Ethan stepped out into the Gotham night.
He walked quickly, his mind already shifting from the odd interactions of the dinner table to the task at hand.
Barbara’s home had been…
illuminating, in more ways than one.
Not just the invitation he’d maneuvered into, but the glimpse of a “normal” family—something so foreign it might as well have been from another planet.
Her mother’s hug lingered in his thoughts, he couldn’t think of a time his mother had ever hugged him and yet a stranger did so…
strange.
He shook those thoughts away as quickly as they came.
Distractions later.
Information now.
He reached his apartment building without incident, slipping inside and locking his door behind him.
His parents were still out cold on the living room floor, their ragged breathing a familiar backdrop.
Ethan sat at his makeshift desk, pulling out his phone and connecting it to a portable hotspot he’d rigged earlier.
Using the network keys he’d copied from Barbara’s laptop, he bridged into the GCPD’s secure system.
It was almost disappointingly easy.
Ethan navigated the database, querying “Creedence Upshaw”
The file loaded quickly.
Creedence Upshaw, 36,
Multiple arrests for narcotics distribution, assault, and ties to low-level organized crime.
Suspect in multiple killings.
Last known address: Apartment 3B, 147 Wharf Street, Harbor District.
Gang affiliation: Iron Row, a small-time crew operating out of the Harbor.
They dealt in heroin, meth, and ran a few brothels as side hustles.
No major players, but persistent enough to carve out territory amid Gotham’s bigger fish like the Falcones or Penguin’s outfit.
Ethan leaned back, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
Iron Row likely had more metas; Creedence wasn’t unique.
Maybe he could find more of them…
and take their abilities.
He could think of this later.
The address was a start.
He’d find what he needed there.
But he wasn’t going in blind.
The police were circling, and Iron Row might already be sniffing around their dead member’s place.
Preparation was key.
Ethan counted the cash he’d taken from Creedence—$3,000, minus a few bills for his parents’ silence.
Plenty left.
He changed into darker clothes, pocketed the money, and headed back out into the East End’s underbelly.
Gotham’s black market was as reliable as its corruption; finding illegal gear here was like buying coffee.
First stop: A dimly lit alley behind a shuttered pawn shop, where a wiry man in a hooded jacket leaned against the wall, eyes darting like a cornered rat.
Ethan approached without hesitation.
“Kevlar vest.
Medium build.”
The man sized him up, smirking.
“Five hundred.
Cash only.”
Ethan handed over the bills without haggling.
The vest was lightweight, slightly worn but functional—police surplus, probably stolen.
He slipped it on under his shirt.
He wasn’t invincible and he would no doubt face people with weapons; it would be foolish not to take any precautions he could.
Next: A basement “store” run by a grizzled ex-con with tattoos snaking up his neck.
“Large dagger.
Balanced for throwing if needed.”
The man grunted, pulling a 10-inch blade from under the counter—serrated on one side, matte black to avoid glints.
“Three hundred.
It’s a good price the things sharp as hell.”
Ethan tested the weight, nodding.
It vanished into his jacket.
Finally, the gun: A backroom deal in a dive bar, where a bartender slid him a Glock 19 across the sticky counter.
“Compact, reliable.
Four hundred, plus ammo.”
He grabbed a black hoodie, cargo pants, gloves, and a plain ski mask from a nearby street vendor hawking.
The outfit was nondescript, easy to ditch if needed.
No trace back to him.
Geared up, Ethan blended into the shadows, heading toward the Harbor District, the excitement he felt in his body was almost palpable; the idea of going into the unknown…
it was so Interesting.
After a while of walking and avoiding most cameras he finally arrived.
Wharf Street was a forgotten stretch of crumbling brick apartments, graffiti-tagged and lit by flickering neon from a nearby strip club.
Number 147 was no different.
He circled the building once, scanning for watchers.
No obvious guards, but Iron Row might have eyes inside.
Ethan pulled on the mask.
Time to find that client list—and maybe a lead on more metas in the gang.
Ethan approached the entrance to 147 Wharf Street, the door already cracked open.
He pushed it wider with his boot and stepped into the dimly lit entryway.
