Batman Legacy: Book One
Copyright© 2025 by Uruks
Chapter 17: A Better Way
Outside Joker’s Hideout – Seconds Later
The warehouse doors creaked open as Batman stepped into the cold night, his cape billowing behind him. Robin and Catwoman followed close, their boots crunching on the gravel lot. The wind had picked up, carrying with it the distant echoes of city life — sirens, shouting, the low hum of unease that had become Gotham’s lullaby.
As they reached the edge of the compound, the matte-black Batmobile rolled into view, engine rumbling like a predator ready to pounce.
Robin jogged up first. “That’s one hell of a clue we just found. But if Joker’s really going after the stadium, we’ll have to floor it to make it there before the gas starts flying.”
Catwoman frowned as she slid into the passenger seat, glancing up at the stars overhead. “Even at full throttle, we won’t make it in time. Too many lights. Too much traffic. It’s halfway across the city — and we’re boxed in by buildings, detours, and checkpoints.”
Batman said nothing. He slid into the driver’s seat, eyes narrowed. Then a click sounded through the cabin — his communicator.
Alfred’s voice crackled through the comm with calm precision:
“Not to worry, sir. We’ve already made the proper adjustments. The modifications are quite impressive, if I may say so.”
Batman’s lips curved into the faintest smirk. “Perfect timing.”
Catwoman blinked, tilting her head. “Wait. What’s he talking about? And who was that?”
With a precise motion, Batman flicked a concealed switch on the dashboard. The Batmobile shuddered as hydraulic pistons hissed and whirred. Armor plating along the hood and doors split with a metallic groan, sliding into hidden channels beneath the chassis. Panels along the sides rotated and extended outward, forming sharp, aerodynamic fins. The rear tires retracted smoothly into wheel wells, replaced by sleek, retractable landing skids.
From the back, twin thrusters unfolded with a low roar, glowing faintly as heat vents opened to release built-up pressure. The nose of the vehicle dipped forward, extending into a pointed, aerodynamic snout. Black wings, compact and sculpted like the leathery appendages of a bat, unfurled with mechanical elegance, each segment locking into place with a satisfying click.
Catwoman’s eyes widened as she took in the transformation. “You don’t see that every day.”
Batman’s gloved hands danced across the console, calibrating the flight stabilizers and thrust vectors. The cabin shifted slightly as the Batmobile’s frame stretched, the interior lights dimming to a subtle red glow optimized for aerial visibility. The familiar growl of the engine deepened into a throaty roar, now modulated for lift rather than traction.
Within seconds, the once-grounded machine was no longer a car—it had become the Batplane, ready to soar above Gotham’s skyline with the same dark elegance as its owner.
Robin stared, mouth slightly open.
“No. Way.”
Catwoman grabbed the overhead handle as the cockpit sealed itself with a hiss.
“I swear to God, if this thing crashes—”
Batman gripped the controls, his voice steady as steel.
“Then don’t let go.”
With a deafening roar, the newly transformed Batplane tore down the road, turbines igniting in a blue blaze. The nose lifted, wheels tucked under, and in a blur of black and smoke, they were airborne — slicing through the Gotham skyline like a shadowy missile.
Below, the city shrank beneath them. Traffic lights, rooftops, and neon signs blurred into a smear of color.
Robin whooped, caught between awe and terror.
“This is insane!”
Catwoman clutched her seat, glancing sideways at Batman. “You could’ve warned us.”
Batman didn’t answer. His eyes were locked forward, scanning the city ahead.
“Hold on.”
The Batplane surged forward, piercing the night sky — racing toward the stadium where thousands of lives hung in the balance.
And behind them, the broken shell of Joker’s hideout faded into the dark, like the ghost of a city already mourning.
Gotham Memorial Stadium – Halftime
Gunfire cracked through the stadium, echoing like thunder as Joker’s clown-masked thugs stormed the stands. They waved rifles wildly, shrieking laughter as they forced the terrified crowd back into their seats. “Sit down or eat lead!” one howled, firing into the air. A handful of panicked souls tried to scramble for the exits—but were cut down in a hail of bullets, their screams silenced in an instant. The rest of the audience froze where they sat, trembling, clutching one another, eyes wide with the paralyzing fear that any movement might be their last.
