This is my second i learned some new things from the first and I'm open for criticism to improve with you
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A large mansion stood solemnly atop a hill at the edge of Gotham, its silhouette brooding beneath thick clouds and moonless skies. Below it, hidden within the earth, the Batcave stretched wide and deep—a monument to justice, obsession, and war.
The Batmobile roared into its chamber and came to a stop with a hiss of steam. The canopy lifted to reveal Bruce Wayne in his Batsuit, and beside him, a scowling Damian Wayne—his cape slightly torn, his face flushed with frustration.
Alfred was already waiting near the platform, as poised as ever.
"Welcome home, Master Bruce. Master Damian," he said. "I trust tonight's mission was productive?"
Bruce gave a curt nod as he passed by. "Productive enough," he said, walking straight to the Batcomputer.
Alfred turned to Damian, who had already started pulling off his gloves.
"Did anything happen?" the butler asked gently.
Damian scoffed, annoyed. "Ask him. He went rogue halfway through the night and told me to stay behind. I could've helped."
Alfred raised a brow. "I'm sure he had his reasons."
"Probably," Damian muttered. "Still insulting, though."
Bruce's voice echoed from the console. "Damian. Upstairs. Now."
Damian clenched his fists. "You're hiding something from me again."
Bruce didn't turn. "Later."
A long beat of silence. Damian exhaled sharply through his nose, then spun on his heel and stomped toward the staircase, his boots hitting the stone harder than necessary.
Alfred watched him go, then turned to Bruce with a raised brow. "He takes after you more than you'd like to admit."
Batman didn't reply.
Alfred placed a steaming cup of tea beside him. "Thought you might want this, sir."
Bruce simply murmured, "Thanks," as he uploaded the data from the drive into the Batcomputer and opened the report from Commissioner Gordon.
The first images appeared on screen.
Alfred looked... and paled.
"My word…"
Bodies torn apart. Limbs precisely severed. The rain-soaked alley painted in blood. One corpse slumped against a lamppost glowing red like a lantern in some forgotten nightmare.
"Not a pleasant scene, I gather?" Alfred said quietly.
"No," Bruce answered.
The Batcomputer initiated forensic scans—cut analysis, angle breakdowns, thermal data. Bruce watched the readings roll across the screen.
Alfred leaned closer. "These wounds… In all my years—even in the worst corners of the world—I've never seen anything like it. The precision... it's beyond surgical. It's mechanical, but there's no tool that clean."
Bruce nodded. "That's what makes it dangerous."
He tapped the files on the victims. "Small-time thugs. Robbery, intimidation. Nothing more. No gang ties. No mob affiliations."
"So why them?" Alfred asked. "Who would do this to such low-tier criminals?"
Batman's jaw clenched. "A witness heard one of them begging—crying—right before the silence."
Alfred looked grim. "Whatever it was... didn't show mercy."
A soft beep signaled the scan's completion. The Batcomputer displayed the results.
"No matches," Bruce said, scanning. "No known blades. No advanced tech. No magical residue. No alien metallurgy. No meta-energy. Not even demonic or Nth metal readings. Nothing."
"Then what, sir?" Alfred said slowly. "What could do this?"
Batman's voice was like a shadow wrapped in steel.
"That's what I'm going to find out."A large mansion stood solemnly on a hill at the edge of Gotham, silhouetted against thick clouds and a starless sky. Beneath it, hidden deep underground, stretched the Batcave—dark, massive, and humming with quiet power.
The Batmobile roared into the cave and came to a stop with a hiss of steam. The canopy slid open, revealing Bruce Wayne and Damian Wayne seated inside.
Alfred was already waiting near the platform, hands folded behind his back as always.
"Welcome home, Master Bruce. Master Damian," he greeted. "I trust tonight's mission was productive?"
Bruce didn't say a word. He stepped out of the vehicle and walked directly toward the Batcomputer.
Damian pulled off his gloves, clearly frustrated.
"He went off on his own," he muttered to Alfred. "Didn't tell me anything. I could've helped."
Alfred gave him a calm glance. "I'm sure he had his reasons."
"Doesn't make it less insulting," Damian grumbled.
From across the cave, Batman's voice cut through the space.
"Damian. Upstairs. Now."
Damian turned. "You're hiding something from me again."
"Later," Bruce said without looking back.
Damian clenched his jaw, his fists tight. After a moment, he exhaled sharply and stomped up the stairs toward the manor, boots thudding with every step.
Alfred watched him go, then turned back to Bruce.
"He takes after you more than you care to admit."
Bruce said nothing. He inserted a drive into the Batcomputer and began uploading data. Screens lit up around him as he opened the files Gordon had sent.
Alfred approached, setting a cup of tea on the console.
"You'll want this, sir."
Bruce gave a small nod. "Thanks."
Images loaded on the screen.
Alfred took one look—and froze.
"…My word."
Photos of the alley appeared one by one. Bodies were torn apart. Limbs precisely severed. The lamppost was stained red, the light making the blood glow like something from a nightmare.
Alfred looked away. "I assume it wasn't a pleasant scene?"
"No," Bruce said.
