The interrogation room was cold, colder than it needed to be. Commissioner Gordon leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching as a jittery street thug lit his third cigarette in ten minutes. The kid was shaking, lips still red from where an officer had clocked him during the chase.
"You want to tell me again," Gordon said, slow and steady, "how you vanished for three days and suddenly turned back up with no drugs, no weapons, and no friends?"
The kid blinked fast. "I—I told you. I was hiding. Some guy helped me."
"I dunno his name. He didn't tell me. Just… gave me a phone, told me to follow directions. Next thing I know, I'm holed up in this ratty-ass basement with food and a first-aid kit."
"Phone still on you?"
The kid shook his head quickly. "Nah. They took it when I left. Said if I brought heat, they'd cut me loose."
Gordon exchanged a glance with Montoya, who stood just behind the glass. They'd heard similar stories now five in the past two weeks. Petty criminals who should've been easy arrests slipping out of sight the moment a chase began. Then resurfacing later, clean or bleeding, but always… untouched.
Across the city, high above the skyline, Batman stood perched on the ledge of a warehouse overlooking Crime Alley. Robin crouched beside him, gaze flicking across the streets below.
"You see the pattern?" Batman said.
Robin nodded. "Criminals are getting… ghosted. Mid-chase. Some guy on a moped vanished into a parking garage last night. Swear I checked every car, every exit. Nothing."
Batman's jaw was tight.
"Small-timers. Pickpockets. Runners. Mules. They're not organized, but someone's cleaning up after them."
"No tag signatures. No territory wars. No extortion." Batman narrowed his eyes. "No violence."
Robin tilted his head. "Then what is it?"
Batman's voice dropped. "I don't know. No one is making any noise and that's what troubles me."
They stood in silence for a while, watching the city breathe beneath them. A siren howled in the distance. Somewhere, a man ran through the alleyway. Somewhere, a burner phone buzzed quietly in a pocket.
Robin finally asked, "You think it's someone new?"
"I don't know yet," Batman replied. "But I intend to find out."
Back at the GCPD, Gordon scribbled something in his notepad and muttered, "Someone's building something under our noses."
Montoya stepped into the room.
"We got another one," she said. "Teenager. Mugged someone in Burnley and ducked a squad car. By the time we had eyes on him again, he'd dropped the wallet and disappeared."
Gordon rubbed the bridge of his nose.
"Alright. Get me every officer who's reported a chase gone cold in the last month. If someone's helping these punks… I want to know who. And how."
Surveillance feeds flickered across the giant monitors, a hundred camera angles from all over Gotham running in perfect sync. Batman stood in front of them, arms folded, eyes unmoving. Alfred brought a cup of black coffee, setting it on the tray nearby without a word.
"Run it again," Bruce said.
The system obeyed. A security camera angle replayed in slow motion. A mugger sprinted down an alley near Tricorner Yards, limping slightly. A patrol car cut around the corner just seconds behind.
Bruce's eyes narrowed.
"Freeze. Zoom in, frame 214."
The system locked onto the frame. The man glanced at the camera just for a heartbeat then darted toward a row of dumpsters. Seconds later, the patrol car arrived, and the man was gone.
Batman turned toward the other screen. "Case 742A. Pickpocket near Coventry. Run it." Follow current novels on NovᴇlFɪre.ɴet
Another clip played. Same pattern. Same results. Every criminal vanished directly after passing a camera's line of sight.
"They know the grid," Bruce muttered.
Robin, now suited up and working at a side console, looked over. "Like someone mapped out every camera angle in the city?"
"Exactly," Batman said. "They know the blind spots. They're not improvising. Someone's directing them."
Bruce didn't answer. He just stared at the third video on loop — a teen vanishing into a crowd, but only after glancing at a streetlamp.
Every single one of them looked up. Just once. As if… checking.
The monitor to Bruce's right blinked red.
[PRIORITY ALERT — SUBJECT: LAWTON, FLOYD (ALIAS: DEADSHOT)]
A map of Gotham exploded onto the screen. A red dot pulsed just south of Otisburg. Drone footage flickered in the corner — blurry, but enough to identify a scope being mounted on a rooftop ledge. The target area? A business gala hosted by one of WayneTech's competitors.
Robin spun in his chair. "Deadshot's in the open?"
"Not for long," Bruce said, already walking toward the suit vault. "Keep tracking the disappearances. Catalogue the exact camera intervals. I want a complete list of blind zones by the time I'm back."
The Batmobile roared through Gotham's eastern district, engine low and predatory. Rain flicked off the windshield in rhythmic slaps.
Mid acceleration the roof slid open and Batman launched from his seat while grappling onto the roofs edge and zipping onto the ledge.
Batman stood atop a dimly lit rooftop, his cape fluttering behind him. Across the way, Deadshot crouched beside a rooftop ventilation unit, rifle raised, the red lens of his monocle pulsing faintly in the dark.
Deadshot fired first.
The shot cracked through the night, aimed straight at Batman's chest. Batman twisted, the bullet grazing his shoulder armor as he rolled and launched a batarang in the same breath. It clanged off Deadshot's rifle, throwing off his next shot. Sparks flew.
"You're getting slow," Deadshot called, vaulting over the unit and unleashing a short burst from his wrist gauntlets. The rounds pinged against a metal grate as Batman ducked behind it.
Batman surged forward, closing the gap before Deadshot could reset. They collided—Deadshot raised his knee, but Batman caught it with his forearm and slammed a palm into Floyd's chest, knocking the wind out of him.
Deadshot stumbled back, raised his gauntlet—
Batman stepped into his guard and drove a brutal elbow across his jaw, followed by a spinning kick that sent Deadshot reeling toward the roof's edge.
Floyd's boot slipped on the slick tar paper. He flailed, teetering—Batman lunged to grab him, but Deadshot yanked a smoke canister from his belt and slammed it to the ground. The roof exploded with smoke and the acrid sting of phosphorus.
When the smoke cleared, Deadshot was gone.
Batman stood in silence, scanning the rooftops. Nothing. He pulled up his wrist display and began searching the nearby surveillance feeds.
Six blocks away, the haze of smoke still clung to Deadshot's coat as he limped through a tight alley, clutching his side. Blood soaked the seam between his armor plates.
A figure emerged from the shadows—grimy clothes, patchy beard, a shopping cart full of plastic bags.
"You deadshot?" the man whispered.
Deadshot narrowed his eyes behind the lens. "Who's askin'?"
"Doesn't matter. You need help. I got a spot. You'll be safe. No Bat, no cops."
Deadshot paused. Then nodded once.
The man moved quickly. Down an alley. Through a busted chain-link fence. Past a pile of broken furniture that concealed a tunnel entrance. Five minutes later, Deadshot collapsed onto a mattress in a basement below an abandoned pawn shop.
The man stepped away and pulled out a prepaid burner. Dialed a number from memory.
"Yo, I got a situation," the man said. "We just relocated a guy. Heavy hitter. Like, real heavy."
Quentin's voice came through, calm and clipped. "Who?"
"Deadshot. Like… the Deadshot."
The line went silent for a moment.
"Keep him there," Quentin finally said. "Keep your mouth shut. I'll take it from here."
He hung up, then leaned back in the rickety chair inside Nolan's command apartment, tapping the burner against his knee.
"Deadshot," he muttered to himself, lips tight. "Shit."
They were on the map now