The air hit him first, thick with the stench of unwashed bodies, stale urine, and the acrid tang of burnt chemicals.
Flickering fluorescent bulbs overhead cast shadows on the peeling wallpaper, revealing a small lobby cluttered with discarded needles, crumpled fast-food wrappers, and a few broken chairs pushed against the walls.
Huddled in the corner were three junkies, sprawled on the filthy floor like trash.
The first was a gaunt man in his forties, skin sallow and pitted with sores, his eyes glassy under a ratty beanie.
Beside him sat a woman with stringy hair matted to her scalp, her arms wrapped around her knees, rocking slightly as she muttered to herself.
The third was younger, maybe mid-twenties, with a faded tattoo snaking up his neck and a sneer twisting his chapped lips.
The gaunt man looked up first, squinting through the haze.
“Get lost, kid.
This ain’t your spot.”
The younger one chuckled, a wet, rasping sound.
“Unless you’re holding.
You holding somethin’ good?” That set them off, all three laughing in ragged bursts, the woman wheezing until she coughed.
The third one, the woman, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and eyed Ethan up and down.
“He’s probably holding a lot of cash.
Look at him, all clean like that.”
The gaunt man pushed himself up slowly, using the wall for support, his joints cracking audibly.
“Yeah…
he probably is.” His eyes narrowed as he stepped closer, the other two rising behind him like shadows.
The younger one cracked his knuckles, while the woman pulled a rusted nail file from her pocket, gripping it like a makeshift shank.
They closed in, forming a loose semicircle, blocking the stairs.
“Hand it over,” the gaunt man growled.
“Wallet, phone, whatever you got.
Make it easy, and we won’t carve you up.”
Ethan stood still.
“Move out of my way.
I don’t have time to deal with you,” he said flatly.
That drew more laughter, echoing off the walls.
The younger one reached into his jacket and pulled out a switchblade, before flicking it open.
The blade caught the light, it wasn’t a very good one, it was dull and nicked from constant use.
“You hear that?” the younger one said, stepping forward with a grin.
“Kid thinks he’s tough.
How about I open you up and see what you’re really holding?”
He lunged, the knife thrusting toward Ethan’s gut in a sloppy arc, his weight shifting forward too soon, telegraphing the move.
Ethan read it instantly: the junkie’s right shoulder dipped a fraction before the strike, pupils dilated from whatever high he was riding, balance off from favoring his left leg, maybe a limp from the bones not properly healing.
The arm extended fully, no feint, no follow-up planned, just a simple thrust.
Ethan sidestepped, grabbing the extended wrist mid-thrust and twisting it outward with a sharp yank.
The junkie yelped as his elbow hyperextended, the knife clattering to the floor.
Ethan drove his knee up into the man’s exposed ribs, feeling the crack of bone under the impact, then slammed his elbow down onto the back of the junkie’s neck.
The man crumpled forward, face-first into the concrete, but Ethan wasn’t done.
He grabbed the junkie by the collar, hauling him up just enough to drive a fist into his solar plexus, knocking the air from his lungs in a wheeze.
As the man doubled over, Ethan spun him around and hurled him into the nearest wall, his head bouncing off the brick with a dull thud.
Blood sprayed from a split lip, and the junkie slid down, eyes rolling back, body limp and twitching faintly.
The gaunt man charged next, swinging a wild haymaker aimed at Ethan’s jaw.
Ethan ducked under it, the fist grazing his mask, and countered with a palm strike to the man’s throat, crushing his windpipe just enough to make him gag.
As the man clutched his neck, Ethan grabbed a nearby broken chair leg from the floor and swept it, cracking it across the gaunt man’s knees. This chapter was copied from g.com without permission.
The man howled and buckled, dropping to one knee, and Ethan followed with an uppercut to the chin that snapped his head back, teeth clacking together.
Blood poured from his mouth as he toppled sideways, but Ethan hauled him up by the front of his shirt and drove him backward into the stair railing.
The metal groaned under the impact, and Ethan finished with a knee to the groin, then a brutal headbutt that split the man’s forehead open, sending him sprawling unconscious, blood pooling around his head.
