Night folded over Kurogakure like a burial shroud, suffocating the city in darkness and rain. Neon signs outside the Shadow District nightclub dripped blood-red light onto rain-slick streets. The gutters ran with secrets—spilled drinks, whispered threats, and corpses left by a new plague: the street called it Ghostfire, a little pill that burned through a man's system until only rage and madness were left behind.
Above, unmoving in the downpour, stood a figure forged from nightmare and purpose. The suit was black and gray, an artisan's union of menace and armor—matte black cowl sharp as broken glass, with angular bat ears cleaving the night. Rain vanished into his cape, pure black and weighted, its tattered edges mimicking the wings that haunted every criminal story. His chestplate and torso were iron-gray, built to the physique underneath, every plate functional and ready. Centered on his chest: a bold, severe bat emblem, wings stretched wide, more myth than mark.
Shoulders, arms, and gauntlets swallowed what little light the city offered, their black plating dense and unbroken. Serrated gauntlet fins glinted only as he moved his fists—ready to shatter bones, ready to save lives. His utility belt nearly vanished: plain, dark, no gold or yellow to betray the shadows. His legs mirrored his torso, armored gray on thick muscles, black lower legs, boots reinforced and silent.
From the rooftops, Batman's white eyes cut through the gloom. Below, addicts clawed at Ghostfire's false promise, bouncers eyed the crowd for trouble rather than justice, and the Black Lotus nightclub pulsed with the city's sickness and greed. Music thundered through the air; bass lines throbbed in floorboards slick with rain.
Batman tracked his lead—three weeks tracing overdoses and vanished runners had brought him here. In the club's line, men rehearsed alibis and girls checked smudged lipstick. Batman dropped from the stonework, a passing shadow. Ghostfire was killing people; someone in the Black Lotus was selling damnation by the dose.
The city didn't need a hero. It needed a threat, a myth, a reckoning made real in midnight and steel. He advanced, the storm at his back, every step the beginning of a new hunt.
Rain battered the rooftop, each droplet exploding in the dark like the city's own anthem. Kurogakure stretched below—veins of neon, arteries of filth, heart pumping rot to every corner. Batman watched from above, a gargoyle among gargoyles, just another piece of shadow until he moved. His suit, black and gray, drank in the wet city light; every line engineered for war, his armor locked around him like a promise. Down below, midnight throbbed with the pulse of the Black Lotus club—red sign hissing in the rain, line of sinners at the door, and Ghostfire already eating holes in Kurogakure's soul.
He pressed two fingers to his cowl, the radio channel crackling quietly. "Satake. I'm at the Lotus. Security doubled. Ghostfire is moving openly—too many dealers, not enough cops, not that anyone's clean in this city." His voice was a low rasp, almost lost beneath the rain.
Shinjiro Satake's answer came from the wired world beyond—a measured, calm voice, every syllable sharpened by years of discipline. "You are invisible to their cameras. Entry points are unchanged. Watch the northeast alley—there's a side door. The manager just let in Viper's man. The Ghostfire cook."
Batman crouched near the club's edge. Below, wet streetlight glistened across the bouncer's umbrella and a struggling junkie dragged by unseen pain. His gaze flicked—utility belt ready, grapple in palm, cape stretched. He let the city's filth seep in. This was what he fought for: not hope, not redemption, just the cold satisfaction of fear turned against the guilty.
He dropped from ledge to pipe to alley in flawless silence—a shadow gliding between leaking dumpsters and flickering advertisements. The Black Lotus pulsed with bass. In a window above the alley, he saw a club worker drag a crate marked with the yellow Ghostfire glyph—lightning within a skull.
"Satake, I have eyes on a shipment. Viper's man is here. I don't see the major players yet." The radio stayed open, his one thin thread to the world with a soul.
"Be cautious, young master," Satake replied. "They will not expect a devil in the rain, but they will have precautions inside. Viper is rumored to favor traps."
Batman let a thin smile crease his lips. "I hope so."
He scanned the back entry, found the lock. Gauntlet blades slid into the gap—two heartbeats, the old click, and the door eased open. Inside, the kitchen glowed with foul light, sharp steel, and a sour smell cut with cinnamon—the aftertaste of Ghostfire.
