Two down.
The third guard heard something on the far side of the building—maybe the dull thud of a phone dropping into a cardboard box, or the faint clatter of shelves bumping together.
His footsteps echoed from the corridor.
Unhurried, not running—just walking over with a tinge of doubt.
“Hey—what was that sound?”
Nobody answered.
The footsteps picked up pace.
“Mike?
Are you watching videos again?”
Leo Vance Lin stepped out from behind a rack.
He didn’t rush—just walked out into the open, his black cape draping behind him, the bat emblem on his chest gleaming faintly under the overhead warehouse lights.
He didn’t speak, simply standing in the center of the corridor, waiting to be seen.
The third guard saw him.
His reflex was to draw his gun, but his draw speed was barely faster than an ordinary civilian’s.
Just as his hand brushed his holster, a batarang struck the side of his gun barrel.
The impact wasn’t heavy, but the angle was precise—knocking the muzzle inches off target.
A bullet slammed into the concrete floor at his feet, kicking up a spray of dust.
Then Leo Vance was right in front of him.
Leo Vance struck a pressure point with his right hand—heavy force; this one needed to stay down longer.
At the same time, his left hand caught the guard’s shoulder joint to keep him from clattering against the shelves as he fell.
Supporting the limp weight, Leo Vance gently laid him down, resting the man’s head on his folded gloves.
Three.
Two left near the entrance.
Numbers four and five were the trickiest to handle—they were together, and one of them carried a walkie-talkie.
During his reconnaissance, Leo Vance had watched that guard check in with someone outside.
It wasn’t frequent, but he reported “all clear” roughly every half hour.
The next check-in was due in about seven or eight minutes.
If he didn’t deal with them before then, the outside crew would know something was wrong.
He pulled a smoke grenade from his utility belt.
It was custom-made at home from a mixture of potassium nitrate and sugar, encased in a modified battery casing.
The smoke density fell short of military grade, but inside an enclosed space, it was more than enough.
He rolled the smoke grenade around the corridor corner and stepped back behind the shelving.
Within seconds, the hallway filled with dense gray smoke.
Not toxic gas, just a visual screen.
“What the—where’s this smoke coming from?”
“It’s a smoke bomb!
Someone’s—”
“Get out—”
Footsteps scrambled toward the exit.
Leo Vance had already maneuvered to the side of the doorway—he knew every corridor in the warehouse.
The first guard to burst through the smoke was looking back over his shoulder, completely blind to the dark figure on his flank.
Leo Vance cut in from the side, tripped him, and struck him across the neck with a ridgehand strike.
He didn’t use a pressure point strike for the initial blow—conventional martial arts was enough—then followed up with a pressure point tap to guarantee unconsciousness as the man hit the ground.
The fifth guard—the one with the walkie-talkie—stumbled out right after, waving his arm to clear the haze.
He raised the radio to his mouth.
“Outside—there’s someone—” The words caught in his throat as he realized a dark silhouette stood directly before him.
Less than a meter separated him from the shadow.
He could clearly see the outline of the bat on the chest.
Static crackled through the radio.
“What?
Say again—”
Then his neck went numb.
The world turned dark.
Leo Vance caught the walkie-talkie, cutting off the transmission before it could hit the floor.
He paused for three seconds to ensure no further call came through from the other end, then set it down beside the pile of weapons on the ground.
Five guards, all neutralized.
Under four minutes from the first takedown to the last.
He dragged all five over to the load-bearing pillar at the center of the warehouse, securing them with plastic strapping—wrists, ankles, and knees, tied in three distinct knots.
The technique was identical to his previous patrol nights.
He stacked all their weapons neatly a meter away from them—not to mock them, but so the police wouldn’t have to rummage through the building for evidence.
He swept his gaze over the five men.
All unconscious, breathing steadily, with no unnecessary injuries.
Then he pulled a spray paint can from his belt.
This was the third time he was leaving this symbol on a wall.
The first two were during practice—once on a derelict wall at his base, and once at the electronics shop last time.
Tonight’s target wasn’t a fence or a few petty thieves.
It was an arms staging point—a node in an organized criminal network.
The mark on this wall would serve as his first declaration to the entire syndicate.
He paused at the wall for about three seconds before turning to leave.
It was past three in the morning when he returned to Ingram Street.
The street was quieter than usual.
The lights at the Parker house were all out; even Peter’s bedroom window was dark.
Ben’s car was parked in the driveway, and the porch light was still on—that light was always left on.
Leo Vance lingered on the roof for a moment to confirm everything was calm, then slipped through the window into his own home.
He sat in his living room in the dark, pulling off his gloves.
His hands were steady, just as they had been before setting out.
But his brain was still running—analyzing tonight’s data.
The combat effectiveness of his pressure point technique exceeded expectations.
Medium force worked well on average-built guards with normal alertness.
Heavy force proved effective against larger targets, but required greater precision—the nerve points along the vagus nerve were buried deeper under fat and muscle on larger builds.
The homebrewed smoke bomb recipe needed tweaking.
The dispersion rate was faster than expected, likely due to the warehouse’s humidity—high humidity caused smoke particles to condense and sink faster.
In a drier environment, the results might differ.
The angle for hitting gun barrels with batarangs required more practice as well.
He hit the mark tonight, but slipped slightly off target—he had aimed for the middle of the barrel, but struck closer to the outer third near the muzzle.
Any further off, and it might have hit the guard’s fingers.
He needed more throwing drills.
He picked up his notebook and began logging the night’s operational data: target coordinates, guard count, duration of action, martial arts effectiveness, smoke bomb formula batch number, and batarang accuracy self-evaluation.
He quantified every metric as precisely as possible—he knew these numbers could prove vital down the line.
Maybe not tomorrow, maybe not next week.
But preparation was a core Batman habit.
On the map, several red lines pointing toward Hell’s Kitchen remained.
He flipped back a page, scanning the annotations—container numbers in the industrial zone, the SUV license plate, and the auto repair shop address.
Tonight’s operation hadn’t intersected with that lead, but he knew the collision was inevitable.
Queens was only a starting point.
Manhattan, Hell’s Kitchen, and beyond—a criminal network wouldn’t confine itself to a single borough.
The next morning, the Queens Precinct received an anonymous phone call.
“Old warehouse on Stuart Street, illegal arms stash.
Consider it a gift.”