Batman Legacy
Copyright© 2025 by Uruks
Chapter 6: The Devil’s Mill
Action/Adventure Story: Chapter 6: The Devil’s Mill - The origin story of Batman meant to capture the grit and spirit of the comics. This is just a fanfiction and is not meant for commercial use. While I do my best to honor the original story of Batman, I admit that it has my personal flair in it that you may notice if you're familiar with my work. I used AI to help me refine the book, but the dialogue, plot, and tone are all mine. I've always loved Batman and wanted to write my own fanfic that includes Gotham's full story and his legend. Enjoy.
Caution: This Action/Adventure Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Romantic Heterosexual Crime Fan Fiction Superhero Science Fiction
Gotham’s East Side – Night
The rain came down in sheets, drowning the alleys and gutters, turning the East End into a maze of slick pavement and trembling shadows. Neon bled into puddles until the whole street looked like a watercolor left out in the storm. Thunder cracked overhead, shaking loose more screams than the one that echoed now. Gotham was used to thunder, but never to silence after.
Batman didn’t give the thug time to answer. The man slammed against the dumpster with bone-rattling force, the metal caving inward, the clang carrying over the storm. He slid down in a broken heap, sweat and blood mixing on his face, his lips moving without sound until Batman hauled him upright by the collar, shaking life back into him like a rag doll.
“I’m not here for your excuses,” Batman growled, voice reverberating in the narrow alley. “I’m here for Two-Face.”
The name itself was a blade. It cut through the man, left him gasping. Even Batman flinched inwardly at speaking it aloud. Harvey Dent’s ghost still stalked him.
The other two thugs—remnants of Black Mask’s fractured crew—were already writhing on the pavement, coughing through broken ribs and clutching at empty air. One of them tried crawling away through the rain-slick filth, dragging himself like a wounded animal.
A line hissed, shot out, and wrapped tight around his ankle. The grapnel reeled him back across the asphalt, scraping skin, dragging him through puddles until he spun onto his back beneath Batman’s shadow.
The Dark Knight stood over all of them now, steam rising from his soaked cape, breath harsh through clenched teeth, every inch of him carved into nightmare. The storm framed him, lightning catching in his eyes like cold fire. To the thugs, it wasn’t a man holding them—it was Gotham itself, cold and merciless, wearing the shape of a bat.
“You know him,” he snapped, his voice a serrated edge. “You’ve heard the name.”
The thug in his grip spat blood that washed pink into the rain. “W-We just heard rumors, man—just talk!”
“Make it useful.”
“He—he’s got a crew now!” the man stammered. “Pulled guys off Black Mask’s payroll. Said he was handing out cash and—Jesus, he killed one of them right there—flipped a coin and just—bam!”
Batman’s fist crashed into the dumpster inches from his head, metal screaming as it buckled inward.
The thug shrieked. “Mill! It’s the mill! T-There’s an old lumber mill off Layton Street—they said he’s holed up there, maybe setting up shop!”
Batman’s jaw tightened beneath the cowl. The Layton Mill. Remote. Isolated. Well outside the GCPD’s lazy patrol grid. Too close to the docks, where weapons shipments bled into the city every week. A perfect nest for something diseased to grow. A good place to vanish. A better place to build an empire of madness.
Batman dropped the thug. He collapsed like a discarded puppet, groaning in the rain. The storm pounded harder now, every drop like a drumbeat.
Without another word, Batman turned, cape snapping around him, and strode into the storm. But there was something unsteady in the silence he carried with him, a tremor beneath the armor. This wasn’t interrogation anymore. It wasn’t calculated or tactical.
This was personal. His boots pounded the alley floor before the grappling hook fired skyward. In a rush of steel cable and black cape, the city swallowed him whole, thunder rolling in his wake.
Above the city, he ran.
Above the city, he ran. His boots struck slate tiles slick with rain, the impact echoing against the storm. Rooftop to rooftop, he moved with a precision that seemed more beast than man, lightning tearing the sky into jagged fragments of light that cast the Gotham skyline in stark relief.
