Chapter 6: The Culling.

Gotham had only seen glimpses of him. A shadow in alleyways. A ghost who left bodies behind. A whisper moving through the underworld.

That wasn't enough.

It was time to introduce himself properly.

...

Hisoka sat on the rooftop of an old textile factory with his legs dangling over the edge. He looked down and thought to himself "I really need a makeover, can't keep looking like this. This body, although I'm used to it by now and my nen is stronger now... something is still missing." He looked down at the ally right next to him, and to his surprise... his solution was just across the street. 

He grinned...there is A Tailor in Gotham.

It was a boutique tucked between abandoned buildings, its flickering neon sign barely holding on. Most of its customers were criminals who wanted high-end suits that could hide bulletproof plating or knife-proof fibers. A shop that catered to the city's worst.

Perfect.

Hisoka stepped through the door, the faint chime of a bell ringing above him.

An old man with graying hair looked up from his sewing machine. He wore round glasses that magnified his eyes, making him look like a startled owl.

"We're closed," the tailor muttered, barely glancing up.

Hisoka moved deeper into the shop, running a hand along the fabrics hanging from racks. Silk. Leather. Kevlar woven into high-thread-count cotton.

"Oh, but I'm not here to buy."

The tailor's fingers twitched. "Then what do you—"

The world blurred.

One moment, the old man sat at his desk. The next, he hung upside down, Bungee Gum wrapped around his wrists and ankles, suspending him from the ceiling.

Hisoka tilted his head, admiring his work. "I need something tailored… something special."

The tailor's breathing turned ragged. "L-Look, I don't—"

A playing card pressed against his cheek.

"I'd hate to ruin your hands before you finish," Hisoka whispered.

The tailor swallowed. "Wh-What do you want?"

Hisoka walked through the shop, running his fingers along fabrics, pulling out what he liked.

"Something sleeveless. Something loose, for movement. Bright colors… I'm kind of a "performer", and don't forget to add these." He shuffled a deck of playing cards and put the four Aces on the table, "put them on the suit will you? It's a trademark." 

The tailor's lips trembled. "I-It'll take time…"

Hisoka's grin widened. "Then you'd better start sewing."

One Hour Later

The tailor had worked faster than he ever had in his life. Needles darted through fabric with frantic precision. The first mistake almost cost him a finger, but he corrected himself quickly after Hisoka's gentle reminder.

When it was done, Hisoka admired himself in the mirror. The flamboyant sleeveless top, the baggy pants, the card suit symbols stitched across his chest.

He felt right again.

He rolled his shoulders, testing the fit. "Mmm… perfect."

The tailor sagged in his restraints, exhausted, sweat dripping from his brow. "P-Please… that's all you wanted, right?"

Hisoka tapped his chin, as if considering. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he released the Bungee Gum. The tailor crashed onto his work table, gasping.

"I suppose I should thank you," Hisoka mused.

The tailor managed a weak nod. "Yes… y-you should."

Hisoka turned to the nearest mannequin and ripped off its head.

"Hmm… No, I don't think I will."

The thud echoed through the shop as Hisoka walked out the door.

With a full moon over Gotham..

Hisoka walked the streets with purpose.

No more hiding.

The flamboyant outfit caught the light of the street lamps. His bare arms flexed, tattoos marking his skin like battle scars. The diamond, heart, spade, and club stood bold against his chest.

People stared. Some turned away, sensing danger without knowing why. Others whispered, trying to put a name to the figure that had started haunting Gotham's underworld.

He smiled.

They'd know soon enough.

Hisoka reached into his sleeve, pulling out a single playing card. He flicked it into the air, watching it spin.

The wind caught it, carrying it down the empty street.

It didn't matter where it landed.

Gotham was his stage.

And the show was about to begin.

...

Words in the Underword spread that the two major Crime Bosses are arranging an alliance, The Major Crime Families are gathering. Hisoka has already caught wind of this and started his counter plan. He located the meeting place, there was a warehouse that sat on Gotham's docks, a fortress of steel and concrete. Guards patrolled the perimeter, with rifles on their shoulders. Spotlights illuminating the place, leaving no dark spots, sweeping over crates packed with weapons and cash.

The rooftop sniper exhaled, his eye fixed on the scope. His orders were simple—watch the perimeter, shoot anything that moved. The cold Gotham air stung his face as he scanned the darkness. Nothing.

A whisper brushed past his ear.