He moved: silent, precise, all armor and intent. Every shadow wrapped around him, drinking him in. Waiters passed, oblivious to their hunter. A cook with trembling hands handled the pills—Batman watched, memorizing every face, every twitch, every pocket full of poison.
Above the main floor, a booth with a scarred man in a cheap suit. Tattoo snaked around the wrist—Ghostfire symbol again. Batman watched, listened, recorded.
Shinjiro's words filtered back. "That's your man. Kaneda. Moves shipments on Viper's orders. But he is no mastermind."
"No," Batman whispered. "But he'll lead me to one." He moved, gearing up to slip from kitchen gloom to club chaos, ready to track Kaneda, ready for sweat and violence and secrets in the Lotus heart.
Rain still whispered on the glass behind him, and the city howled for justice. Tonight, Batman was the only answer it had.
Rain drummed harder against the Black Lotus's glass as Batman melted into the shadows, eyes locked on Kaneda, the Ghostfire middleman. He tracked every move—how Kaneda slid past the pulsing crowd, exchanged a terse gesture with a tattooed bruiser at the velvet rope, and slipped into a backroom swathed in blue fluorescent haze. The music's throb faded behind thick doors as Batman ghosted after him, cowl's HUD overlaying faces and symbols, cataloguing every illicit trade.
In the backroom, Kaneda counted money and pills, hands trembling with stress and withdrawal. Crates marked by that sick yellow Ghostfire glyph—lightning skull—were stashed on battered shelves. Batman slid behind shadows, recording every transaction. A desperate user stumbled in, clawing for product. The club's security, more thug than protector, hammered the addict to the floor, boots thudding mercilessly. Batman's fists tightened. Not yet, he told himself—evidence first, then justice.
Kaneda moved toward a grime-smeared storeroom, fumbling with a key. Batman struck—silent as absence, quick as vengeance. In a heartbeat, Kaneda was pinned to the brick, forearm across his throat, cowl's white eyes burning into him.
"Talk," Batman growled, voice wet gravel. "Who's moving Ghostfire?" Kaneda tried bluff, then bravado—Batman's gauntlet slammed him against the wall, pain shuddering through bone. "Try again."
"It's not me! I'm a middle. Ren—she does the runs, takes the pills to the tunnels. Underground. That's all I know, I swear!"
Batman yanked him close. "Pray you're telling the truth." With a practiced twist, he disabled the storeroom camera with a flicker of his gauntlet's blade and melted back into the gloom.
He reached up—two fingers tapping the cowl's mic. "Satake, confirm target: Ren. Courier, using tunnels below the club for transport."
Satake's tone was crisp, almost fatherly. "Confirmed, young master. Multiple accesses in the northern maintenance corridor—recent activity. There are also syndicate signatures in the crowd—your window is narrow."
"I'm on her trail. Club's about to turn ugly," Batman replied, scanning as panic bubbled behind the walls.
Chaos broke loose outside—a screech as a Ghostfire user flipped a table, wild eyes glowing, bouncers swarming, clubbers shoving for exits, the whole den of sin thrown into confusion. Batman used the riot as camouflage, weaving through toppled chairs and broken bottles. He spotted Ren—a wiry figure slinking out a staff door, duffel bag hugging her side.
He slipped after her into the service corridor. A metal hatch in the floor yawned open. Ren vanished below; Batman followed, cape billowing as he dropped into the wet, echoing tunnels beneath Kurogakure.
Down here, the city's heartbeat was a slow, sick thump—water dripping, pipes rattling, voices echoing in the distance. "Satake, tunnel cam feeds—give me patterns," Batman whispered, gait silent on the slippery concrete.
"Two signatures ahead. Another behind—possible ambush. Be careful, Rai."
Batman's jaw clenched. "Always." He darted ahead, body a weapon forged of rain and agony, eyes locked on the shadows. The chase had twisted from the sleaze of the Black Lotus to the concrete arteries beneath Kurogakure—and somewhere close, the hand that fed Ghostfire into his city waited.
And Batman was coming for it.