Chapter 48

Why is Gotham so dark, so oppressive?

It always feels like the city is trapped under a perpetual shroud of darkness, with cloudy skies and a suffocating atmosphere that weighs on everyone. The streets are a cesspool of crime and corruption, and the tension in the air gnaws at people's nerves, pushing them to their breaking points.

Some say the city itself is cursed, that a demon named Barbatos lies at the heart of Gotham's decay.

This demon was summoned long ago, allegedly by Thomas Jefferson—a distant ancestor of Bruce Wayne. Before the end of the Revolutionary War, many demons were imprisoned in Gotham. Among them, Barbatos remains a sinister presence, its long-standing influence shaping the city's development and its people in mysterious, often malevolent ways.

It's hard to say whether Barbatos' presence birthed Batman, or if Batman's emergence was inevitable in a place as twisted as Gotham, a city destined to be the capital of sin.

---

It was late at night.

As always, Gotham's nights were bleak and shadowed.

By the edge of Gotham Harbor, the dim glow of a flickering chandelier light swayed above the docks. The salty breeze blew across the darkened harbor, the sound of waves crashing against the shore mixing with the rustle of shifting clothing.

Two groups stood facing each other.

The first group consisted of seven or eight rough-looking men. Their leader was a broad, burly man with a thick jacket, cheap cigarette clamped between his lips. He exuded disdain, his stocky frame unyielding against the whipping sea breeze. The cigarette bobbed up and down as he smirked, his squinting eyes fixed on the opposing group.

"What's this? Falcone couldn't send anyone better?" he sneered, his voice thick with a Russian accent. "A kid who still smells like his mother's milk?"

The Russian's remark drew mocking laughter from his men.

"Go back to your crib, kid!"

"Better off hiding in your mother's arms!"

"Did you even grow a beard yet, boy?"

Their crude taunts made the other group tense.

The second group, far more composed, was led by a young man, a teenager really, standing at the forefront. He wore a suit, as did the men behind him; their sharp attire was in stark contrast to the rugged appearance of the Russians. Despite their neat appearance, they radiated an aura of quiet authority, their gazes cold and unflinching.

The young man's lips tightened as he glared at the Russian leader, his eyes burning with anger. The Russian's mocking laughter only grew louder at the boy's defiant expression.

Standing beside the teenager, a middle-aged butler in a tailored suit leaned in slightly and spoke in a low, steady tone. "Master, don't let him rile you. Everyone knows Hank's just an ignorant brute. He's not worth your time."

The butler's calm words seemed to defuse the tension, at least on their side. The Russian leader, Hank, remained unfazed by the comment, letting out a bark of laughter.

The boy gave the butler a faint, nervous smile, nodding slightly as he took a deep breath to steady himself.

"Shut it, all of you!" Hank barked, flicking his cigarette to the ground. The glowing embers were quickly snuffed out by the wind.

At his command, the jeering men behind him immediately fell silent. One of them, thinking quickly, grabbed an old, oily barrel and rolled it to the center of the two groups.

The barrel wobbled as the wind battered it, the metallic thud of its movements echoing through the still night.

The atmosphere grew heavier, the sound of crashing waves and howling wind only amplifying the tension. The sky seemed to grow darker, and the flickering yellow light from the nearby streetlamp cast eerie shadows over the two groups.

"Let's get this over with," Hank said, his voice dripping with disdain. "The Gotham sea breeze isn't something I care to linger in."

He turned slightly, and one of his men stepped forward, handing him a suitcase.

On the other side, the butler handed the boy a sleek black case. The weight of it made the boy's arm dip slightly before he adjusted his grip, his lips pressing into a firm line.

"Go ahead, sir," the butler said quietly. "You're doing fine."

The boy nodded, swallowing hard. Despite the butler's reassurances, his hand trembled slightly as he stepped forward.

At the same time, Hank moved toward the barrel, his imposing frame making the teenager seem even smaller.

The two met in the middle, their respective groups watching intently from behind, every muscle tensed as if waiting for the slightest excuse to erupt into violence.

Hank placed his suitcase on one side of the barrel and pulled out another cigarette. Lighting it with a casual flick, he took a long drag, then smirked. "You've got guts, kid. What's your name?"

The boy straightened, standing as tall as he could manage. Staring up at the towering Russian, he swallowed again but didn't falter. His voice was steady as he answered with pride:

"Mario. Mario Falcone."

When Mario stated his surname, he stood straighter, his chest puffed out with pride. The name "Falcone" carried weight, and he fully embodied the confidence that came with it.

Hank froze for a moment, clearly caught off guard. He hadn't expected the boy to be an actual Falcone. He'd assumed the kid was just a protégé, perhaps one of Falcone's trusted aides being groomed for a minor role in the organization.

But no—this boy was being shaped into the next leader of Gotham's criminal underworld.

The two stepped forward, each placing their cases on the greasy oil drum. Both turned their backs to the cases as they opened them.

Hank flipped open his case to reveal stacks of crisp dollar bills. He slid his thumb between the notes, lifting the top few to inspect them. A satisfied smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as he looked up.

On the other side, Mario had already opened his case. His expression was serious as he reached into a bag of white powder. With practiced precision, he dipped his fingers into the substance, brought a bit to his nose to sniff, and then touched it to his tongue to test its purity.

Hank, watching Mario's meticulous process, chuckled dryly. "This is the third time we've traded. Hank's reputation is solid, you don't have to check so carefully, kid."

Mario didn't respond. He simply nodded in acknowledgment and continued his checks.

Finally, he looked up, giving Hank a subtle nod to confirm that everything was in order. Hank laughed again, amused by the boy's seriousness.

If nothing unexpected happened, this deal would be wrapped up smoothly, another successful transaction for Hank.

But Gotham was a city where nothing ever went as planned.

---

The sound of crashing waves suddenly grew louder, echoing ominously across the harbor.

On the edge of the concrete pier, where the sea lapped against the shore, a pair of hands emerged from the water. The fingers gripped the edge tightly, pulling upward with surprising strength.

A figure appeared, rising out of the abyss like a phantom. Water splashed as he hoisted himself onto the dock, his presence startling in the dark, stormy night.

He was naked, his hair plastered to his face, seawater dripping from his muscular frame. His body bore the scars of countless battles, each mark a testament to the struggles he had endured. Around his neck hung a small test tube filled with a glowing red liquid, encased in a metallic cylinder no larger than a pinky finger.

This man was Bardi.

His journey had been one of survival, endurance, and sheer will. After escaping from Vic's relentless pursuit, Bardi had swum up the Snake River in Nevada, making his way to Idaho. From Idaho, he traveled through Utah, crossed into Colorado, and then into Kansas.

His destination had been Smallville, the quiet town nestled in Kansas' rural expanse. There, he had found the Kent farm, home to the kind and hospitable Jonathan and Martha Kent. They welcomed him, offering food and shelter for a day.

However, there was no sign of Superman.

Bardi quickly realized that Kal-El had not yet arrived on Earth. After calculating the timeline, he concluded that it would be another six months to a year before Superman's arrival.

Knowing he couldn't simply wait around, Bardi left Smallville. There was too much to prepare, too many things to arrange.

From Kansas, his journey took him through Missouri, Illinois, Indiana, Ohio, Pennsylvania, and finally to Delaware.

By the time he reached Delaware Bay, he was close to Metropolis. Without any identification documents and wary of drawing attention to himself, he decided to swim the remaining distance.

What he didn't expect, however, was to veer off course. Instead of reaching Metropolis, he ended up in Gotham City, its ominous skyline rising before him as he emerged from the waters of the bay.

***

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