His breath hitched. His grip tightened on the rifle. His mouth opened to call for backup, but something held his throat. No pain, no impact—just a warm sensation trickling down his chest.

His fingers touched his neck. Wet.

The city skyline tilted. His vision blurred as his body failed to hold itself together. He was falling, but his legs remained standing.

The last thing he saw before the void swallowed him was a smiling shadow in the moonlight.

Across the rooftop, the second sniper adjusted his aim.

A soft thud.

His heartbeat quickened. "Davis?" His voice barely carried over the wind.

No answer.

A gust rattled the fire escape. His hands trembled around the rifle. His finger hovered over the trigger, searching the rooftop for movement.

Something moved behind him.

He spun, firing—nothing. Just shadows.

A flicker of motion—too fast to process.

A hand gripped his face. Fingers pressed into his skull. A flash of silver.

A whisper in his ear. "Too slow."

A thin, sharp edge sliced through flesh. Warmth spilled down his chest.

The rifle slipped from his grip.

A single playing card landed on his chest, soaked in red.

The Perimeter—Shadows Closing In

The crew below heard the shots. They didn't hear the bodies drop.

"Up top! Snipers are down!"

"Who the hell—?!"

"Light the place up! Don't let him in!"

Muzzle flashes exploded in every direction. Bullets ripped through crates, shattered windows, tore apart shadows. The roar of gunfire filled the air.

No movement.

A scream.

One of the men vanished into the dark. His rifle hit the ground.

"Jenkins?!"

No answer.

A second guard flinched, his boots stuck. He looked down—Bungee Gum.

His body lurched backward, flung like a ragdoll into a metal beam. A dull crack. Silence.

The gunfire slowed. They couldn't shoot what they couldn't see.

Then the laughter started.

Soft. Playful.

It bounced through the warehouse, twisting through steel beams, slipping between crates.

One thug turned in circles, sweat dripping down his face. "Where is he?!"

A shadow fell behind him.

A hand touched his shoulder.

The man froze.

"Boo."

The fingers tightened.

The scream barely left his lips before his spine snapped.

Hisoka stepped over the body, rolling his shoulders. The remaining guards stood still, eyes wide, hands shaking.

His grin widened and he whispered "I'm inside!".

Inside, the air smelled of gun oil and damp wood. Men in suits and trench coats gathered near the center, forming two groups.

Two-Face, his scarred visage half-hidden in the flickering light, sat spinning his infamous coin between his fingers. His good eye was watchful, but the burned side of his face remained expressionless, frozen in its eternal sneer.

Across from him, Oswald Cobblepot—the Penguin, rested both hands on the handle of his infamous umbrella, his monocle gleaming as he scanned the room with a sharp, calculating glare.

To his right, Black Mask—Roman Sionis, exuded an air of raw brutality. His skull-like mask hid his expressions, but the way his fingers tapped against the table betrayed impatience. "We need to remind Gotham who's in charge," he muttered, voice like gravel. "This city is spiraling. Every week, some new freak crawls out from the gutters thinking they own the place."

Next to him, Sal Maroni, the last of the city's old-school gangsters, leaned back in his chair. He adjusted his cufflinks, his gold watch catching the light. "Business is business," he said coolly, voice carrying that Italian-American lilt. "And business is suffering. Too many moving parts, too many wild cards." His eyes flickered to Two-Face, but he didn't say more.

There was a consensus in the room. The chaos needed to be controlled.

And that meant taking care of problems before they spread.

One such problem had been carving through Gotham's underworld like a knife through flesh.

Hisoka.

 A demon that laughed in the dark and left only corpses behind.

Penguin exhaled sharply, breaking the silence. "This clown's been makin' a mess of things. Can't have that. Bad for business."

Black Mask chuckled darkly. "We've had Jokers before. They all end the same way—full of holes or bat food."

Two-Face spun his coin once more, then caught it. "He doesn't play by Joker's rules."

Maroni adjusted his tie, his expression unreadable. "That makes him even worse."

Penguin sneered. "Doesn't matter how fast this freak is—he walks in, he gets torn apart. I got forty men here. Machine guns, explosives, snipers in the rafters."

Black Mask smirked. "You sure? I don't see your snipers anymore."

Then a voice said from a dark corner "A Damn Shame Indeed".  Everyone froze...then without warning...the first body hit the floor.

No sound. No warning.

