The Hitman

Stepping out into the cold Gotham night, Esau exhaled, his breath visible in the crisp air as he ran a hand through his hair. His mind was still whirling with the brutal, methodical display of dominance he had just witnessed.

Bronze Tiger.

The name alone carried weight now.

Esau was a fighter. He had clawed his way up from being a weak, scrawny kid who could barely last a round in the Underground Rings to becoming a dominant force. He had fought hardened criminals, mercenaries, assassins, superpowered beings, robots and demigods. He had killed when necessary. He had trained under Deathstroke, and taken part in battles that most would consider suicide.

Yet, he couldn't deny what he had seen.

That short, calculated, and brutally efficient execution—Bronze Tiger breaking the contender's arms and legs before snapping his jaw with a single devastating punch—wasn't just brute force. It was skill. A level of combat expertise that Esau hadn't faced in a long time.

It excited him.

It made his blood run hot, ignited a thirst he hadn't even realized had dulled over time.

Yes, he had fought Batman.

Yes, he had clashed with Deathstroke.

But he had grown accustomed to the idea that those men were ahead of him. They were legends, figures that he would eventually surpass once time, training, and experience caught up. It was a slow, methodical process, one he had accepted without question.

But this?

Bronze Tiger was an unknown.

One that made the hunger return.

The thought of facing someone who could match him, possibly even beat him, sent a thrill through his veins. He had told himself that he was focusing on his powers, that he would hone his abilities and let his skills develop naturally alongside them. But after tonight, after seeing a warrior of that level, he realized something.

He didn't just want to train his powers.

He wanted to fight.

He wanted to push himself beyond his limits.

He wanted to know—to feel—if he could actually stand against someone like that.

Esau let out a low chuckle, shaking his head as he forced himself to calm down. As much as the thought of testing himself against Bronze Tiger sent a fire through him, there were more pressing matters to attend to.

He stepped down the few concrete steps leading from the underground establishment, passing by the bouncers he had beaten into the pavement earlier. They were still there, nursing their bruises, glaring daggers at him as he casually strolled past. Esau gave them a lazy wave without even glancing in their direction, fully aware of their burning resentment.

"Don't take it personally," he said, tone laced with amusement. "I was just reminiscing."

The larger of the two, the one whose nose was now crooked from the hit Esau had landed, gritted his teeth but remained silent.

Esau grinned.

Gotham.

He really had missed it.

Making his way toward where his motorcycle was supposed to be chained up, his steps slowed as he took in the sight before him. The chain that had been securely fastened around the metal post was now snapped in half, the heavy links discarded on the ground.

His bike?

Gone.

For a long moment, Esau just stood there, staring at the empty space where his ride had once been. Then, rather than rage, rather than frustration—he started laughing. A genuine, amused laugh that rumbled from deep within his chest. He shook his head, running a hand down his face. Of course.

Of course this would happen.

"Damn, I've missed this city," he muttered under his breath, still chuckling as he reached into his jacket and pulled out his phone. A few taps on the screen, and a map appeared, a small blinking red dot glowing softly on the screen.

His bike and its current location.

Esau smirked as he slid his phone back into his pocket, cracking his knuckles. "Alright then," he mused to himself, stretching his neck from side to side. "Let's go get it back."

-X-

Esau strode down the dimly lit streets of Gotham, his boots echoing softly against the pavement as he navigated the familiar terrain. The city had a pulse, a rhythm all its own—one that had once dictated his every move. Even after spending time away, he could still read its silent cues, sense the unspoken threats lurking in the shadows.

His destination loomed ahead—a squat, reinforced brick building with metal-plated doors and darkened windows, the kind of place that didn't bother trying to look legitimate. Last time Esau had been in Gotham, this place belonged to the Dubelz Crime Family.

Whether that was still the case he didn't know nor did he care.

What he did care about was that his stolen bike was inside.

Coming to a stop in front of the heavy metal door, Esau rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck, and rapped his knuckles against the surface. A hatch slid open, revealing a pair of beady, suspicious eyes glaring out at him from the other side. The smell of stale cigars and cheap booze wafted through the narrow gap as the gravel-voiced thug on the other side sneered.

"The hell do you want?"

Esau tilted his head slightly, his tone casual, almost friendly. "I'm here for my bike."

There was a beat of silence, then the thug barked out a harsh laugh, the kind that wasn't actually amused. "Yeah? Well, how about this—you turn your ass around and forget you ever saw this place. If you know what's good for you."

The hatch slammed shut.

Esau exhaled through his nose, shaking his head in mild amusement.

Then he knocked again.

The hatch slid open again, this time with less patience. "I swear to God—keep this up, and you're gonna end up in a fuckin' dumpster."

The hatch slammed shut once more.

Esau let the silence stretch for a moment before wrapping his knuckles against the metal door in a rhythmic fashion. On the final knock, he kicked the door in and with a deafening sound, the reinforced door blasted inward, skidding across the floor and slamming into a stack of crates. A few unlucky thugs standing too close were knocked clean off their feet by the sheer force of the impact.

Esau stepped inside, his hands still casually tucked into his pockets, his posture relaxed. His eyes scanned the room—a dimly lit den filled with low-level goons scrambling for weapons, half-finished cigars burning in nearby ashtrays, and a distinct stink of sweat, alcohol, and gunpowder.

He arched a brow, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Evening, gentlemen," he greeted smoothly, his voice carrying through the now dead silent room. "I believe you have something of mine."

-X-

The room was wrecked.

Bodies littered the floor, groaning or completely unconscious. A few overturned tables, shattered bottles, and broken chairs completed the picture of absolute chaos. Esau stood in the center of it all, his hands dripping with blood, though none of it was his. His hoodie was dusted with debris, knuckles split from impact, but he was grinning.

Dangling from his grip by the shirt collar was one of the battered thugs, out cold, his head lolling to the side as Esau held him up like a ragdoll. Across from him, pointing two pistols squarely at his chest, was a new face.

The man stood tall, broad-shouldered with an air of casual confidence, dressed in a black T-shirt and dark pants, a green trench coat hanging open around him. His hair was slicked back, and a pair of black sunglasses rested over his eyes, despite being indoors.

A faint smirk tugged at his lips, but his stance remained firm, both guns unwaveringly aimed at Esau.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Esau, still holding the unconscious goon, lifted his free hand and waved. "Hey." The stranger's smirk deepened slightly, though there was still a glint of cautious confusion in his posture. Esau glanced down at the battered thug in his grasp, then back at the gunman. "Don't suppose you're the 'Hitman' these guys mistook me for?" He asked dryly.

The man—Tommy Monaghan, Hitman of Gotham—frowned, visibly thrown off by the entire situation. He kept his pistols trained on Esau, but the sheer absurdity of what he had just walked into was clearly throwing him for a loop.

For a guy who had seen some shit, even this was unexpected.

Honestly?

He wasn't quite sure what the hell to do next.