Chapter 2 Welcome to Gotham

Jaxon moved hastily through the unfamiliar streets, his heart pounding against his ribs. His breath came in short, sharp bursts, his mind racing just as fast.

"I shouldn't have done that… What happened to keeping a low profile? I need a place to stay, but where? This city is nothing like anything I've ever seen. Where do I even start? Damn it, maybe I should've come here with a plan."

The neon lights above flickered, casting long shadows that stretched across the pavement. The city's chaotic hum buzzed in his ears—honking cars, hurried footsteps, muffled conversations. It was overwhelming, but something else gnawed at his senses.

A presence.

Jaxon came to an abrupt halt. His muscles tensed, instinct taking over. He spun on his heels, his fist rocketing forward in a blur—

"Wait!"

Milo's voice cut through the air, his hands shooting up in surrender.

Jaxon's fist stopped mere inches from Milo's face. His blue crystalline eyes narrowed, scanning Milo up and down.

"You again," Jaxon whispered, his voice edged with suspicion.

Milo chuckled nervously, raising his hands. "I can help you."

"How?" Jaxon huffed, his stance still rigid.

Milo cautiously reached out, gently pushing Jaxon's fist down. "For starters, how about bringing your fist down first? Wouldn't want to get punched in the face for offering help."

Jaxon hesitated but eventually relented, lowering his arm. "Now talk."

Milo exhaled in relief. "Well, you're new here, right? No place to stay. I can get you somewhere, but you'd have to work for it. And judging by the way you vanished earlier, you're trying to keep a low profile."

Jaxon remained silent, his gaze unreadable.

Milo pressed on. "Thing is, if you're still wandering around in three hours, you'll be arrested. And trust me, there's no such thing as a low profile in prison."

Jaxon's eyes flickered with contemplation.

Milo gave a nervous chuckle, shifting under Jaxon's intense stare. "Look, Gotham is huge. You wouldn't want to get lost in it. I can show you around."

Jaxon studied him carefully, his expression unreadable.

"Why are you so bent on helping me?" Jaxon asked, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.

Milo chuckled nervously, raising his hands. "For starters, you didn't try to kill me when I fell on you. If it were someone else, I'd probably be their slave for a week or two. And also... Reggie asked me to find new recruits for work. Right now, it's just me."

Jaxon's gaze hardened, scanning Milo's face for any signs of deception. All he found was sincerity.

"And if I work for your boss, what do I get in return?"

"A place to stay, food to eat—on the house. That's about it," Milo said with a shrug. "Oh, and you get to go to school. I mean, Chris is basically family to me. If I were stronger, he wouldn't even need to find extra hands."

Jaxon was silent for a moment, weighing his options. Finally, he exhaled. "I'll pass on the school part. But the rest… I'm in."

"Yes!" Milo pumped his fist in the air before turning back to Jaxon, grinning. "Umm… Jaxon, right?"

"Yeah. And you're Milo."

Milo blinked in surprise. "Wait, you actually remembered?"

Jaxon shrugged. "There are only two names in my head right now. I think I can manage one more."

Milo chuckled awkwardly. "Okaaay… Let's get you back, then."

Jaxon fell into step beside him as they walked down the street.

Milo grinned. "Welcome to Gotham, Jaxon."

****

The Belmont Mansion

The golden glow of the evening sun cast long shadows across the grand balcony of the Belmont Mansion. Clad Belmont, an aging but still formidable man, lounged comfortably in an ornate chair. His pristine white tailcoat hugged his broad frame, though his slightly protruding stomach hinted at years of indulgence. His silver-white hair lay neatly combed, complementing the well-groomed circle beard that framed his strong jawline. A warm, satisfied smile played on his lips as he inhaled the crisp air.

To his right stood Alfred, his ever-faithful butler. Tall and slender, his diamond-shaped face bore sharp, angular features, his gelled-back hair revealing a receding hairline. Clad in a perfectly pressed black suit, he held a white towel over his arm, his posture stiff, his expression unreadable.

Clad exhaled contentedly. "Do you feel that, Alfred? The peace in the air? No chaos. No commotion." His eyes drifted closed for a moment, a rare look of serenity settling over his features. Then, with a low chuckle, he added, "No Jack. This is what it feels like to be at the center of a city for seventeen years—unchallenged, undefeated."

Alfred remained silent, his dark eyes fixed on the distant skyline. Then, in a tone both grave and deliberate, he spoke. "It's time, Clad."

Clad's eyes snapped open. "Time for what?"

"For your name to be challenged." Alfred turned slightly, glancing down at his master. "Seventeen years at the top… Did it never occur to you that, no matter how small the chance, someone would rise to challenge you—just as you once challenged him?"

Clad's jaw tightened. "I took down Jack the Reaper sixteen years ago. He's never coming back. And if he does, I'll bury him for good this time."

Alfred let out a slow breath, shaking his head slightly. "You see, Clad, that's your problem. You're so obsessed with Jack that you've blinded yourself to everything else. Jack may be gone, but what makes you think there aren't others—stronger than him—waiting in the shadows? If it's not Jack, what will you do when someone even more dangerous comes for your throne?"

Clad's grip tightened around the armrest of his chair. "If someone like that exists, I'll fight them. And I'll win—just like I did before."

Alfred finally moved, stepping toward the nearby table. With measured grace, he poured himself a glass of wine, then lifted it slightly. A faint smirk ghosted across his lips as he stared at the deep crimson liquid. "Then may the best fighter win."

The words lingered in the air like a whisper of impending doom.

Clad's expression darkened. "Know your place, Alfred."

Alfred dipped his head in a small bow, his smirk barely concealed. "Of course… Master Belmont."

****

Back at the Cabin

Inside the dimly lit cabin, Jack stood over the bed, his lone eye scanning the arsenal spread before him. Knives, swords, and guns—each weapon meticulously arranged, each accounted for. He ran his hand over them, his fingers brushing against cold steel, ensuring everything was in place.

His gaze then shifted to the far wall, where a dark cloak hung like a shadow from his past. Memories flooded his mind, sharp and vivid. Without hesitation, he reached out, yanking the cloak free. The black leather draped over his broad frame, its length running down to his legs, the front left completely open. Only his left arm, the one that remained, slipped through the sleeve, while the other side hung empty—a silent testament to what he had lost.

The cabin door creaked open as Jack stepped outside, his entire figure swallowed in black. A cigarette rested between his lips, the tip glowing a deep orange with each drag. In his hand, a lighter flickered, its flame dancing in the cold night air.

Then, without a second thought, his arm swung back.

The lighter soared, tumbling through the darkness before crashing onto the wooden floor.

Flames licked hungrily at the dry wood, devouring the cabin within moments. The fire roared, illuminating Jack's figure as he walked away, smoke curling from his cigarette. His movements were slow, deliberate—like a man who owned the world.

A devious grin spread across his face, his lone eye reflecting the inferno behind him.

He never looked back.