A man twitched violently, suspended in the air by something invisible. His limbs bent at unnatural angles, bones pushing against flesh before something inside him gave out. His ribcage collapsed inward, as if crushed by an unseen force. The corpse dropped, lifeless.

Nobody moved.

Then another man convulsed, yanked backward. His screams never came—his jaw fused shut by a sticky, unbreakable force. He thrashed, his arms locked in place, his legs hovering inches off the ground before a sickening pop echoed. His head rolled forward. His spine had snapped like a twig.

Two-Face barely had time to process what was happening before another one of his men imploded, his torso folding in on itself. Flesh tore, bones shattered. A human body reduced to nothing more than a heap of twisted meat.

Penguin took a step back, beads of sweat forming on his brow. "Who…"

The bodies kept dropping.

One by one, men were yanked into the air, crushed, snapped, or peeled apart. Some had their throats sealed shut, suffocating as their lungs screamed for air. Others twitched violently, bungee-like strings pulling them in opposite directions until their joints popped from their sockets.

The last remaining thug reached for his gun. His arm wouldn't move. He looked down. His wrist, elbow, and shoulder had fused together in a grotesque tangle of flesh and sinew. His body jerked, dragged across the floor, and slammed into a steel beam. His skull caved inward. Blood painted the walls.

Penguin's breathing grew ragged. His grip tightened on his umbrella.

Two-Face flipped his coin. The silver disk spun in the air, reflecting the bodies around him. When it landed in his palm, he didn't need to check.

This wasn't a battle. There was no chance, no choice.

Hisoka took a step forward, his bloodstained boots pressing into the remains of what had once been men. Two-Face and Penguin stood alone now, surrounded by nothing but corpses. The metallic scent of death filled the air, mixing with the faint stench of gunpowder.

Two-Face clenched his jaw, the fingers of his scarred hand twitching. Penguin gripped his umbrella tighter, his breath shaky but controlled.

Hisoka dragged a finger through a pool of blood on the floor and traced a small heart on the side of his cheek. He smiled.

"You guys seem to be having an important, meeting" he mused, tapping his chin. "That means you must know about the Bat."

Penguin spoke first, his voice sharp, desperate to maintain control. "Listen, mate, I don't know what kind of freak show spat you out, but if it's Batman you're after, you don't want to be makin' enemies of the likes of us—"

Hisoka tilted his head. "Oh? But I do love a good game."

Two-Face flipped his coin, but his hand trembled as he caught it. He didn't look. His fate wasn't in his hands this time. "You wanna know about the Bat?" he rasped. "He'll come for you. That's a guarantee. You make enough noise, and he shows up. That simple."

Hisoka's grin widened. "How fun."

Penguin wiped his brow, adjusting his monocle with a trembling hand. "Look, we don't have to be enemies. We're businessmen. We can deal."

Two-Face nodded stiffly. "You want information? We got it. Names, places, Joker's movements—whatever you need. Just name your price."

But "I can make you rich."

Black Mask joins in with his offer, Unlike Penguin, who was barely holding it together, and Two-Face, who was too busy calculating his odds of survival, Roman Sionis still had that edge—that arrogance that only a crime lord could carry. His breathing was steady, even if his fists clenched tight enough to turn his knuckles white.

He took a step forward, ignoring the blood pooling around his boots. His mask tilted slightly, locking onto Hisoka with an intensity most men wouldn't dare.

"Whatever you're doing here, whatever your game is, I guarantee you—nobody in Gotham can bankroll it like I can."

Maroni chimes in "Yeah! Yeah, exactly! Look, pal, we don't gotta be enemies. You want money? We own this city. You wanna go after the Bat? Fine! We'll fund you. Guns, muscle, hideouts—hell, you want a goddamn army? We can get that too. No need for all this…" His eyes flicked toward the fresh corpses. His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. "Mess."

Hisoka's shoulders shook. For a moment, it looked like he was considering their offer.

Then he laughed.

A soft chuckle at first, but it grew—a manic, delighted cackle that echoed through the empty warehouse.

Penguin's face paled. "Now, let's not be hasty—"

Snap.

Hisoka moved before either of them could react.

Penguin's knee twisted unnaturally, bending the wrong way. The crime boss screeched as he collapsed, his umbrella clattering to the floor. Before he could crawl away, a translucent, elastic strand latched onto his throat. Hisoka yanked—his head slammed into the concrete, the impact splitting his skull.