The woman came last, screeching as she slashed wildly with the nail file.
Ethan caught her wrist mid-swing, twisting until she dropped it with a cry, then yanked her forward into a clothesline across the chest.
She gasped, staggering back, and he grabbed her by the hair, slamming her face into the wall.
As she reeled, he swept her legs out from under her with a low kick, sending her crashing to the floor.
She tried to crawl away, whimpering, but Ethan planted a boot on her back, pressing down until she went still, gasping for air.
The entryway fell silent, broken only by their ragged breaths and groans.
Ethan straightened, flexing his hands, the adrenaline fading without activation—unnecessary for trash like this.
He looked down at the one who was least injured, his expression blank behind the mask.
“Get out,” Ethan said, nodding toward the first junkie, who looked dead, his body twisted unnaturally, blood trickling from his ear.
The gaunt man, barely conscious, dragged himself over and hauled his friend away by the arms, the woman scrambled to help, her hands shaking as they pulled the limp body toward the door.
They vanished into the night without a word, the door banging shut behind them.
Ethan turned and headed up the stairs.
The hallway on the third floor was dim, lit by a single bulb swaying from a frayed cord.
Apartment 3B was at the end, the door scarred with old knife marks and graffiti.
He tried the handle…
locked, as expected.
A faint smile crossed his lips under the mask.
He focused inward, feeling his heart rate spike as he activated hyperadrenalism.
Sweat beaded on his forehead, pupils dilating, every muscle coiling with power.
He reared back and kicked the door just below the lock.
Wood splintered with a crack, the frame buckling as the door flew inward, hanging crookedly off the hinge.
He deactivated the power, the rush fading and he stepped inside.
The apartment was a disaster, even worse than he’d anticipated.
The air reeked of stale smoke, rotting food, and the tang of old blood.
Trash piled in corners—empty beer cans, fast-food wrappers, and scattered needles crunching underfoot.
The walls were stained yellow from years of neglect, peeling in places to reveal moldy drywall.
A sagging couch sat against one wall, its cushions torn and stained with god-knows-what.
It reminded him too much of his parents’ place.
Disgust twisted in his gut, a rare flicker of emotion from him.
He moved through the apartment, ignoring the revulsion.
In the kitchen, he rifled through drawers, finding small baggies of white powder—heroin, by the look—and a few vials of something stronger.
He pocketed a couple for analysis later, in case they held clues to Iron Row’s supply chain.
Under the sink, behind a loose panel, was a wad of cash—maybe $2,000 in crumpled bills.
That went into his pocket too.
In the bedroom, he found a .38 revolver tucked under the mattress, loaded with six rounds.
He added it to his arsenal, sliding it into his jacket.
Then, on the nightstand, a phone it looked pretty basic but it was unlocked.
Ethan smiled faintly as he powered it on.
The contacts list was a goldmine: Names like “Kieran Boss,” “Tommy Runner,” “Eric Crazy”—clearly Iron Row affiliates.
Dozens of them.
He scrolled briefly, memorizing a few key ones, then pocketed it.
This alone could dismantle the gang if he played it right, or perhaps he could find another use for them bedfore ending them.
He resumed the search, flipping the mattress and checking under furniture.
Finally, in a hidden compartment behind the fridge he found a crumpled notebook: the client list.
Pages of names, amounts owed, delivery dates.
He scanned it quickly, flipping through until his eyes landed on a familiar entry: ‘Kane Couple—$12,200 overdue.
High risk, frequent buyers.’
His parents, owing nearly the most on the entire list.
If the police got this, he’d be suspect number one regardless of whether he’d gotten rid of the other evidence.
He couldn’t help but feel anger surge through his body, his parents were liabilities, but never had they come so close to ruining him.
They would have to be dealt with.
“Degenerates,” he whispered, the word laced with quiet venom.
*Creak*
He tensed suddenly, ears picking up the soft creak of footsteps in the hallway outside.
Someone entering the apartment.
Ethan pocketed the list swiftly and melted into the shadows behind the kitchen door.
(AN: For anyone wondering why the hard cut it’ll be explained and for those who already know then I guess enjoy.)
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