The robbery at the Jackson Heights convenience store had happened four days ago.
Leo Vance had read a brief report about it in the community weekly—around 1:00 AM, a man wearing a black ski mask had barged in with a gun and made off with all the cash in the register, roughly four hundred dollars.
No casualties.
The robber had vanished into the nearby alleys before the police arrived.
It wasn’t a major case, but the local detectives hadn’t been able to make an arrest.
Lucas found more details at the library.
On the website of a Queens local newspaper, there was a more thorough follow-up: the exact same M.O.
had appeared three times in the past two weeks.
A convenience store, a gas station, and a pharmacy—all in the early morning hours, all committed by a lone actor wearing a black ski mask and wielding a silver revolver.
The distance between the three locations was less than two kilometers.
The culprit knew the area well.
This wasn’t random—he operated within a fixed radius, targeted a specific type of location, and worked within a set window of time.
Lucas drew a simple map in his notebook, marking the three crime scenes with red ink.
The three points formed an irregular triangle whose center of gravity fell on a mixed-use district on the east side of Jackson Heights—an area filled with cheap apartments, a few bars, and a pawn shop.
If the man’s operational radius revolved around his residence, he most likely lived in that neighborhood.
This was different from an arms transit hub.
An arms hub was a fixed box—you could observe it, analyze guard patterns, and find the optimal point of entry.
A moving target was entirely different.
He wouldn’t show up in the same place twice, wouldn’t afford you forty minutes of observation time, and wouldn’t step out the back door to smoke at precisely 1:20 AM.
Lucas had to locate the man first before he could stop him.
Reconnaissance began on the first night in the eastern section of Jackson Heights.
Lucas parked the Batcycle in the shadows beneath the elevated subway tracks and crossed the mixed-use district on foot.
At 1:00 AM, the bars were just closing, and the last customers stood by the doors smoking and chatting.
The iron shutter of the pawn shop was pulled down, its display windows bare.
The streetlights were spaced far apart, leaving several stretches of road completely pitch-black.
He walked for about forty minutes, taking mental notes on a few suspicious spots.
The most notable was an old apartment building.
A third-floor window faced the fire escape, its curtains pulled half-shut, revealing a pale blue-white light inside.
It wasn’t the color temperature of a standard television screen, but more like a computer monitor or electronic device.
Someone was up late, and they weren’t watching TV.
On the second night, he passed the apartment again.
Same blue-white glow, same curtain position.
On the fire escape outside the back window lay a cigarette butt.
A Marlboro—the filter had bite marks on it, and the ash was still clinging to the railing, unblown by the wind.
It had been left within the last hour or two.
He stayed on the roof of the laundromat across from the apartment for about forty minutes without seeing anyone come or go.
But he confirmed one thing—the unit number was 306, located four hundred meters and six hundred meters, respectively, from the first two robbery scenes.
Both were less than a five-minute walk away.
He wrote the unit number down in his notebook.
On the third night, he saw the man.
At 1:10 AM, the suspect stepped out of the apartment.
Black backpack, dark hoodie.
He paused at the doorway, looking down to check his pocket—a silver revolver.
Pulling his hood up to obscure his face, he began walking west down the street.
Lucas trailed him from above on the opposite rooftops.
Not on the ground—on the roofs, his cape fanning out in the night breeze, his footsteps as silent as a cat moving along a ridgeline.
The enhanced senses of his Batman persona operated automatically in the dark.
Thirty meters away, the suspect’s footsteps were clearly audible—a steady rhythm, long strides, weight leaning slightly to the right.
Judging by his gait, he was about 178 centimeters tall and weighed roughly seventy kilograms.
He likely had an old injury in his right knee; his right foot stayed on the ground for less time than his left, making the transfer of his center of gravity slightly uneven.
Lucas stopped at the edge of the roof.
Two blocks west was the convenience store robbed last week—he was surveying routes.
This wasn’t random; he was scouting in advance to see which store had the fewest people at this hour and offered the easiest hit.
Lucas didn’t go down to apprehend him.
Not yet.
If he moved now, before the man even pulled a gun, the offense would amount to “attempted robbery” at best—a charge that in the Queens judicial system would mean a single night in a holding cell and a walk out the door tomorrow morning.
He needed to wait until the man reached a target’s door, drew his weapon, and made his intent unmistakable.
That would be the final second before a criminal thought he was about to succeed—and the moment his vigilance was at its weakest.
The suspect stood in the alley for about two minutes, checked his phone, and turned back.
He glanced inside a 24-hour pharmacy as he passed, but didn’t enter.
Lucas followed him all the way back from the rooftops, committing every single habit to memory—the suspect paused at every intersection to look left and right; he kept his right hand shoved in his pocket while walking, where a metallic glint suggested the silver revolver; and when he returned to his apartment, he pulled down his hood, exposing the back of his neck.
The skin on the back of his neck was pale, unlike most residents who had lived in the area for years.
He was likely a recent arrival.
After the suspect returned inside, Lucas kept watch on the laundromat roof for another half hour, confirming he wouldn’t go out again.
During the day on the fourth day, Lucas spent the afternoon at the library.
He didn’t have the man’s name, but he had enough information.
