He decided he'd spend it here in LA, a change of scenery before heading back to Coastal City.
The sun was dipping toward the horizon, painting the glass towers in bronze and crimson. Marcus stepped out into the cooler air, jacket slung over his shoulder, heading toward a bar he'd spotted earlier.
That's when he saw it.
An alley, half-hidden between two buildings, bathed in the harsh yellow of a flickering streetlight. Three men stood over a fourth slumped on the pavement, his face swollen and bleeding.
Marcus slowed, tilting his head. "Well," he muttered to himself, "that's cliché."
He was ready to walk on until the man in front turned, spotted him, and leveled a knife in his direction.
"You. In here," the man barked.
Marcus raised an eyebrow. "Really?"
The other two grinned, sensing easy money. The victim groaned on the ground, too dazed to stand.
Marcus sighed and walked into the alley. His expression didn't change, but inside, the switch flipped. The last thing the knife-man saw before things went sideways was Marcus's hand casually brushing the blade aside.
Silat first, short, precise, brutal. He stripped the knife in a single motion and used the man's momentum to drive a knee into his gut, folding him. An elbow to the temple put him down hard.
The second man was already drawing a pistol.
Marcus moved before the slide cleared the holster. Three quick steps, pivot, heel strike, Taekwondo this time, right across the jaw. The man's head snapped sideways, his gun clattering against the wall before he slumped to the ground.
The third had his weapon up, finger tightening on the trigger. Marcus's hand flicked, and a small throwing knife slipped from his sleeve into the barrel. The shot never came. Instead, the gun jerked violently with a muted pop, the heat and pressure forcing the thug to drop it with a curse.
Marcus closed the distance in two strides and drove a boot into his chest, sending him sprawling into the wall before he slid to the ground, unconscious.
The whole thing took less than fifteen seconds.
Marcus adjusted his jacket. "Enjoy your evening, gentlemen."
He didn't even glance back at the victim, who was now staring up at him with wide, confused eyes. The man would probably tell the cops later about the stranger who walked into an alley and dismantled three armed muggers like he was ordering coffee.
The bar was dim and comfortable, a place where no one asked names unless you wanted them to. Marcus took a stool at the far end, ordered a whiskey neat, and let the burn settle on his tongue.
From his pocket, he pulled a small silver locket. He flicked it open and looked at the photo inside, a woman with kind eyes and a tired smile. His mother. The reason he didn't go back to Gotham.
Nothing but bad memories there.
He let out a short, humorless laugh. "What a cliché backstory," he muttered into his drink. Only, he'd never become the avenging vigilante or the revenge-driven villain. He just… kept moving.
He drained the glass and set it down. "Another," he told the bartender.
The locket went back into his pocket, his fingers lingering on the worn metal for a moment before he reached for the fresh glass.
That's when the redhead walked in.
Green eyes that missed nothing. A butterfly tattoo on the side of her neck. She scanned the room like she was taking mental notes. Their eyes met across the space.
Marcus smirked. She smiled, just a little, before taking a seat at the bar.