“LET’S PLAY BALL!” the Joker bellowed, his voice amplified over the stadium speakers, twisting into every ear like a rusted blade. “I hope you’re enjoying tonight’s game ... but now, it’s time for the real entertainment!”
Clown-masked thugs spilled onto the football field, their rifles sweeping in jagged arcs as they barked orders. The players and coaches, still dazed from the chaos, were herded into a tight circle near the fifty-yard line. One linebacker, built like a wall of muscle, tried to break free, charging a thug with a defiant roar—only for a gunshot to crack through the stadium. He crumpled to the turf, clutching his leg, his scream echoing in the night. The other players froze, their size and strength suddenly meaningless against the sight of blood soaking the grass.
Above, Joker leaned lazily over the railing of his perch, microphone in hand, his voice booming across the field. “Ooooh, that looked painful! Hope it doesn’t ruin his career. I’ve got him in my fantasy lineup, you know. First pick! Now he’s just dead weight—or he soon will be!” His cackle rolled over the stadium, sharp and merciless, as the burly athletes lowered their heads and gave up the fight.
On the sideline, the cheerleaders were corralled as well, pressed together in a trembling knot of sequins and bright uniforms. Mascara streaked with tears, they clutched one another for comfort, their earlier spirit drowned in fear. A few buried their faces in pom-poms to muffle sobs; others stared wide-eyed at the rifles swinging their way.
Looming awkwardly among them, the Gotham Knights’ mascot—a hulking, horned knight with a gleaming, oversized helmet and rigid, padded armor—shivered violently. The costume’s exaggerated gauntlets trembled as if the figure itself were alive with fear, and the hollow eyes of the mask stared blankly, giving the illusion of a silent, petrified sentinel trapped in its own shell. The sight of both teams’ warriors and their cheerleaders reduced to captives painted a cruel picture of Gotham’s helplessness under the Joker’s reign.
Barbara Gordon sat frozen in her seat, halfway through a bite of popcorn. Her heart skipped.
“Mom?” she whispered.
Beside her, Sarah Gordon’s face had gone pale in the dark. “Stay down, sweetheart. Don’t make a sound.”
A few people in the stands screamed only to be silenced by a nearby clown. Most just froze.
Joker’s silhouette leaned forward, his purple coat flapping in the wind, a gas mask dangling from his neck like a noose. Around him, thugs in clown masks stepped from the shadows, some rappelling down from the rafters, others marching onto the field in formation, rifles slung and machetes out.
“The exits are now closed,” Joker announced, grinning into the spotlight. “Please remain seated while my lovely assistants prepare a special halftime surprise. Oh—and do remember to smile! It’s the last time you’ll get the chance!”
Barbara ducked low as gunfire cracked from one of the main tunnels, the sharp reports bouncing off the concrete walls. Screams erupted from the upper decks as several security guards tried to resist—only to be cut down before the panicked crowd. Their bodies twitched in the harsh spotlight before being dragged aside like ragdolls.
On the mezzanine above her, Joker’s goons overturned trash bins and placed small silver canisters around the bleachers. Each one blinked with a red light and hissed faintly, a sinister rhythm that set Barbara’s teeth on edge.
Her little brother tugged at her sleeve, voice trembling. “What’s happening? Why are the clown people doing this?”
Barbara didn’t answer. Her mother wrapped both children in a protective embrace, her eyes darting nervously across the chaos.
Then a masked clown strode down the aisle, rifle slung casually over one shoulder, a long cattle prod clutched in his other hand.
“You there! Pretty redhead—get up!” he barked.
Barbara’s mother stepped in front of them immediately. “They’re just kids!”
The clown sneered beneath his grotesque mask and shoved Sarah roughly aside. “You’re the commissioner’s family, ain’t you? Boss says to keep you close. Real close.”
He reached for Barbara. Reflexively, she slapped his hand away—but he backhanded her hard across the mouth. Pain exploded in her jaw as she hit the seats, blood warm and sticky on her split lip.
The thug raised the prod again—until Joker’s voice cut through the stadium speakers, sharp and gleeful.
“Tut-tut, let’s not bruise the goods just yet. We’ll need our special guests alert for the finale.”
Barbara wiped blood from her chin, anger boiling hotter than the fear around her. Through her blurred vision, she glared up at Joker perched high above on the scoreboard.
“My dad will stop you, psycho clown!” she yelled, her voice cutting through the cacophony.