But no storm outside could drown out the one inside his head. He could still hear the nurse’s voice, brittle with fear. “He pulled a coin from his pocket. Told the guard to call it.”
He could still see Selina’s face, her usual sly confidence stripped bare, stricken with disbelief. “This isn’t him.”
And worst of all—he could still see Harvey. The real Harvey. Harvey in the courtroom, grinning at the jury with that unstoppable fire in his eyes. Harvey clapping Bruce on the back after a victory, joking over late-night takeout. Harvey with Rachel, her laughter bright, her arm draped around them both like they were all part of something good, something worth saving.
That Harvey was gone. Gotham had claimed him the way it claimed everything—slowly, relentlessly, hollowing him out until nothing human remained. Only ashes. And what had risen from those ashes wore Harvey’s face like a cruel mask.
Batman landed hard on another rooftop, crouching low, eyes sweeping the skyline. Beneath the storm, the city muttered to itself in the language only he knew—distant sirens, flickering neon, the muffled growl of engines too far away to matter.
His comm crackled to life, breaking through the rain’s rhythm. Static at first, then a voice. Not Alfred.
“You could’ve waited,” said Dick.
Batman said nothing, rising from his crouch, the storm dripping from the edge of his cape.
“Seriously, Bruce? You just took off. You think I don’t want to be part of this?”
He shifted his stance, scanning the horizon, the rain soaking into his cowl. Still silent.
“You found something, didn’t you? About Harvey.”
Batman’s reply came at last—low, distant, as though the words had to be forced past something heavier. “This is something I have to do alone.”
“Why?”
A pause. Longer this time.
“Are you okay?”
Batman stared out across the rooftops, cape whipping like a living shadow in the wind. His hand hovered near the comm in his cowl, jaw tightening. Then—
Click! He shut it off.
The only sound now was the wind howling over the rooftops and the storm pounding its endless rhythm across Gotham’s skin. The hunt continued.
Union Saw & Timber
The old sawmill creaked with age and memory. Rusty girders groaned under their own weight, shifting like old bones. Water dripped in slow, steady rhythms from busted pipes overhead, every drop echoing in the cavernous dark. Massive industrial saws lined the floor like sleeping beasts—circular, serrated, their edges blackened and still stained with rust that might once have been blood.
Batman moved silently through the shadows, his cape brushing across concrete and sawdust. His boots made the faintest echoes—more whisper than step. Steam hissed from cracked vents, the air dense with oil and decay. This place had been dead for decades. Now it breathed again.
He passed a cold furnace, its grate cracked open, its embers long since burned to ash. Nearby, half of a broken mannequin sprawled in the dust—some kind of training dummy, its dented plastic head crudely carved with pointed, bat-like ears. He didn’t like the symbolism.
A flicker cut through his peripheral vision. Instinct screamed. He spun—just in time for a shadow to drop from above, fast and feline, claws catching the faint light. A woman’s frame. He caught her just as she lunged for him in midair.
The two crashed onto the mill’s catwalk, steel grating rattling beneath their weight. The impact reverberated through the cavernous room, sending a shower of rust down from the beams. Batman rolled, already bracing as she flipped to her feet and came at him again. Her strikes were sharp, controlled, but there was fury behind them. He blocked a claw swipe that might’ve raked his cowl, then pivoted against a driving knee. She was smaller, just as quick, but he had the strength advantage. Her boot arced high toward his head. He ducked, sweeping her legs in a single motion. She hit the grating with a grunt, the air leaving her lungs.
Lightning cracked through a window above, a blinding white flash that painted the mill in stark relief. In that moment, he saw her face—framed by the sleek leather cowl, blue irises glinting like a predator’s eyes. The rest of her was just as sharp: the skin-tight suit, dark as midnight and slick with rain, stitched without any seams showing. Catwoman.
“Cute welcome,” she snapped, breathless as she glared up at him while leaning on her elbows.
Batman stepped back, cape settling as he recovered from the surprise that had already curdled into wrath. His voice cut through the silence like gravel on steel. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Selina pushed herself up to a seated position, brushing sawdust from her arm as though shaking off his fury along with it. “Same reason you are.”
