The office was drowned in shadows, curtains drawn, the faint amber glow of a desk lamp catching on crystal and steel. Black Mask sat behind his desk, a skull of polished obsidian staring out into the dark, a half-empty glass of whiskey sweating in his grip.
Across from him lounged Alistair Grimm-black suit, crimson dress shirt with the top button undone, double holsters peeking beneath his coat, his twin swords leaned neatly against the desk like waiting serpents.
Black Mask (raising his glass): "You've done nothing but bring me good fortune, Grimm."
Alistair (smirking): "What can I say? I'm the best at what I do."
Black Mask: "Indeed you are."
He stood, deliberate, moving to the filing cabinet. Papers rustled, metal drawers groaned. He tossed a manila file onto the desk with a thud.
Alistair picked it up, flipping it open with one hand. A familiar name stared back at him.
Alistair: "Ethan Whitaker. Mayoral candidate." He looked up, unimpressed. "You want him dead."
Black Mask: "Do you see anyone else's name in that file?"
Alistair (dryly): "Fair enough. I figured you'd want me to toy with him a bit before pulling the trigger."
Black Mask (leaning forward, skull catching the lamplight): "Leave the play to me. I enjoy making prey squirm. You? You're the executioner."
Alistair (closing the file, sliding it under his arm): "Consider it done."
He rose from the chair, retrieving his blades with casual grace. The door creaked as he pulled it open, but Black Mask's voice stopped him cold.
Black Mask: "The Bat is watching you, Grimm. He's hunting you. Don't underestimate him... he isn't what he seems."
Alistair turned slightly, smirk cutting sharp under the lamplight.
Alistair: "I plan on it."
The door shut with a final click.
POV Switch: The Batcave
The sound of fists pounding leather echoed through the cavern. The heavy bag swayed violently on its chain, groaning under the relentless assault. Sweat ran down Bruce's face, dripping from his jawline, his knuckles already raw beneath the gauntlets.
Perched casually on the hood of the Batmobile, Nightwing-Richard "Dick" Grayson-tilted his head, watching with that trademark half-smirk.
Dick (whistling under his breath, then muttering): "I haven't seen him this wound up since... Endgame."
He paused, eyes narrowing as the memory flickered. "Last time Joker pushed him that far, Gotham almost burned."
Alfred stepped into view, calm as always, a tray in his hands with fresh bandages and tea-because Alfred Pennyworth never forgot the balance between war and civility.
Alfred: "Yes, Master Richard. But this is different. Not many men have managed to slip his net... yet this fellow seems to dance right through it."
Dick hopped down from the Batmobile, walking closer, still keeping a lightness to his tone.
Dick: "Yeah, well, what he really needs is a shower. Seriously, I can smell him from here. Obsession and sweat don't mix."
Alfred arched a brow, the faintest smile tugging at his lips.
Alfred: "Perhaps a few words of encouragement from you might prove more effective than my tea or lectures, Master Richard."
Alfred turned his back going up the stairs
Dick: [waving his hand] "Hey, Bruce. Bruce! Hi, your adopted son here-Dick Grayson. Nice to meet you."
Batman ignored him, grunting with each punch as the heavy bag rattled on its chain.
Dick: "Come on, man. You need rest. You've been at this for five hours straight."
Bruce's fists slowed. He pulled back, sweat dripping off his jaw.
Bruce: "I don't get it. I can't even tell what weapon model he's using. Nothing. All I've got is Ethan Whitaker."
Dick: "Not the first time you've gone in blind. Won't be the last, right?"
Bruce: "I know. But this feels different-no calling card, no trace. Nothing."
Dick: "Then maybe we ask someone who'd know. Slade. The League. Somebody's gotta have heard of him."
Bruce's jaw tightened, but he didn't argue. He grabbed his cowl, pulled it back over his head, and dropped into the chair at the console. His fingers flew across the keys.
The Batcomputer screen flickered, stabilizing into a video feed. Slade Wilson-Deathstroke-appeared, half his face hidden behind the iconic mask.
Slade: "Batman." [then, noticing Dick] "...Robin."
Dick: [folding his arms] "It's Nightwing now. Has been for a while."
Slade's lip curled, but his eye shifted back to Bruce.
Batman: "I need information."
Slade: "And you know I don't work for free."
Batman: "Name your price."