He tilted his head, eyes glinting with manic delight. “You wish.”
Outside the Stadium – Gotham PD Barricade
Captain James Gordon stood behind a row of police cruisers, the flashing red and blue lights throwing his face into stark relief. Sweat mixed with rain on his brow, streaking dirt across the hard lines of his face. Around him, officers crouched behind barricades, their weapons raised, fingers tense on triggers as Joker’s men peppered the entrances with gunfire.
“Hold your positions!” Gordon barked, voice carrying over the chaos. “Keep those hostages in sight. Do not engage blindly!”
Snipers on the rooflines scanned the stadium with precision, rifles trained on every shadow, every window—but it was no use. Joker’s defenses were layered, sophisticated. Old Falcone-era military-grade gear had been retrofitted into the stadium’s infrastructure: tripwires, automated turrets, and pressure-triggered explosives lining every conceivable approach. Even police helicopters hovered at a distance, unable to get close without being shredded by concealed weapons or electro-magnetic interference.
Gordon’s fists clenched until his knuckles whitened. “All units, report!”
“Commissioner, we’ve tried the south tunnel, but it’s wired. All exits are rigged. There’s no clean breach,” one officer reported, voice tight with tension.
Gordon’s radio crackled, fragmented by interference.
“ ... hostiles on the upper east wall. Can’t get a visual on the explosives. At least six hostages grouped near the center...”
His thoughts drifted, unwillingly, to his family. Barbara ... and Sarah ... and his younger twins, little faces he had kissed goodbye just hours ago. The memory of their laughter, the way they clung to him at bedtime, tightened his chest like a vice. He imagined them huddled together somewhere in the chaos, terrified and unaware that their father was just outside, desperate to reach them.
“I never should’ve let them go,” he whispered, voice breaking against the roar of panic. “I never should’ve let them out of my sight ... not with that maniac on the loose.”
Detective Renee Montoya stepped beside him, blood matted in her hair from a graze across her temple. Her hand touched his shoulder firmly.
“We’ll get them out, Jim. We will,” she said, eyes sharp, voice steady.
Gordon looked up at the darkened stadium. The echoes of screams mixed with Joker’s distorted laughter, bouncing off concrete and steel, a grotesque symphony of terror. The officers around him were competent, well-trained, but even their best efforts were only a drop against the tide of Joker’s chaotic planning.
He sank to his knees behind the cruiser, hands clawing at his hair, helplessness choking his throat. “God, what do I do?” he muttered under his breath. “What am I supposed to do?”
Then ... a low rumble.
Heads snapped up. The officers froze mid-movement, eyes scanning the shadows for the source.
Gordon’s gaze went skyward. And there it was. A giant bat silhouette cutting through the storm-darkened sky, wings outstretched, engine growl merging with the thunder overhead.
Hope—or something stronger than fear—stirred in the pit of his chest.
In the Sky – The Batplane
The clouds parted like curtains as the Batplane screamed overhead, slicing through the night with the fury of a thunder god. Its black silhouette swept past the stadium like a vengeful wraith, casting a brief shadow over the field.
Inside the cockpit, Batman’s jaw was tight, eyes scanning every detail. Through the Batplane’s advanced optics, he marked the array of anti-aircraft turrets mounted along the stadium perimeter, their barrels glinting under the stadium lights. Electrical jammers flickered intermittently, designed to fry electronics and send helicopters spiraling from the sky—but the Batplane’s state-of-the-art air systems, fully shielded and hardened, were impervious to such interference.
“Visual confirmation,” Batman said, voice sharp as steel. “Joker’s in the upper scaffolding. Gas canisters positioned throughout the stadium. Thousands of hostages.”
Catwoman leaned forward, her eyes wide. “Can we stop him in time?”
Robin’s fingers flew over the display, highlighting clusters of gas canisters and armed goons. “If we split up, we can hit the major clusters—defuse the bombs, neutralize the gunners. But we only get one shot at this.”
Batman adjusted the throttle, his focus absolute, scanning the enemy positions and calculating trajectories. “Then let’s make it count.”
With a press of a button, the Batplane’s wings extended in micro-adjustments, slicing through the night air with uncanny precision. Its nose dipped, and the plane dove toward the stadium—into the mouth of madness, into the jaws of hell, unstoppable and unyielding.