Two-Face reached for his gun, but his fingers stopped inches from the grip. Hisoka's Bungee Gum held his arm in place.

The pressure increased.

His bones splintered beneath his skin. The weapon fell from his grasp as pain flooded his nerves. He gritted his teeth, refusing to scream.

Hisoka crouched in front of him, tilting his head. "I don't think I need your help after all."

With one effortless pull, his arm tore free from its socket.

Two-Face's scream finally broke free.

Blood poured from the wound, drenching his suit, pooling around him. Hisoka twirled the severed limb in his hand like a toy before slamming it across Two-Face's face, knocking him onto his back.

Penguin's body convulsed weakly. Hisoka turned, stepping on the mob boss's throat. The pressure caved it in. The struggle stopped.

Two-Face writhed on the floor, his good eye wide with agony. "Y-you… you don't know what you've just done…"

Hisoka flicked a card into the air. It landed neatly on Harvey's forehead.

"Oh, I know exactly what I've done," he said, wiping blood from his hands.

Two-Face gasped as the Bungee Gum tightened around his remaining limbs. The tension built, stretching him further and further.

Then it snapped.

His body split apart, torn limb from limb.

Maroni's face fell. Black Mask's jaw clenched.

Hisoka wiped a tear from his eye, giggling. "Oh, boys… you really thought I'd say yes?"

Black Mask's fingers twitched. "You little—"

Snap.

Maroni's body jerked. His arms and legs locked as a translucent, elastic strand yanked him off his feet.

"No, no, NO—"

Hisoka pulled.

Hisoka twisted.

Maroni's body slammed headfirst into the concrete. A sickening crack echoed through the warehouse. His body slumped forward, his skull split wide open, brain matter seeping onto the floor.

Black Mask barely had time to react before his own wrist snapped upward, locked in place by the same invisible force.

Hisoka giggled, stepping closer. "You were so close, Roman."

Black Mask fought. He struggled. He wasn't going out like this.

"F**K YOU!" he roared, his voice raw. "You don't know what you're—"

Crack.

His neck popped—his head twisting far past human limits—before his entire spine collapsed. His body crumpled like a puppet with its strings cut, dropping onto the table with a wet thud.

The last of Gotham's crime lords...dismembered.

The warehouse was silent. Only the sound of dripping blood remained.

Hisoka turned to admire his handiwork. He retrieved a fresh card from his sleeve, dipping the corner into the puddle beneath him. He pressed it against the mutilated remains of Gotham's fallen crime lords.

...

The GCPD arrived at the scene. The warehouse reeked of blood and death. Officers moved carefully, stepping around bodies that no longer looked human. Four of Gotham's crime bosses—Black Mask, Maroni, Penguin, and Two-Face—were dead.

Detective Bullock lit a cigarette with unsteady hands. "This ain't just a hit," he muttered. "This is a goddamn war zone."

Montoya scanned the scene. "You ever seen anything like this?"

Bullock shook his head. "No."

Gordon arrived, took one look, and exhaled sharply. He had dealt with the worst Gotham had to offer—Joker, Zsasz, Scarecrow—but this was different.

"Who did this?" Montoya asked.

Bullock crushed his cigarette underfoot. "Better question—who's next?"

News stations ran nonstop coverage.

The Gotham Gazette:"WHO KILLED GOTHAM'S KINGPINS?"

GNN:

"Confirmed deaths—Roman Sionis, Salvatore Maroni, Oswald Cobblepot, and Harvey Dent. Sources inside the GCPD describe the scene as 'beyond brutal.'"

Talk shows speculated. Rival gang? Vigilante? A new player?

Online forums exploded with theories. Some blamed the government. Others whispered that Batman had finally snapped.

The criminal underworld panicked. With the bosses gone, smaller gangs scrambled for control. Turf wars broke out before the bodies were cold.

Gotham's wealthy elite, the ones who relied on backroom deals, suddenly had no protection.

The average citizen? They cheered.

For one night, nobody feared Maroni's enforcers or Black Mask's brutality.

...

Batman arrived after the first reports. He moved through the scene, studying every broken body. This wasn't Joker. It wasn't Riddler, Bane, or Ra's al Ghul.

Then he saw the card.

A single playing card, soaked in blood.

Gordon stood beside him. "What kind of person does this?"

Batman turned the card over and just left.

He called Afred and said "Alfred, We have a bigger problem than we thought."

"Very well Master Bruce, I will make the necessary arrangements".