The Batcomputer began processing the data—cut analysis, trajectory reports, material traces, everything. The screens displayed layer after layer of horrifying detail.
Alfred frowned, leaning in.
"These wounds… In all my years—even in Her Majesty's darkest missions—I've never seen anything like this. It's… too clean. Almost like the killer was measuring every cut."
Bruce's eyes didn't move from the screen. "Exactly."
He opened the files on the victims.
"Just street thugs," he said. "A couple robberies. Assault charges. Nothing high profile. Barely made the system's radar."
"Then why this level of brutality?" Alfred asked. "What could they have possibly done to deserve this?"
"There was a witness," Bruce said. "Said one of them was begging for his life. Then silence."
The Batcomputer beeped—analysis complete. Bruce scanned the results.
"No match to any known weapon," he muttered. "No blade residue. No magical trace. No heat damage. No energy signature. Not even metahuman radiation."
Alfred's face darkened.
"Then… what did this?"
Bruce stared at the final image on the screen—a body slumped beneath a rain-soaked lamppost, its blood turning the light red.
"That's what I'm going to find out."
Back at the abandoned apartment complex, Paul lay on the floor, asleep but far from at peace. His body trembled, twitching involuntarily as if trying to reject the horrors replaying in his mind. His sleep was broken by nightmares—flashes of war, death, and the chaos of the night before.
He stirred, waking with a gasp. Sweat clung to his skin as he sat up, heart pounding. The dim light filtering through the cracked window told him he was still here. Still in this ruined building. Still in Gotham.
"How could this be real?" he whispered. "Why am I still here? How did I even get here...?"
Then it all came rushing back—the alley, the thugs, the blood, the blade, the message in the air.
"That's right... I killed those men," Paul muttered. His hands grabbed the sides of his head, fingers digging into his scalp as his body started to shake again. The memory felt more like a dream, a hallucination, something that couldn't be real—but the weight of it crushed him.
He remembered the strange screen from last night. There had been text… a message floating in the air. Something was written in the corner.
He spoke aloud, unsure of what would happen. "System."
Like before, the glowing screen blinked into existence. It hovered silently before him, displaying stats and information like some kind of game interface. It was strange, but oddly comforting. At least it was something—some kind of explanation.
His thoughts turned to the red lines. The ones that appeared before each strike. He could still feel the moment clearly. The fear. The loneliness. The anger.
The death.
As that last thought echoed in his mind, the lines began to reappear—faint and less dense than last night, but still there. They traced across nearby objects: the edge of a broken shelf, a chair, a piece of the wall.
Paul stood slowly and picked up the Damascus knife from the ground. He walked to a table and examined the red line running across its surface. Taking a breath, he brought the blade down.
The table split cleanly in half, like slicing butter.
Paul stepped back in shock, letting the knife fall from his hand. "What... is this?"
He turned to the mirror across the room. His reflection stared back at him—disheveled and pale. But something in his eyes was different. His hazel irises had turned a vivid blue, and in the center of each, a faint red aura pulsed, glowing softly.
He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and tried to calm his thoughts. When he looked again, the glow had faded. His eyes were normal once more. But the question remained.
"What now?"
He scanned the room, realizing he had no idea where he even was. No phone. No ID. No way to contact anyone. Then, in the corner of the room, he spotted an old, crumpled newspaper. He picked it up and read the headline.
Gotham Gazette.
He stared at the title, eyes wide. "Wait… Gotham? As in the Batman comics?"
He looked out the cracked window. The sky was still overcast, rain clinging to the edges of the pane. Gray, lifeless light poured through. It looked like evening—but in this city, who could tell?
"Well," Paul muttered, "that explains the weather. And the psychos."
Turning away from the window, he spoke aloud, almost as if trying to reassure himself. "I'm a soldier. My data must be in there. This has to be some kind of joke."
Deciding he needed help, he left the apartment and stepped outside into the wet streets of Gotham.
Down the block, he spotted an older woman lighting a cigarette. He approached her, cautiously hopeful.
"Excuse me," he said. "Can I ask you a question?"
She smirked and took a long drag before replying, "I'm all yours—for the right price."
Paul blinked. "God, no. I'm just looking for directions."
"That's my line to the cops," she snapped, then turned away and walked off, muttering to herself.
Paul watched her go, stunned. "What the hell is wrong with this place?"
A few steps further, he found a homeless man sitting against a brick wall, sipping from a brown bag. Paul approached and crouched beside him.
"Hey," he said gently. "Do you know where the nearest police station or military base is?"
The man looked up slowly, red-eyed and dazed. "You're not a cop, right?"
Paul shook his head. "No. I'm not."
"There's a base up north. Fort Hamilton," the man slurred. "Been there forever. That's where all the scary stuff comes from anyway."
"Fort Hamilton... Got it. Thanks."
Paul instinctively reached into his pocket, hoping to offer the man something—but realized he had nothing. Not a coin, not a bill.
The hobo noticed and chuckled, raising his bottle. "Want a sip?"
Paul smiled faintly and shook his head. "I'll pass. But thanks."
He stood and walked away, heading north, into the uncertain streets of Gotham.