He scoffed, a bitter sound muffled under the cowl. “You made it very clear you didn’t want to find Harvey.”
“I said I didn’t want to help you find him,” she shot back, rising now, her movements lithe and deliberate. “Big difference.”
A growl slipped out before he could choke it down. “You and your damn semantics.”
Selina closed the gap between them, boots quiet on the catwalk, her voice lowering but her eyes still sharp as broken glass. “I came here because I want to get to him first. Alone. To at least talk to him before you scare him off or beat him into a cell.”
“You think he wants to talk?” Batman’s tone was incredulous, but there was an edge of pain beneath it. “He’s not Harvey anymore.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
“You’re always so certain of everything?” Her voice cracked ever so slightly, the crack slipping through her armor before she caught it. “So willing to write him off ... after everything he’s been through?”
“He’s murdered people, Selina! Not just one or two! The body count’s close to a dozen at this point!”
She flinched, her shoulders tightening, but she didn’t give ground. “And you think you’re going to fix him by putting him in chains? Just like everyone else wants to?”
They were chest to chest now, heat radiating between them, their words sharper than claws or gauntlets. Around them the saws loomed in the dark, teeth gleaming faintly in the lightning—silent, waiting, like an audience of steel.
“You said it yourself,” Batman growled. “You didn’t want to be part of this.”
“No,” she hissed, her breath brushing his jawline. “I didn’t want to be part of your crusade. I came here to see if there’s anything left of the man I used to love.”
For a moment, they only stared, breath hot and ragged, a fire sparking between anger and longing. The mill seemed to hold its breath with them, the storm outside pressing against the glass.
And then—footsteps. Heavy. Unmistakably deliberate. The thud of boots echoed through the mill, slow and steady, each one reverberating through the steel grating beneath their feet. The sound grew louder, closer. Not the stride of a man. The advance of something larger. They both turned, sensing danger.
A massive figure stepped into the light at the far end of the floor—towering, muscle-bound, his bulk dwarfing the shadows themselves. Black tank top stretched tight across his frame, steel-plated gauntlets glinting with dull menace. His face was half-hidden behind a respirator mask, and from behind the lenses of his goggles burned two baleful, crimson eyes.
“Am I interrupting something?” the man asked.
His voice, though slightly muffled by the mask, carried with it an unsettling smoothness. Almost polite. And yet beneath that civility was the cold undertone of absolute power. A promise of violence waiting to be unleashed.
Bane stepped into the sawmill with slow, deliberate strides—like he owned the place. Like the air bent around him. He was enormous—muscle stacked on muscle, his frame moving with the precision of a killer who knew exactly what he was capable of. A black combat vest hugged his chest, steel clasps glinting in the low light. Thick gauntlets armored his forearms, and twin tubes ran from the base of his neck into a small, metal port embedded near his spine.
Two red targeting eyes glowed beneath the armored mask that covered his nose and mouth. He stood rigid, hands clasped behind his back, the stance almost disturbingly formal. His gaze flicked from Batman to Catwoman, amusement playing in the tilt of his head.
“I imagine I’m not the man you were expecting to find here tonight,” he said, voice calm, supremely confident.
Batman didn’t move. “You’re not.”
Bane’s head tilted again, faintly pleased. “You’ve been looking for Harvey Dent. And so ... I made sure you would think he was here.”
Batman’s eyes narrowed. “You spread the rumors.”
“Mm,” Bane nodded, slow and measured. “A bit of whispering in the right ears, and the Bat scurries straight into the trap. Well, him and his little gatita, apparently.”
Catwoman took a cautious step back, claws raised, eyes flashing with irritation. “How charming,” she hissed, voice tight.
Batman didn’t react to her. His tone was flat, clipped. “I’ve heard of you.”
Bane’s head cocked again, red lenses catching the dim light. “Have you?”
“You go by Bane, right? Gun for hire out of South America. Black Mask’s new toy. High body count. No principles. No honor.”
Something in the words seemed to touch a nerve. Bane’s eyes glowed a fraction brighter, his voice gaining a hard edge. “You think I came to this city for money?”
Batman stayed silent, assessing.