Slade: "Twenty million. Offshore. Right now."
Before the assassin could blink, his terminal buzzed. A confirmation light blinked red. Funds transferred. His jaw tightened-Batman had already hacked his account.
Batman: "White hair. Red eyes."
For the first time, Slade froze. His eye widened.
Slade: "...So he's in Gotham now." [a beat] "The Devil's come home."
Batman: "Who is he?"
Slade: "He goes by Hyde. Real name: Alistair Grimm. I crossed paths with him a few years back. Others called him the Killer of Killers. Sometimes... the Butcher."
Dick's smirk faded. Even he could hear the weight in Slade's voice.
Slade leaned forward.
Slade: "You've faced assassins, monsters, psychopaths. But you've never faced him. If Grimm decides you're dead... you're dead. He's faster than me. Smarter than most. His style's chaos. No counters. No patterns. No mercy."
A long silence.
Batman: "Then I'll adapt."
Slade: [grim chuckle] "You'd better hope you do. Otherwise... Gotham buries a Bat."
The screen cut to black.
Dick: Killer of Killers damn that sounds like a badass name for a band
Bruce turned to look at him
Dick: What you know it's true
POV: Alistair
The night bled with color. Fireworks split the Gotham sky into streaks of gold and crimson, painting the crowd below in fleeting masks of light. Alistair moved among them quietly, glasses perched on his face-green-eyed, unassuming. Just another man in a worker's uniform, pushing through the festival chaos with a long briefcase in hand.
At the building entrance, a bored security guard blocked his path.
Guard 1: "Gonna need to search you."
Alistair: [warm smile] "Not a problem."
The guard patted him down, then gestured for the case. Alistair clicked it open-neat rows of innocuous metal pipes inside.
Guard 1: [grunts, unimpressed] "You're good." [glances at badge] "Mason Jackson, huh?"
Alistair: "Thanks."
A nod. A smile. And he was through.
Inside, Kord Industries gleamed-sterile glass and chrome, polished to corporate perfection. Ted Kord's crown jewel. Alistair tipped his hat at the receptionist, who barely looked up from her desk. He didn't wait for acknowledgment. His boots tapped against the marble as he slipped into the stairwell, climbing steadily upward.
At the top, he crouched by the ledge, setting the briefcase down in the shadows. A vent near the corner gave way with a practiced tug, revealing a hidden box stashed earlier.
Time to change.
The maintenance disguise came off piece by piece. In its place: a black dress shirt, navy pinstripe vest, fitted slacks, polished shoes. Gloves pulled tight, his transformation complete. The wolf dressed in silk.
From the false bottom of the case, his blades gleamed. Twin swords-his constant companions. He leaned them against the ledge like waiting serpents. Then he began the real work.
The "pipes" snapped together one by one, metal clinking softly. A sniper rifle took shape in his hands, every movement deliberate, ritualistic.
Finally, he drew a blade across his palm. Blood welled, bright in the moonlight. He pressed it to the round in his hand, the liquid twisting, solidifying-becoming a bullet of crimson glass.
He chambered it, settled into position, and leaned across the ledge.
Below, the crowd roared. The fireworks boomed, each burst louder than the last. His heartbeat slowed, synced to the rhythm of explosions.
He wasn't aiming for the small sparks. No. He was waiting for the sky to break apart-the largest firework of the night, the one that would drown the city in light and thunder.
Alistair's green eyes narrowed through the scope. His lips curved around the cigarette hanging loose.
The hunter was ready.
He felt it-a ripple in the air. Subtle, but unmistakable. A projectile cutting through the night toward his back.
Alistair shifted without thinking, instincts honed sharper than steel. The sniper swung like a bat across his body, colliding with the object mid-air, deflecting it into the shadows. Sparks skittered across the rooftop.
And then he saw him.
Standing in the darkness, half-swallowed by the storm of fireworks behind him, the cape flowing like living smoke. The Bat.
Alistair's lips peeled into a grin, wide and wolfish. Slowly, he slid his glasses off. His hair shimmered into its true color-snow white under the neon glow of Gotham's skyline. His eyes bled into scarlet, burning in the dark. The shades clattered to the ground, forgotten.
Alistair: "So... Gotham City's Bat has finally decided to grace me with his presence. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
Batman: [voice like gravel] "We'll talk when you're behind bars."
Alistair's grin only widened.
