In a pitch-black alley, the faint glint of armor tangled with the heavy, suffocating fog.
In an instant, the gray mist condensed into a human silhouette at the far end of the alley. The scraping of armor ceased, replaced by slow, heavy footsteps splashing through shallow puddles, each sound sharp as a death knell.
"Slade… Deathstroke?"
"That's right. Your death knell."
The words barely left his mouth before a blade flashed—yet Schiller vanished, reappearing silently behind the armored figure.
"Who hired you?"
"That's none of your concern."
"You must be very confident in your skills."
Two throwing knives cut through the air, but Schiller flickered again, dodging with ease. Facing Deathstroke, he said coldly:
"You shouldn't try to kill me."
"I can kill anyone, so long as the price is paid."
Schiller raised his hand. A flame kindled in his palm.
"Whoever hired you… They didn't pay enough."
Deathstroke was silent for less than a second before turning on his heel.
"You're right. Goodbye."
"What will you do to an employer who lies to you?"
"That depends."
"Kill him. I'll pay."
"You don't have that kind of money."
"The richest man in the world will cover it."
"Goodbye."
And just like that, the armored figure was gone—swallowed into Gotham's endless streets within a few breaths. Schiller stood still, realizing his enemies must have some influence if they could afford to hire Deathstroke against him.
The repeated teleportations had drained much of his strength. No cars could reach this deep alley, so he decided to walk back slowly. Once near the church, he would call for a ride.
He turned out of the alley onto the street—then paused. Something stirred in the distant shadows.
Meanwhile, Batman stood inside a decrepit, suffocating room.
It was a third-floor walk-up, the windows nailed shut, the walls stripped of paint. The air was damp; the stone floor slimy with moisture. Broken furniture lay scattered, the rest of the space littered with trash.
Batman had never stepped into a place so miserable.
The man who lived there froze at the sight of his uninvited guest. Then he lowered his head, stared blankly at his own feet, and muttered something incoherent. His hunched frame shuffled toward the table. He picked up a salt shaker and held it out.
Batman accepted it. Empty. Then the man waved vaguely, as if telling him to leave.
He was a shriveled, stooped old man, skin dark and wrinkled, eyes sunk deep into his skull. He limped with every step, mumbling curses under his breath.
From downstairs, a neighbor's voice drifted up the stairwell: "What are you doing here with that old fool? Who are you to him?"
"What's wrong with him?" Batman asked.
"What's wrong? Can't you see? He's got dementia. Doesn't recognize anyone anymore. Even if you knew him, he wouldn't know you."
The neighbor, unable to see Batman's face in the shadows, kept talking: "He can't pay rent. Every time the landlord comes, he hands over that damn salt shaker. Maybe it was worth something in his day, but it's been empty for years."
"He's only still here because the landlord got whacked by the mob. This attic's worthless, and killing him would mean disposing of the body. So he survives. Barely."
"He eats scraps tossed down from upstairs, but those neighbors moved out days ago. He won't last long."
A door slammed shut. Silence returned.
Batman held the salt shaker. He looked at the hunched old man, now slumped in a chair, drool sliding from his mouth as he stared blankly at the table.
Batman saw his hands—gnarled, scarred, fingers twisted from years of hard labor, veins bulging beneath the brittle skin.
"Are you Louis?"
No answer. Only the echo of Batman's own voice.
"Do you remember Thomas Wayne? Do you remember Martha?"
His voice trembled. Rage welled in his chest. The salt shaker creaked under the force of his grip.
His parents' murderer no longer remembers anything. No guilt, no crime, no recognition. Oblivion had shielded him from remorse.
Batman's fury broke out.
"Why don't you remember?! Don't you remember the name Wayne?! What about Edward? What about Falcone?!"
At the last name, the frail Louis suddenly let out a twisted scream. His jaw cracked as he forced it wide, trembling violently. He toppled from his chair, shrieking, hurling whatever objects he could grasp. Tears, snot, and spit streamed down his face.
On that face, Batman saw pure, unending fear.
Falcone hadn't lied. When he butchered the Viking at the docks years ago, he terrified everyone who witnessed it. Louis included.
Schiller arrived at the far end of the alley. Looking up, he saw a light still glowing in a third-floor room—and the silhouette of a man with pointed ears.
He waited below until Batman emerged. Batman seemed surprised to see him, but his mind was heavy and slow.
Schiller scanned him. No injuries. No signs of a fight. His gaze settled on the salt shaker clutched in Batman's hand.
Schiller didn't know what it meant, but he could tell Batman needed to speak. Before Schiller could ask, Batman began recounting everything.
They walked together through the thinning night. At the church steps, dawn was close. Batman squeezed the salt shaker, muttering:
"He doesn't remember."
This time, his voice wasn't angry, but filled with a strange, weary melancholy.
"You said he remembered one thing," Schiller noted.
"Yes. Falcone. He remembers Falcone. But not Wayne. Not my parents…"
Schiller sighed. He looked into the distance. "Because of fear. Fear carves itself deepest into the human soul. It's the one scar that never fades."
"He forgot everything else… but he remembered fear?" Batman whispered.
The city lay in its darkest hour, just before dawn. The thick blackness swallowed all shapes, all outlines.
Then, the toll of Gotham Cathedral's bell rolled across the city—deep, resonant, unrelenting. The sound penetrated every alley and shadow, vibrating through the gloom.
Fear, Batman thought. Fear.
If he could no longer claim vengeance on the past—if the murderer had forgotten every crime, leaving his hatred and rage hollow—then he would carry forward what remained.
If justice and memory had failed, he would make fear everlasting.
He would become Gotham's Dark Knight, the one to drape every criminal in unending terror.
Years ago, bats had streaked across the sky the night his parents died. Now, he would wield that same terror against Gotham's underworld.
Like the tolling of the bell, seeping into every street and every shadow of Gotham.