The Batplane screamed across the night sky, cutting through the darkness like a blade. Below, the football stadium blazed with chaos—screams, stampedes, gunfire. The enormous floodlights had long since gone dark, but flashes of muzzle fire lit the stands in strobe-like bursts, and the Joker’s amplified cackling echoed across the arena.
Batman leaned forward in his seat, eyes locked on the rooftop through his HUD. “Snipers. At least a dozen on the north tower. Half that number at the south gate.”
“I have them,” Alfred’s voice came through the comms. “Initiating anti-personnel neutralizers. Non-lethal, of course.”
A volley of blue pulses hissed from the Batplane’s undercarriage. They struck with pinpoint accuracy—electrifying the snipers into unconsciousness. Their bodies slumped across their rifles, harmless.
Robin grinned. “Nice shooting, Al.”
“Thank the targeting software, Master Grayson.”
The first turret roared to life, tracer rounds streaking toward the Batplane. Batman’s hands snapped to the controls, banking sharply as the rounds zipped past, singing through the night air. Smoke trails from nearby explosions streaked across the field, but he stayed calm, eyes scanning the next line of fire.
A second turret opened up, spitting a hail of bullets. The Batplane twisted and rolled in midair, wings angling like a predator evading prey, dodging the fire by mere inches.
“Holy G-forces, Batman!” Robin shouted, gripping his harness. “I think my stomach just filed a formal complaint!”
Catwoman leaned into the console, the cat ears on her cowl brushing the wall. “You call this flying? I’ve had smoother rides in a stolen sports car!”
Batman snapped, his voice sharp over the cockpit intercom. “I don’t need commentary right now!”
With a flick of switches, he disengaged automated targeting and took manual control of the Batplane’s dual cannons. The cockpit hummed with power as the guns lined up with the turrets.
He squeezed the triggers. The first volley slammed into the nearest emplacement, detonating it in a shower of sparks. The second round hit two more turrets simultaneously, the explosions echoing like thunder across the stadium.
Smoke and debris filled the air. Turrets twisted uselessly on their mounts, their fire finally silenced. Batman banked sharply, eyes already scanning for the next threat. He righted the Batplane as the flight normalized.
Batman flipped a switch. “Autopilot and stealth systems engaged. Get ready.”
Robin adjusted his cape, checking the gliding attachments with a practiced flick of his fingers. “All set,” he muttered, eyes darting toward the open cabin doors.
Catwoman, seated beside Batman, raised a skeptical eyebrow. “You really think we’re just going to jump out of a moving plane?”
Batman stood, muscles coiled, steady against the turbulence tossing the Batplane. “Hold on to me.”
Catwoman hesitated, a scowl crossing her features, but her lips slowly curved into a breathless grin. Then she wrapped her arms tightly around his torso, the tension in her body mirroring the stormy wind outside.
The side doors hissed open. A roar of air swept into the cabin, whipping loose gear across the floor. The plane groaned against the gusts, tilting slightly, but Batman’s stance was unyielding.
“On my mark,” he said, gaze fixed like a predator on the chaos sprawling below.
“Wait—what mark—!” came Catwoman’s cry.
WHOOSH! The ejector seats fired, catapulting them into the night.
Catwoman let out a sharp, distinctly feminine scream, biting it back through clenched teeth. The wind tore at their suits as Batman’s cape snapped open, catching the air perfectly. Together, they glided down like a single, black-winged shadow, slicing through the night.
Moments later, Robin dove beside them, cape expanded into a glider rig. His expression was a mix of exhilaration and concentration, arms outstretched as he cut through the turbulent air, matching the trajectory of his mentor and Catwoman.
Below, Joker’s thugs scrambled among the bleachers, herding civilians and planting gas canisters, oblivious to the descending winged figures above them.
Batman landed first, feet hitting the turf with a thunderous authority. His cape swirled around him like liquid shadow, absorbing the impact as he crouched, poised to strike. Catwoman released him and touched down lightly beside him, a faint gasp escaping her lips as she regained her balance. Robin followed, rolling out of his glide with fluid, practiced ease, landing in a low crouch that mirrored Batman’s stance.
A tense silence fell over the field. The thugs froze, their gas masks glinting in the harsh light of the stadium, startled by the sudden appearance of their predators.
Then—
“GET THEM, YOU FUCKERS!” a thug screamed, opening fire in a hail of bullets.