He looked up public police records for all convenience store robberies in Queens over the past two months—four people had been arrested, all separate individuals.
The suspect in the ski mask was the only active offender of his type left uncaptured.
He also checked the property records for the apartment building—the landlord lived in Manhattan and was unlikely to know anything about the tenant’s night activities.
That meant the suspect felt safe hiding things inside.
The gun, cash, and ski mask were almost certainly in the apartment.
Returning to his notebook, he drew an asterisk beside Unit 306.
If the suspect’s pattern held—four days ago at the convenience store, three times in two weeks—the next move would be in the next day or two.
Most likely between 1:00 AM and 2:00 AM, armed robbery, within a one-kilometer radius of his apartment.
Lucas began forming an operational plan.
Rather than targeting a fixed location, he prepared to adjust in real time based on the suspect’s movements.
He mapped out several possible scenarios in his head, pairing each with different entry routes and tactical sequences.
If he acted outside the convenience store—the optimal entry point was in the shadow of the newsstand opposite, six meters away, allowing him to pounce within a second.
If in an alley—he would need to approach from behind without exposing either end of the alley.
If the suspect drew his gun—disarming him took priority over restraint.
This differed from the arms hub.
There, the guards were downed before they could reach their weapons.
Here, the gun was in the suspect’s pocket from the moment he walked out the door.
His movements had to be even more decisive.
On the fifth night, the robber chose the 24-hour pharmacy.
He likely thought it was the safest option—the night clerk was a man in his sixties working alone, no police cars patrolled nearby, and no security warnings were posted on the glass doors.
He had watched it for three days.
He believed he had calculated every variable.
He didn’t know someone had been watching him far longer than he had been watching the pharmacy.
1:18 AM.
He stepped into the pharmacy, his right hand gripping the silver revolver in his pocket.
He didn’t intend to shoot—just pull it out to show the flash of silver, grab the cash, and leave.
He walked toward the counter, and as the old clerk raised his head, the robber began drawing the gun from his pocket.
Just then, he felt a tap on his left shoulder from behind.
“Don’t move.”
The voice was low and quiet, as if emanating from the darkness itself.
He turned instinctively—catching a dark silhouette in his peripheral vision, a cape falling from the shoulders, the shadow of a pointed cowl cast upon the white wall of the pharmacy.
He didn’t see anything more—because the next second, the gun in his right hand was gone.
His wrist was twisted with precise force—just enough to open his fingers without breaking any bones.
The revolver dropped, caught in midair by a leather-gloved hand, and was set quietly onto the counter.
“This is the first time. This chapter was copied from g.com without permission.
You haven’t hurt anyone yet.”
The voice paused.
“You can keep doing this—buy a faster gun, target bigger stores, run further down the block.”
A beat.
“Or you can turn yourself in tomorrow morning.
Tell them you’re responsible for those three robberies.”
The robber’s mouth opened slightly.
“Who…
who are you?”
“It doesn’t matter.
What matters is which choice you make.”
The robber stood frozen, his knees weak, his back to the counter, eyes glued to the floor.
It took him several seconds to realize he hadn’t been bound, pinned, or handcuffed to the counter railing.
He could run.
He should run.
But he didn’t move.
Not out of a sense of justice—but because in a span of mere seconds, he had experienced the most terrifying moment of his life, yet even now he couldn’t explain where that terror had come from.
It wasn’t a gun.
It wasn’t a fist.
It wasn’t pain.
It was that voice.
A low, raspy voice carrying no explicit threat, yet sending a chill straight down his spine.
The wind chime at the pharmacy door chimed softly.
When the robber looked up, the dark figure had vanished into the darkness outside the glass door.
He took off his ski mask, set it on the counter, said “I’m sorry” to the old clerk, and turned to walk toward the nearest police station.
Lucas stood on the rooftop across the street, watching the robber walk into the station.
He glanced down at his right hand—his fingers were steady, just as they had been before the action.
He hadn’t used pressure point strikes, Batarangs, or any physical attacks this time.
Only his voice, and the preparation backing it up.
Fear as a weapon could sometimes be far more effective than a fist.
It was past 2:00 AM when he returned to Ingram Street.
The lights at the Parker house were all off; Ben’s car was parked in the driveway, and the porch light was still on.
Everything was normal.
He sat in the living room and opened his notebook, turning to today’s page to write a few lines: *Target Type: Mobile Individual.
Operational Pattern: Tracking + Intimidation.
Physical Contact: Zero.
Result: Target surrendered voluntarily.*
At the bottom, he added: *”Not every battle requires fists.
Sometimes, fear itself is the ultimate weapon.”*
He flipped back a page—the notes on Hell’s Kitchen were still there.
Industrial container numbers, SUV license plates, auto repair shop addresses.
The mobile target was dealt with, but those fixed nodes remained.
He closed the notebook.
Outside the window, the streetlights along Ingram Street swayed gently in the night breeze.
The system interface flickered lightly at the edge of his vision.
[Role Completion: 36%]
[Evaluation: First capture of a mobile target—zero physical contact, successful intimidation.
Batman is not merely a warrior, but a hunter.
Continue.]