The tunnels beneath Kurogakure were colder than the rain above—silent but for the echo of distant water, the metallic rattle of pipes, and Batman's breath flattening against his cowl. Stone corridors twisted like veins beneath the city's neon skin, walls tattooed with old syndicate tags and the jagged glyphs of Ghostfire. Down here, hope died quick, and so did anyone who made too much noise.
Rai Takayama stalked his prey in total silence. Ren was thirty meters ahead—her outline sharp through the cowl's thermal overlay, clutching a duffel bulging with drugs and cash. Rai moved like a phantom—boots splashless, cape trailing in the gloom, heart rate slow as a monk's prayer.
"Satake. I've got eyes on Ren," he growled, voice low, wired grit. Static whispered in his ear as Shinjiro patched through city schematics.
"Two signatures closing from the left tunnel. Infrared shows more—the ambush is set," Satake warned.
Batman let the corner of his mouth twitch. He knelt beside a pile of stolen crates. Stenciled on the wood—a fragment of old paint, chipped and faded, but unmistakable: the Sun sigil of Konohagakure. His fingers brushed it, testing the roughness, mind racing. Ghostfire wasn't just a Kurogakure plague. This was a pipeline—the poison bleeding straight into the heart of the Elemental Nations.
His jaw clenched under the cowl. "They're exporting hell," he muttered, rage and purpose crystallizing behind his eyes. "Not on my watch."
He swept forward, flowing from shadow to shadow, scanning every exit and hack-patching into tunnel security feeds. Two goons emerged—masks, blades, and twitchy hands. Ghostfire users: unpredictable, strong, half-mad.
Ren turned, voice trembling. "I paid for protection!"
"Not enough," spat the bigger one, pushing her back. "Boss wants a full cut."
Batman descended, silent as falling ash. His landing was surgical: a flash of black and gray, fist exploding into the first thug's trachea—crushing breath before a yell could form. Elbow, knee, palm—three moves, three joints broken.
The second goon lunged wide, blade flashing. Batman parried with his gauntlet's hardened ridge—Arkham technique, a twist and lock—rotator cuff shattered with an ugly pop. He spun, cape blinding the thug, and slammed him headlong into concrete. Blood spattered the wall; the fight lasted two heartbeats.
Ren tried to run. Batman's grapnel snaked out—cord tightening around her ankle, jerking her to the ground with a yelp. He was on her in a heartbeat, pressing her face-first into the spilled duffel—Ghostfire pills scattering across the filth.
"You're done running." His voice was a dark blade. "Who's your supplier? Who's moving Ghostfire into the villages?"
"I—I just carry," Ren rasped, twisted under his knee. "Kaneda sets the drop. Viper pays. Sometimes Lotus, sometimes the Oni Clown's freaks. I swear I don't know—"
"Wrong answer." Batman shifted his weight, pain blooming in her shoulder. "You're taking me to your stash. Lead me to the next shipment, or you'll wish the cops found you first."
Her resolve collapsed. "Okay, okay! North spillway—the syndicate's meeting tonight. The Oni Clown himself wants in. Says he's planning a show."
His blood chilled. Batman reached for zip-cuffs, binding Ren's wrists. "Satake. Staging in the north spillway. Oni Clown's name came up."
A pause, then Satake's cold anger: "That one is chaos on legs. Exercise maximum caution."
Batman scanned the crates again—Sun, Stone, Mist—all the great nations stamped on cheap wood, every kingdom beneath the rot. It hit him: the syndicates weren't just peddling addiction. They were waging war by proxy. Destroying from within.
He looked down at Ren, broken and shivering. "You're going to show me everything. Then you tell them—Kurogakure sends its regards."
He dragged her up, cape masking them both as they slipped deeper into the arterial dark. Behind them, blood and pills and shattered syndicate thugs marked the tunnel like a warning: the city still had guardians, and tonight, the Bat hunted beneath its skin.
Ahead, laughter echoed—a wild, manic sound, bouncing down the long throat of the tunnel, promising that the worst was still to come.
And Batman moved towards it, every sense sharp, justice colder than the stones beneath his feet.
The tunnels beneath Kurogakure swallowed sound—only the faint drip of leaking pipes and distant echoes bounced off cold stone. Batman moved like a shadow made flesh, his hand firm on Ren's shoulder as she led him deeper into the black guts of the city. The bass from the Black Lotus club faded behind them, replaced by a twisted, faint laughter—a chilling echo that made his skin crawl: Oni Clown's hallmark.
He tapped his cowl's comm, voice low and steady.
