The arms transit station on the edge of Queens was discovered by Leo Vance on his fourth night.
The building wasn’t marked on any map—two stories tall with beige-gray exterior walls, appearing much like an abandoned storage facility.
But it wasn’t abandoned.
On his first night of scouting, Leo Vance had noticed several anomalies: trucks entering and leaving at two in the morning, their suspensions dipping significantly when rolling over potholes, indicating a heavy load; the rooftop vent was newly replaced, its screws not yet rusted; and the back door had three locks of different models installed.
Three locks.
That meant it wasn’t empty inside.
He didn’t act on the first night.
This was Batman’s habit—any unfamiliar target required at least two scouting runs before taking action.
The first run was to establish basic awareness: building structure, number of entry and exit points, surrounding environment, and potential escape routes.
The second run was to confirm details: guard headcount, shift rotation patterns, and individual habits.
Only on the third run would he make his move.
On the first night, he observed from the roof of an abandoned factory across the street for two hours.
He spotted five men.
Three operated inside the building while two stood guard at the entrance.
The sentries rotated every forty minutes, leaving an approximate thirty-second window during shift changes—provided the three inside didn’t emerge at the same time.
A forty-minute rotation cycle indicated that their attention span began to drop around the forty-minute mark, making the subsequent ten minutes their most lax.
On the second night, he confirmed further details.
The guard who circled to the back door every twelve minutes to smoke—he smoked the same brand of cigarettes, extinguished them after smoking two-thirds, and shoved the remaining third back into his pack.
When walking, his center of gravity leaned right, revealing an old injury in his right knee.
One of the two guards stationed at the entrance habitually kept his hands in his pockets—a habit formed in winter that he couldn’t break.
Hands in pockets meant his draw speed for weapons was at least half a second slower than the others.
On the third night, he moved in.
1:23 AM.
The guard with the injured knee headed to the back door.
He had already rehearsed tonight’s operational route four times in his mind—not a vague “enter from the roof and knock everyone out,” but a precise path detailing every step, every landing spot, and every strike.
The anchor position for his grapnel gun, the landing distance of the first smoke grenade, the location of backup ammunition.
Every single detail had been verified in advance.
1:26 AM.
The guard with the old knee injury finished two-thirds of his cigarette, stuffed the remainder back into his pack, and turned to head back.
The blind spot on the security camera feed was on the building’s east side—where a newly installed vent was located, with a wall behind it obscuring the camera’s view for about four seconds.
Those four seconds were what he had been waiting for.
The grapnel gun launched silently, its anchor latching onto the ledge above the vent on the east side of the building.
His cape unfurled in the night wind—not in Batman’s signature gliding posture, but merely using the cloth to break his descent and adjust direction, dropping like a silent night bird diving from above.
When he landed beside the vent, his footsteps were as quiet as if he were walking on sand.
Three seconds left.
Kneeling on one knee, he retrieved a micro-cutter from his utility belt and sliced through the clips holding the vent’s mesh filter.
One second left.
He slid into the ventilation shaft.
The security camera view returned to normal, showing nothing out of the ordinary.
As he crawled through the ventilation duct into the building’s interior, he heard the footsteps of the first guard passing through the hallway below.
Looking down through the vent louvers, he caught sight of the top of the man’s head—around five-foot-ten, lean build, walking at a brisk pace, indicating he was fully alert and hadn’t yet reached the pre-shift fatigue window.
This one had to be taken down first.
Dropping silently from the vent, he trailed three paces behind the man, waiting for him to reach the corner at the end of the hallway.
The corner was a visual blind spot—no doors or windows on either side, lit only by a dim emergency light.
Neutralizing him here would leave those on the other side of the building completely unaware.
He approached from behind without running, taking three swift steps.
His left foot deliberately pressed down on a loose floor tile—a subtle *click*.
The guard instinctively turned his head.
As he turned, his back of his neck was exposed—chin lifted, neck muscles tensed, the vagus nerve left completely unprotected.
Pressure Point Striking.
Moderate force.
The guard’s eyes went unfocused in an instant—not from pain, but because his brain had received a chaotic signal, as if someone had pressed a computer’s forced sleep button.
Before the body slumped, Leo Vance was already supporting the back of his head and shoulders, easing him gently onto the ground.
The entire process took less than two seconds, producing no more than a faint thud.
One down.
The second guard was in the main warehouse area—the man who kept his hands in his pockets.
Leo Vance had observed his patrol route from the ventilation shaft: every eight to ten minutes, he walked from the east side of the warehouse to the west side, paused to look at his phone for a moment, and then walked back.
His stride swayed slightly—not out of vigilance, but to kill time, likely watching short videos.
Furthermore, his habit of thrusting his hands into his pockets restricted his arm swing, shifting his center of balance forward, which meant his reaction time would be even slower if attacked from behind.
Leo Vance waited for him behind a storage rack on the east side of the warehouse.
When the second guard walked up to the rack, the light from his phone screen was still illuminating his face—the audio from a short video sounded remarkably jarring in the quiet warehouse, featuring a comedy dub overlay accompanied by canned laughter.
Leaning against the rack, he watched the final few seconds, chuckled, and turned to resume his patrol.
As he turned, he caught sight of a dark silhouette standing right next to the shelf.
No—he wasn’t even sure if it was an outline.
Maybe it was just a trick of the light.
Maybe his eyes hadn’t adjusted after looking at his phone for so long.
But the silhouette was too tall.
Those pointed ears.
That texture darker than darkness itself—that was no trick of the light.
Before he could utter a word, Leo Vance closed the distance.
One hand grabbed the guard’s wrist holding the phone and shoved it upward—the phone flew off, landing among a pile of cardboard boxes behind the shelf, its screen still lit—while his other hand struck the side of the man’s neck.
Same technique, same force as the first.