Alistair: "Bummer."
He reached for his swords, the twin demons at his side. With deliberate care, he drew the longer of the two-Masamune-and hurled it point-first into the rooftop at Batman's feet. The steel bit deep into the concrete, humming with lethal craftsmanship.
Alistair: "I hope you're every bit the man Ra's al Ghul makes you out to be. Otherwise..." [leans his head back, almost laughing] "...this will be boring."
Batman bent, eyes narrowing as he lifted the weapon. The balance, the edge-it wasn't just a blade. It was artistry. Ancient and terrible. His silence betrayed what little surprise he allowed himself.
Alistair was already unsheathing the other sword-Muramasa-letting its edge whisper against the night air.
The two men stared at each other across the rooftop, fireworks exploding above like war drums.
The Pale Paladin.
The Dark Knight.
And the city of Gotham holding its breath.
The sword flew—Masamune spinning skyward, trailing a red streak across the Gotham skyline.
In the instant Batman's eyes tracked it, Alistair was gone.
A rush of displaced air—the warning before the storm. Batman barely twisted, cape flaring as steel crashed against his gauntlets with a sound like a church bell being split in half. Sparks burst. Alistair's strike had enough force to shatter reinforced concrete, and yet Batman was still standing, boots sliding backward across the rooftop grit.
Alistair's grin stretched ear to ear.
Alistair: "Reflexes sharp. I like that."
He didn't stop. He never stopped. He lunged forward with berserker speed, Muramasa a crimson arc in his hands, each strike flowing into the next—wild, yet precise, feral, yet beautiful. Batman countered with brutal economy—deflecting, redirecting, refusing to give Alistair the clean kill he sought. Every block rattled his bones, every dodge tested the limits of human reaction.
Alistair vanished in a blur, reappearing at Batman's flank with a downward cleave. The blade elongated mid-swing, shifting shape into a monstrous executioner's axe—forcing Batman to drop and roll, the weapon shearing a rooftop air duct in half like paper.
Batman (thought): He's not just fast. He's adapting—changing style mid-strike. Improvisational. No pattern.
Alistair twirled the morphing blade, now a slender rapier, thrusting with snake-like precision. Batman sidestepped, countered with a batarang strike to the ribs—only for Alistair's flesh to ripple, blood knitting the wound shut in seconds.
Alistair: "Cute trick. My turn."
He slashed across the air—and a crescent of his own crystallized blood shot outward, a crimson wave. Batman snapped his cape forward, the reinforced fibers absorbing part of the blow, but the impact still hurled him back across the rooftop, skidding into a ventilation unit.
Alistair laughed, spinning Muramasa as if dancing. His movements were taunting, theatrical, like a predator toying with prey.
Alistair: "Come on, Bat. Don't make me yawn. Show me why the League speaks your name with such reverence!"
Batman rose, body aching, mind calculating. He triggered a flash pellet, the rooftop erupting in blinding light. Alistair's eyes narrowed—but he didn't shield them. He adapted, his pupils shifting, absorbing the glare like a nocturnal animal.
Alistair (grinning wider): "Nice try."
He was on Batman again before the light faded, morphing the sword into twin short blades, each slash a blur. Batman ducked, blocked, countered with a grapple line that wrapped Alistair's wrist—only for the assassin to yank him forward with inhuman strength, hurling him across the rooftop like a ragdoll. Batman slammed into a water tank, the steel crumpling under the impact.
Alistair approached slowly now, dragging the tip of Muramasa along the concrete, sparks trailing behind.
Alistair: "You feel it, don't you? The difference between us. You're fighting a hurricane with your bare hands."
Batman pushed himself free of the wreckage, battered but unbroken.
Batman: "I've fought gods. You bleed like a man."
That flicker of defiance—it excited Alistair. His grin sharpened, his crimson eyes alight with hunger. He surged forward again, this time weaving his strikes with impossible acrobatics—rebounds off walls, mid-air spins, feints that shifted into real attacks at the last possible second. A trickster's ballet, wild yet intentional.
Batman's counters grew more desperate—shock gloves sparking against Alistair's blades, cryo-capsules bursting at his feet to slow his movements, batarangs detonating mid-swing. None of it stopped Alistair, but it slowed him, forced him to adapt faster and faster, his style shifting like water.
