Bane had arrived.
He said nothing—but he didn't need to. The mocking laughter and arrogance that had filled the air a moment earlier faded into an eerie silence. His very presence seemed to muffle the world around him. Even his own men straightened up, their expressions turning serious. No one dared to act casually. They all knew: Bane didn't hesitate to kill his own if they failed him.
"You wanted to see me?" Bane's gravelly voice finally broke the silence. His sharp eyes swept over Talia al Ghul and Barbara Gordon, before settling coldly on Jack Kadere. The sound of his voice—rasping through the mask—carried a chill that seemed to grip the spine.
Talia stood there, pale and motionless, her beauty like a fragile blossom under siege. Beside her, Barbara Gordon trembled—though it was hard to say whether it was from fear, anger, or both. In the distance, Commissioner James Gordon raised his firearm several times, but ultimately lowered it again. He couldn't risk the lives of the remaining resistance—or of Gotham itself—just to save his daughter. As much as it tore at him, this had spiraled far beyond personal stakes.
Jack, meanwhile, looked completely unfazed. He tilted his head and studied Bane's breathing mask with a strange curiosity. "What does that mask look like underneath? Do you take it off to eat or drink? Or—what if you want to kiss someone?" he asked, grinning. "Why don't you just take it off and show me?"
The silence that followed was even more suffocating.
Sure, plenty of people had wondered what Bane looked like beneath the mask—but no one ever dared ask. Let alone mock him about it. This was suicide.
Everyone watching—from Gotham PD to mercenaries—stared at Jack like he'd just signed his own death warrant. Even Barbara looked at him in disbelief. This bastard betrayed us, and now he's provoking Bane? Is he insane?
Bane's fingers slowly lifted to brush along the edge of his mask. "You want to see?" he growled. "Then take it off yourself—if you think you can."
"That's gonna be a hassle," Jack muttered casually. Then, to everyone's shock, he released both Barbara and Talia from his grip... and walked straight toward Bane.
Step by deliberate step, Jack moved calmly, as if he were approaching an old friend instead of one of the most dangerous men alive.
Some couldn't help but smirk, eager to watch the arrogant fool get torn apart. Others turned away, unable to bear the inevitable brutality they were sure would follow.
Jack finally stood before Bane, looked up, and smiled politely. "So... here I am."
Bane's eyes flicked briefly past Jack to Talia. Their eyes locked for a moment—and then she dropped her gaze quickly in a sharp, deliberate motion. To any observer, it looked like she was nodding. It startled Bane.
She's submitting? Why now?
Still, he didn't question it out loud. He understood the signal. If Talia didn't want to be exposed, he'd play along.
But Jack was already reaching out toward Bane's mask.
A dangerous glint lit up Bane's eyes. With a growl, he clenched his massive fists. Thick veins bulged across his forearms. Then—boom—his punch shot forward like a cannon, the air itself trembling from its force. At this range, he was sure he'd reduce Jack to a smear on the ground.
After all, even Bruce Wayne—trained by the League of Assassins—had fallen to Bane. What was Jack to him?
But just as the punch was about to connect, Bane's vision jolted—Jack had vanished.
Where the hell did he go?
As Bane scanned the surrounding crowd, confusion and disbelief rippled through the onlookers. Had they just seen that correctly?
He kicked Bane back?
And now… he was in the air?
That height—there was no way a normal person could jump like that.
"Above?" someone whispered.
Bane, ever the seasoned fighter, instinctively looked up.
Through the blinding sunlight, a figure was descending—fast.
Jack Kadere had copied Bane's combat prowess the moment he engaged. The fighting technique wasn't anything special—Jack already had combat data absorbed from Catwoman, Batgirl, and Talia al Ghul. Much of Bane's own style stemmed from the League of Assassins, and Jack had more than enough overlap from the women he'd fought or absorbed knowledge from.
But this wasn't about technique—it was about raw power.
Jack had amplified Bane's own strength twentyfold using his Infinite stacking. That burst of strength had launched him into the air in a single bound. Now, silhouetted against the sun, he came crashing down like a golden hammer.
"Bane," Jack said with a smirk as he fell, "ever heard of a Detroit Smash from the sky??"
For a brief moment, sunlight glinted off Jack's form like divine fire. Then came impact.
Jack's hand met Bane's raised fist mid-air.
The ground beneath Bane exploded with a dull, violent crack. Pavement shattered. The force of the strike crushed bone on impact—arms, ribs, spine—it all gave way under the pressure. Bane's knees buckled; his towering form crumpled as his strength gave out. His arm twisted unnaturally, useless.
Bang!
He hit the ground face-first with a seismic thud.
The breeze stilled.
Under the summer heat, the sight of Bane's collapsed body next to Jack's upright form sent an icy chill through the hearts of everyone watching.
Jack's gaze swept the crowd. No one met his eyes.
He crouched and grabbed Bane by the scruff of the neck, hoisting him effortlessly. The man's body dangled like a broken puppet, his eyes wide in disbelief.
He was Bane. He wasn't supposed to lose.
"You lost the moment you tried to touch me," Jack said quietly.
With that, he grabbed the edge of Bane's iconic mask—and ripped.
Squelch!
Blood sprayed. Tissue tore.
Gasps erupted from the crowd. Some turned away, hands over their mouths. Others froze in place, their faces pale and trembling.
"Huh. Guess I pulled too hard," Jack muttered, unimpressed. "Whatever. Don't feel like looking anymore."
He shoved the ruined mask back onto Bane's bloodied face and let him drop.
Thud.
Bane hit the ground again. This time, the twitching stopped.
And with that, the monster of Gotham was no more.