> "Homelander… did you just back down?"
The disbelief in the voice sliced through the tense silence like a knife.
"So this is the man who said, 'There will be no criminals in Gotham'?" someone else muttered, their voice trembling with equal parts fear and mockery.
"You know," another added bitterly, "you managed to keep Gotham crime-free for half a month—something Batman himself never accomplished. I actually had high hopes for you."
"But this… this is all you've got?"
"Retreating at the first sign of challenge?"
The crowd's murmurs spread like wildfire, the sound rising and falling in uneasy waves. The people who had once looked upon Homelander as an untouchable savior now stared at him as though seeing him for the first time—fallible, human, almost disappointing.
The Riddler, on the other hand, was radiant with glee.
He was absolutely triumphant now, strutting across the stage like a conquering general returning from a glorious war. The madness in his eyes gleamed under the fractured light of the ballroom chandeliers, reflecting pure ecstasy.
Without a doubt, this was his moment of glory.
He had just turned the man who crushed Gotham's underworld beneath his heel—the mighty Homelander—into a coward. A trembling, spineless wretch who'd chosen retreat over defiance.
History had been made tonight.
From this day forward, the Riddler would be remembered as Gotham's most legendary criminal—the first man to ever defeat Homelander.
Even if someone else bested him later, it wouldn't matter. Because history only remembers the first man to walk on the moon. Who remembers the second?
The Riddler smiled wide, basking in his own myth.
---
> "So Homelander… lost? Just like that?"
Commissioner Gordon's voice was hushed, nearly lost beneath the frightened murmurs. His face, lined with years of exhaustion, was unreadable—caught somewhere between relief and a deep, sick dread.
Once upon a time, Homelander's arrival had made the entire Gotham City Police Department irrelevant. Criminals had fled at the mere sight of him; the city's officers had become little more than spectators to divine punishment. Every cop in Gotham had secretly dreamed of the day he'd make a mistake, just once, so they could prove they still mattered.
But now that the unthinkable had happened, Gordon realized how wrong they'd been to wish for it.
Because now every criminal in Gotham would draw the same terrifying conclusion:
Homelander wasn't invincible.
And after all the blood he'd spilled, all the terror he'd inflicted upon the city's dark corners—there would be payback.
Gotham was about to explode into chaos once more.
---
Across the room, Bruce Wayne remained silent. His eyes were fixed on Alex—sharp, calculating, suspicious.
Homelander… surrendering this easily?
Homelander, who had once vaporized a squad of armed mercenaries without blinking, now suddenly caring about the lives of others?
No. Something didn't add up.
Bruce could feel it in his bones, in that razor edge of instinct honed by years in the shadows. There was more to this than what everyone saw.
Something beneath the surface.
---
> "You're celebrating too early, Riddler."
The words rang out steady and calm, echoing through the stunned hall.
Every head turned.
Alex stood unmoved amid the wreckage and fear, posture relaxed, voice devoid of anger or arrogance.
> "And you're mistaken about something."
A murmur rippled through the crowd.
> "The reason I didn't join your little game wasn't because of your pathetic threats," he continued evenly, his tone quiet but sharp enough to slice through the air.
> "It's because you—" His eyes narrowed, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. His voice hardened like tempered steel. "—are a clown. You don't deserve to play games with me."
> "You think that because you made the rules, I have to follow them? What on earth made you that confident?"
The room seemed to constrict.
A dozen pairs of terrified eyes darted toward him, silently begging him to stop.
Moments ago, they'd been relieved—grateful, even—that Alex hadn't provoked the lunatic. Now, they wanted to scream.
Don't taunt him, you idiot!
Every terrified socialite sat frozen, pale-faced and trembling, clutching at champagne glasses that rattled in their hands. They didn't want a savior anymore. They just wanted to live through the night.
---
> "Is that so?"
The Riddler's smirk twitched, turning into something darker, meaner. His voice oozed through the speakers with serpentine malice.
> "You say I don't deserve to play with you?"
> "Fine then. I've changed my mind."
The smile vanished from his tone, replaced by pure venom.
> "If you don't play my game, Homelander, I'll detonate every bomb in this hall and kill everyone here!"
> "Now—tell me again. Do I deserve to play?"
---
The crowd erupted into chaos once more.
> "You bastard, Homelander, look what you've done!"
"He's going to kill us all!"
The same people who had worshiped him moments ago now turned on him like a mob, their gratitude dissolving into panic and rage.
Alex didn't so much as blink.
A faint sneer crossed his face—cold, dismissive.
He didn't argue. He didn't explain. He simply raised one hand, slow and deliberate—fingers cutting through the smoky air—then swung it down.
---
Whoosh!
A shockwave rippled outward, invisible but powerful enough to rattle the chandeliers. The air itself seemed to vibrate.
A moment later—
Crack!
Crack!
BOOM!
The sharp metallic symphony echoed from every corner of the ballroom.
Guests screamed and ducked behind tables, hearts slamming in their chests. Everyone knew what that sound meant—
Bombs.
The Riddler had done it. He'd actually set them off.
But then—
The panic faltered. The screams died out.
Because instead of exploding, bundles of bombs began to rise—slowly, impossibly—into the air.
Suspended. Floating. Motionless.
---
> "What… what the hell?"
"How—how is that possible?!"
"He's an alien! He really is an alien!"
"Oh my God…"
Every jaw dropped.
Homelander had moved his hand—and every bomb in the building had answered. They floated up from beneath the floorboards, from inside walls, from the corners of the stage. Some still had wires dangling, others blinking red.
Now they hovered around him like a deadly halo, a metallic constellation orbiting their god.
The sight defied comprehension.
---
> "You mean these bombs?"
Alex's voice was calm, almost disinterested, as he turned his gaze directly toward the camera—straight into the Riddler's watchful eye.
In truth, he'd already scanned the entire building the moment he stepped inside. Every wire, every trigger, every chemical compound had already been laid bare before him through his enhanced vision.
And not just that—
He'd already used his telekinetic field to isolate each explosive, wrapping them in invisible layers of pressure, disabling every circuit one by one.
All except the one on the chandelier—because that one couldn't hurt anyone.
Which meant from the very start—
No matter what the Riddler did—
He'd already lost.
---
> "Impossible…"
The Riddler's voice cracked, trembling through the speakers, stripped of its earlier arrogance.
> "No… that's not possible!"
Gone was the self-proclaimed genius of Gotham. In his place was a broken man—staring at the impossible.
---
Alex flexed his hand.
The floating bombs shuddered—then imploded with a series of deafening crunches.
Each one crushed inward, collapsing like tin foil under invisible pressure.
When it was over, only metallic dust remained, drifting through the air like gray snow.
---
> "You were saying?"
Alex's tone didn't rise or fall. It was casual. Effortless. Terrifying.
There was nothing left for the Riddler to detonate.
No bombs.
No triggers.
No hope.
What was he going to do now—blow up the air itself?
---
The ballroom fell into stunned silence.
Every person stared at Alex—the man who had dismantled an entire terrorist plot with a single gesture.
The word defeat suddenly felt meaningless.
Because from the very beginning—
The Riddler had never stood a chance.
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