And still, through the chaos, Batman endured. Always a fraction too slow, always one strike from death—but never yielding.
The fireworks roared above them, their light bathing the rooftop in crimson and gold, as the Pale Paladin and the Dark Knight collided again, two forces neither the city nor the night sky was meant to contain.
Alistair raised one hand, and fire bloomed in his palm—searing, violent, alive. It pulsed brighter until the rooftop was drowned in its glow, then he unleashed it in a roaring wave.
The heat washed over Batman. His cape flared out as a shield, fibers hissing and curling as the fire chewed through. In seconds, the legendary cloak was aflame, so Batman tore it free, casting it into the night, embers spiraling as the fireworks above drowned in the inferno's glare.
No hesitation. He sprinted forward—boots slamming concrete—closing the distance, hand snapping down to the Masamune that had been stabbed into the rooftop earlier. The sword was cool, impossibly sharp, vibrating with restrained potential as Batman raised it into guard.
Across from him, Alistair's grin only widened. Muramasa bled black lightning veined with red, every pulse sending hairline fractures spidering across the rooftop beneath his boots.
They circled. Predators. Opposites.
Alistair: "Why fight me at all, Bat? Let me work. Every name I take off the board—one less headache for you. Scum dies, the city breathes easier. I'm doing you a favor."
Batman: steady, voice like granite "That's not your call to make. That's for the law to decide. For justice to decide."
Alistair scoffed, twirling Muramasa so the lightning licked the night air.
Alistair: "Justice. Blind, stumbling, worthless. It can't tell left from right. That clown of yours—Joker. How many bodies has he left in alleys? How many children screaming for parents that will never come home? And you let it happen. Over, and over, and over. Their blood is on your hands because you refused to end him."
He struck—a brutal downward slash that Batman caught on Masamune. The clash erupted like thunder, sparks flying, the rooftop shuddering from the impact.
Batman's boots dug into the gravel. His jaw was clenched, his eyes burning under the cowl.
Batman: "I've thought about it. Every night. Every victim. And I'll keep carrying that weight. That's my responsibility. That's what separates us. You rationalize murder—I bear its consequences."
Alistair's grin faltered into a sneer. His strikes grew sharper, quieter. His steps were soundless, his blade work ghostly. For the first time in the fight, Batman felt it—not just speed, not just strength. A suffocating pressure. Presence fading, killing intent sharpening until the Pale Paladin moved like a phantom.
The Masamune vibrated in Batman's grip as if sensing its brother blade's hunger. He adjusted his stance, sharper, tighter, every breath measured.
Alistair: low, almost a whisper "You don't understand. I'm not delusional. I don't care about truth or justice or gods in capes. I'm a man who knows exactly what he is. I kill because it pays. I kill because I can."
He blurred out of sight. Batman's instincts screamed, and he pivoted, parrying a strike aimed for his throat. Alistair was already gone, flickering around him, blades whispering in the air like executioner's strokes.
Batman (thought): He's gone quiet. Too quiet. He's not fighting like a man anymore. He's fighting like the devil.
A strike clipped his side—armor dented, ribs aching. Another tore past his cowl, nearly taking an ear. Batman countered with explosive force, swinging Masamune in an arc that caught Alistair mid-lunge. Steel screamed as blade met blade, black lightning clawing at white fire, a shockwave blasting gravel and debris across the rooftop.
Their eyes locked.
Batman's steel-blue against Alistair's abyssal crimson.
Ideals colliding harder than their swords.
Batman: "You're wrong about me."
Alistair: "And you're wrong about the world."
They broke apart—Batman heaving, calculating; Alistair grinning, monstrous, yet thrilled.
The fireworks above burst in brilliant red, washing the rooftop in bloodlight as the Dark Knight and the Pale Paladin clashed again, blades howling like judgment itself.
Alistair let Muramasa slide from his grip, the cursed blade sinking into the rooftop with a hungry hiss. His grin widened.
Alistair: "Swords are too poetic for what this is. Let's talk in the only language men like us really understand."
He surged forward, a blur of movement. His fist smashed into Batman's jaw with such force the Dark Knight staggered, Masamune clattering from his hands across the gravel.
Now it was bare hands. Flesh, bone, will.