"Satake. Closing on the syndicate meet. Ren's leading. KPD stays out—this is a rat's nest ready to explode. This goes national."
A pause, then Satake's clipped reply.
"Understood. Blueprints show two exits. Heat sensors flag explosives—classic Oni Clown setup. Be ready."
Batman's eyes narrowed beneath his matte black cowl as the shadows thickened. He halted in a fractured overlook above the spillway chamber. Through the cracked concrete grille, he saw the underworld's blood ritual unfolding: three groups clustered around rusted crates — Viper's enforcers, Oni Clown's eerily masked disciples, and dark-suited strangers unknown to him. Ghostfire crates stamped with hidden village insignias filled the floor: faded Suns of Konohagakure, jagged Stones of Iwagakure, and sharp Marks of Kirigakure. The poison was spreading—shipping death from village to village.
Oni Clown's minions laughed, jabbed, and unloaded a duffel stuffed with more glowing Ghostfire and heavy crossbows. A manic giggle cut through the tension. Ren's trembling finger pointed. "Viper's lieutenant. Arguing with Oni's goons. Turf war... payment issues."
Batman's gaze swept silently—tripwires thickened the choke points, faint chemical scents hinted at gas traps, and a half-hidden rigger eyed the rafters, fingers twitching near an ominous canister painted with a grinning clown face.
Time to move.
With practiced ease, Batman disabled a camera feed with a flick of his gauntlet. Slipping into the maze of rusted pipes and hanging wires, he stalked the upper rafters—silent, patient. His thoughts sharpened by the grit of the city:
Negotiations built on bones. The Clown's chaos, Viper's greed. If this blows, the whole city burns.
Suddenly—a sharp voice cut through the darkness.
"Traitor here! Bat in the tunnels!"
A minor goon's shout shattered the fragile quiet. Lights flickered, weapons raised. Several villains plunged syringes filled with raw Ghostfire venom into their veins, faces twisting into animalistic rage. Panic spread like wildfire.
Then, fury ignited.
Batman dropped, a tempest of black and gray fury. His first move was pure Arkham precision—a brutal takedown: fist lunged into a man's throat, crushing wind before the enemy even drew breath. His elbow cracked ribs; his knee shattered bones with perfected strikes honed by years of relentless training. Against a second thug lunging with a knife, Batman's parry was fluid and ruthless—a snap-lock breaking the attacker's wrist before the blade could strike. He swung the thug's own momentum to slam him headfirst against a concrete pillar, blood spraying the damp stone.
Goaded by Ghostfire's adrenaline, the thugs fought with beastly strength and erratic swings. Batman adapted, flipping explosive smoke bombs to shroud the battlefield, using shadows and quick grappling shots to isolate enemies. He pirouetted, ducked, and struck with surgical brutality—breaking arms, snapping legs, choking unconscious those who fell prey to his relentless assault.
Ren tried to flee amidst the chaos, but a grapnel shot caught her ankle, yanking her brutalized but alive back into the fray. Batman growled, locking eyes with her beneath his glowing white slits.
"You're mine. No more running."
Syndicate lieutenants barked orders, their voices raw with menace and fury. "Don't let the Bat get the stash!"
As the last thug fell, the chamber plunged silent but for a crackling voice from a battered playback device, spreading through the gloom.
> "Enjoyed the preview, Bat? The real show starts tomorrow night. Try to stop me... but you'll already be too late."
The message warped and hissed, followed by manic laughter tearing through pipes and stone—Oni Clown's mad symphony echoing in the dark.
Batman's jaw tensed; crimson flecks stained his gray armor as his breath came ragged but coldly controlled. He shot a hard glance at the defeated foes and the crates bearing evidence of cross-village trafficking—the poison spreading like wildfire.
His fingers tapped the comm. "Satake. It's worse than we thought. The syndicates have deep roots in the Elemental Nations. This city's bleeding and the next plays for keeps."
Satake's voice held ice. "Prepare. Reinforcements could hit at any time. KPD is still wary after the last mess."
Batman hauled Ren upright and moved toward the exit. Above the spillway shaft, rain pounded on cracked concrete.
Waiting in the shadows was the Batmobile—obsidian black, angular, aggressive, with electric blue emblems glowing on its wheels and grille. Its dipped roof reflected neon flickers like serrated wings ready to snap. Batman slid into the cockpit, carry bag of Ghostfire sample sealed tight. Displays flickered to life, feeding Satake's analysis as the engine growled—a beast waking.
"Tonight belongs to the monsters," he muttered, hands gripping the wheel as the Batmobile roared into the night, blue light slicing through the downpour.
"Tomorrow," he promised, "I bring the reckoning."