The war erupted, the sounds of gunfire, shouts, and the whiplash of gliding movement filling the stadium as Batman, Robin, and Catwoman scattered, bringing calculated chaos to Joker’s twisted spectacle.
Batman moved like a shadow incarnate, his cape snapping with each brutal pivot. Three attackers surged toward him, rifles raised, but he disabled them before they could fire—a punch to the jaw, a sweep of his leg, and two of them crumpled into the seats. Each movement was precise, almost surgical, leaving the thugs disoriented and scrambling.
Catwoman’s whip sang through the air, wrapping around rifles and yanking them from masked hands. She slammed her heel into knees, flipped over a railing, and landed on a cluster of stunned goons with a feline grace that left them reeling. Her claws glinted under the stadium lights as she slashed ropes and tendrils of the Joker’s setup, unraveling traps before they could harm anyone.
Robin somersaulted into the fray, stun batons flaring with arcs of blue light. He vaulted over seats, rolling under swings, and struck with precise strikes. A thug lunged at him from behind a barricade; Robin spun, his boot connecting with the man’s chest, sending him sprawling into the aisle.
Screams from the crowd filled the air again—but this time, they were screams of hope, as the civilians realized they weren’t entirely defenseless.
Up in the stands, a group of Joker’s masked goons had cornered Barbara Gordon and her family. One thug raised a rifle at her mother, sneering through the gas mask.
“Say goodnight, sweetheart,” he growled.
A Batarang sliced through the air—embedding in the thug’s wrist with a metallic clang. He howled, dropping the weapon and clutching his hand.
Robin landed beside Barbara’s mother like a meteor, vaulting off a seat and driving both feet into another thug’s chest before spinning to face the remaining goons. “You guys don’t get out much, do you?” he quipped, baton ready.
Barbara stared, wide-eyed. “You’re ... Robin?”
Robin turned toward her, intending to deliver a witty remark, but the sight of Barbara, red hair tumbling, blue eyes fierce even in fear, left him flustered. His words tumbled out awkwardly. “In the ... flesh, babe.”
She giggled, but the moment shattered as another thug lunged toward her. Barbara shrieked as she stumbled back.
Batman swooped down, slamming the man into the railing with a resounding crack. He barely paused. “You okay?”
Barbara gasped, clutching herself. “I ... yeah. Thank you.”
Robin cleared the area with rapid, graceful strikes, then glanced back at her. His smirk faltered. Barbara Gordon was probably the most beautiful girl he had ever seen—but the battle didn’t leave him a moment to dwell.
As Batman, Robin, and Catwoman tore through the stands, drawing the gunmen’s attention upward, the chaos below shifted. The football players—helpless moments before—saw their chance. With a unified roar, they surged forward, shoulder pads and sheer muscle slamming into the distracted clowns. Rifles clattered to the turf as the burly athletes wrestled them down, fists flying, their coaches barking orders like it was game day. From the sideline, the player who had been shot in the leg pumped a fist into the air, shouting hoarse encouragement to friend and foe alike, red and blue jerseys side by side.
Amidst the victorious players, the cheerleaders whooped and screamed, some rushing in with surprising ferocity—kicking and stomping at the downed clowns until their weapons were wrenched away for good. Even the mascot joined in, cheering for both the players and for Batman.
Robin glanced down at the sight and broke into a grin. “Yeah,” he muttered, baton spinning in his hand, “I know who I’m drafting next year.”
Inside the stadium, the last of Joker’s thugs fell under the relentless precision of Batman, Robin, and Catwoman. Batman moved like a shadow, disarming and incapacitating with ruthless efficiency; Robin vaulted and spun through the aisles, batons flashing, while Catwoman’s whip and claws kept any stragglers off balance. Screams of fear gave way to cheers of relief as the final attackers were neutralized.
Batman looked over the side and saw good news there as well. Outside, Commissioner Gordon rallied his officers, breaking through the remaining barricades and pushing back Joker’s outer defenses with disciplined force. With the hostages secured and the Joker’s outer defenses falling, only two threats remained: the Joker himself and the network of lethal gas canisters still poised to turn the stadium into a death trap.
Catwoman rejoined them in a single fluid leap, blood streaking her clawed gloves, her blue eyes burning with fierce determination beneath her mask. “Where’s Joker?” she demanded, scanning the chaos of the stadium floor.