Batman shook it off and reset his stance—low guard, economical, a brawler's frame refined by decades of mastery. Alistair mirrored him, but his style was something else entirely: fluid yet precise, brutal yet elegant. He shifted seamlessly between arts, the foundation unmistakably renewal Taekwondo—spinning kicks like pistons, strikes cutting the air with whip-crack speed—but laced with grappling, elbows, open-hand feints, trickster's misdirection.
They collided.
A right hook from Alistair—Batman blocked, only to eat a spinning back kick to the ribs that rattled his armor. Batman countered with a cross, slipping in close, headbutting Alistair with skull-cracking force. Alistair stumbled half a step, laughing, spitting blood.
Alistair: "There's that grit! That's what Ra's saw in you. A man who refuses to break. A man pretending he's more than flesh and bone."
Batman didn't answer—just surged forward, chaining strikes, every punch backed with perfect biomechanics, every elbow aimed to disable. Alistair flowed with it, deflecting, weaving, countering with kicks so fast the rooftop cracked under the recoil.
Batman: "You don't see it. For all your power, all your speed—you're just another killer hiding behind excuses."
Alistair caught Batman's wrist mid-strike, twisting with cobra-like precision, yanking him into a spinning elbow that sent the Bat reeling.
Alistair: "And you're still pretending restraint is justice. Joker slaughters a hospital—you lock him up. Black Mask tortures children—you deliver him to a broken system. How many graves until you admit your code makes you their accomplice?"
Batman shook it off, blood on his lip. His eyes narrowed.
Batman: "Every life I refuse to take is a line drawn in the sand. The moment I cross it—I become you. And Gotham loses its last chance at hope."
Alistair's smile faltered, if only for a flicker. Then he lunged again. Their fists blurred—elbow meeting elbow, shin colliding with shin, the sound of breaking stone beneath their feet. Alistair switched rhythms mid-combo, Renewal Taekwondo's machine-gun kicks slamming into Batman's guard with impossible speed—low, mid, high, chest, head—each faster, heavier, sharper.
Batman absorbed it, countering with grapples, judo throws, knees to the gut. He locked Alistair in a choke, twisting, ready to put him down. For a moment, it seemed the Dark Knight's discipline had caged the devil.
Then Alistair's body shifted—unnatural flexibility, joints popping loose, blood hardening beneath his skin like armor. He twisted free, headbutted Batman with a crack, and unleashed a finishing blow—a spinning hook kick like a guillotine.
The impact landed flush. Batman's cowl split, his head snapped sideways, and he collapsed to the rooftop, unconscious.
Alistair stood over him, chest heaving, blood dripping down his chin. He retrieved Muramasa and sheathed it with a flourish, smirking down at the fallen Bat.
Alistair (softly): "You fight for hope. I fight for truth. And the truth is simple, Bat—you can't save a world that doesn't want saving."
Fireworks burst overhead, painting Gotham's night sky in blood-red light as the Pale Paladin turned and walked away.
Alistair walked back across the rooftop, Masamune still gleaming faintly under the fireworks. He slid the blade into its sheath beside Muramasa, the twin swords crossing like an executioner's seal. Behind him, Batman's unconscious body twitched—the crimson strings of blood pinning him to the concrete like a marionette.
Only they weren't just restraints. Alistair's blood flowed into the wounds it had caused, sealing them, mending flesh and bone with grotesque tenderness. A gift. A taunt.
Alistair (quietly): "No excuses now, Dark Knight. Next time, you'll be at your best."
His own cuts were already gone, skin unbroken, coat unblemished. He turned back toward the ledge, toward the bright glare of Kord Plaza, where the man of the hour stood under the lights.
Ethan Whitaker. Smiling. Preaching. A puppet who thought himself a king.
Alistair crouched by the sniper, his body loose, steady, surgical. The crowd below screamed and laughed and clapped, rats scurrying around a man who didn't even know he was already dead.
Through the scope, Alistair exhaled. The world slowed. Fireworks bloomed above in crimson and gold. His pupils narrowed to pinpricks.
Bang.
The shot tore through the night, louder than the fireworks. Ethan Whitaker's head snapped back, and his body crumpled mid-sentence. The crowd erupted into chaos, panic spilling like gasoline. Gotham screamed.
Sirens blared. The GCPD immediately lit up the rooftop with gunfire, desperate, angry, but when they reached it—there was nothing.
No sniper.
No body.
No trace.
Just the faint smell of smoke and blood, carried away on the wind.