Above them, the Joker appeared, now masked, arms outstretched with theatrical flair. “Ladies and gentlemen of Gotham!” His voice carried over the stadium speakers, dripping with mockery. “I hope you enjoyed the halftime show. It’s a shame we couldn’t fully prepare all my Party Favors, but fear not! There’s still enough to leave half of you with a happy little grin.”
His gaze locked onto Batman, the red glow of his eyes sharp and wild. “And now that our special guest, Batman, has arrived, it’s time for the grand finale!”
With a dramatic slam, he pressed a detonator.
Green mist hissed from the canisters scattered across the field. Screams erupted as panic rippled through the crowd. People clutched at their throats and started laughing. Their laughter twisted into something unnatural as their bodies convulsed under the influence of Joker’s toxin.
“BATMAN!” Catwoman cried, hand shooting toward him as fear tinged her voice.
“Hold your breath!” Batman barked. He reached into his utility belt and activated a command.
High above, the Batplane banked sharply and returned, now hovering precisely over the stadium. A hidden compartment opened beneath its sleek undercarriage, releasing a shimmering blue gas that descended in a controlled cascade over the panicked crowd.
The green laughter and convulsions gave way, dissolving into silence. Civilians slumped safely back into their chairs, their features turning to calm serenity, their bodies spared from the Joker’s cruelty.
The Joker stomped furiously, spinning to face the Dark Knight. “Oh, come on! A counter-agent?! You always have to be so prepared! Can’t you just let me have my fun?!”
Batman didn’t respond. He stepped forward, measured and unstoppable, every movement radiating authority.
With a theatrical shrug, the Joker ripped off his gas mask. “Well, fine! Let’s skip straight to the encore!” He darted behind the stage and vanished into a shadowed hatch.
Thankfully, officers started pouring in all across the stadium to render aid. The members of the audience who were still conscious expressed their gratitude, leaving speedily as they sensed the danger had passed.
Thankfully, police officers began pouring in from every entrance, moving with precision and urgency to secure the stadium. Some cuffed and led away the defeated members of Joker’s gang, ensuring that no one would slip through the chaos. Flashing lights reflected off the metal bleachers as officers guided civilians to safety, clearing aisles and ushering families toward exits.
The remaining audience members—those still conscious—looked on with wide eyes, offering tentative nods or whispered thanks as they hurried away, hearts still racing but relieved that the nightmare had ended. The echoes of gunfire and screams faded, replaced by the distant wail of sirens and the steady, disciplined rhythm of officers coordinating the aftermath.
Robin stepped beside Batman, eyes scanning the stadium. “The cavalry’s arrived.”
“Let the police deal with the underlings and the captives,” Batman growled, already calculating trajectories, chokepoints, and intercept paths in his mind. “We’ll handle Joker.”
Catwoman flicked blood from her claws with a flick of her wrist, her features sharp and dangerous. “Let’s end this.”
Batman gave a curt nod. The three of them surged forward, gliding, leaping, and sprinting with lethal coordination. Their shadows stretched across the stadium floor, united by grief, vengeance, and a relentless resolve.
Deep in the underbelly of the stadium—beyond shattered locker rooms, beneath flickering emergency lights—Batman, Catwoman, and Robin pursued the madman through a maze of corridors, echoes of Joker’s laughter bouncing off the walls like bullets in a ricochet.
Then the floor betrayed them.
A pressure-triggered plate sank with a deafening clang beneath their feet, and in an instant, a steel gate slammed down between them and the rest of the hall. Sparks flew as metal scraped against metal, sealing Robin and Catwoman on the far side. The sound reverberated like a gunshot through the cavernous space.
Batman rolled forward, barely escaping the crushing drop, his cowl catching the dim light as he skidded to a crouch. Behind him, Selina’s voice rang out, sharp with frustration and fear.
“Batman!” she shouted, pounding against the bars with gloved fists. Her claws scraped against the steel, sending little showers of sparks onto the floor.
“Go!” Robin called, his voice echoing in the confined space. “We’ll find a way out!”
But Batman’s jaw tightened. He had already assessed the situation—the gates, the trap, the way the room funneled them. There was no exit in that direction. Joker’s planning had been meticulous, cruelly precise.
From the shadows ahead, a single, mocking clap cut through the tension.
“Well done, Batsy. Bravo! Encore, encore!”