Bane stepped forward, boots echoing like war drums. The air shifted around him, tense, dangerous. “Honor is the only reason I’m here,” he said coldly, voice cutting through the mill. “The honor of killing the Bat. In single combat. As it was always meant to be.”
Batman’s jaw tightened, muscles coiling. “You picked the wrong night to appease your ‘honor,’ Bane. I’m in a bad mood, and I don’t feel like being merciful.”
A laugh rumbled from Bane, deep and derisive, filling the empty mill with menace. “Mercy,” he said. “Has no place in the arena of men and blood.”
Bane dropped into a fighting stance, and with almost no warning, charged with terrifying speed. Batman barely dodged the first swing. A punch that struck the steel support beam behind him and left a deep dent.
Bane moved like a bulldozer—faster than he should’ve been for his size. His blows were like sledgehammers, each one forcing Batman to block or evade with perfect timing. But even when he deflected, the force carried through. The sheer weight of Bane’s strikes was overwhelming.
Batman landed a few precise hits—strikes to the neck, ribs, joints—but Bane barely flinched. He grabbed Batman by the chest and punched him right in the face, the force hurling him across the floor like a rag doll. Batman smashed straight through a wooden wall, splinters flying. Too stubborn to feel pain, Batman leapt to his feet, springing from the hole in the wall, leg extended to plant his boot in Bane’s face. Bane didn’t flinch as he caught Batman’s foot and flung him with one hand into a table behind him.
Batman landed in a heap, pain rippling through his spine as shattered wood rained around him. He tried to rise, but Bane was already there, seizing him by the cape and dragging him across the floor. Sparks flew as Batman’s body scraped against a conveyor track. With a grunt, Bane hurled him again—this time into a pile of iron logs meant for cutting. The impact knocked the breath from Batman’s lungs, and as he rolled off the stack, a stray log tumbled loose, clanging against a spinning saw blade nearby. The blade shrieked as it bit into metal, kicking up a shower of sparks that scorched the air around them.
As he rose shakily, Batman barely managed to block Bane’s next punch with a gauntleted forearm, but the force still flung him back into a dangling chain hoist, the metal links rattling like bones. Dazed, he reached for a smoke pellet—but Bane stomped down hard on his hand, pinning it. Then came another blow, a downward hammerfist that slammed Batman’s chest into the steel floor with a sickening crack. His HUD flickered. Warning alerts blared in his cowl. Vision blurred. Bane stretched leisurely, confident in his victory.
At first Catwoman could only stare from across the mill, frozen in stunned disbelief as Bane pummeled him. It wasn’t indifference—far from it—but the sheer shock of seeing Batman so completely overpowered had rooted her to the spot. The old Catwoman would’ve bolted without a second thought; survival had always been her creed, and throwing herself against a monster like Bane was suicide.
But as she watched, the truth settled in: his life hung in the balance. If she did nothing, Batman would die. And for reasons she barely understood, her legs finally began to move. Maybe it was loyalty. Maybe it was something far more dangerous. Either way, it seemed she had picked up some rather stupid habits in recent years.
The massive mercenary loomed over the stunned Batman, raising a fist for the killing blow—when a whip cracked through the air like lightning, slashing the back of his hand.
“GET AWAY FROM HIM, YOU BIG APE!” Selina shouted, leaping into the fray with the ferocity born of desperation.
He gave a mildly bemused shrug and turned to face her. As she sprinted, she flipped over Bane and slashed at his back, metal claws shrieking against his armored plates in a shower of sparks. He grunted, more annoyed than injured, as she rolled between his legs and came up fast, driving a sharp kick into the side of his knee. The massive joint buckled for a heartbeat, but he planted his foot again with iron resolve.
Catwoman pressed harder. She spun low, aiming for his ribs, then vaulted upward in a whip-fast backflip, heel snapping across the side of his jaw. The impact turned his head, but only slightly. He caught her next strike mid-swing, her claws inches from his throat, and hurled her aside like she weighed nothing.
She landed on her feet, crouched and ready, breath sharp and wild. She came at him again, faster this time, claws flashing in a flurry that would have gutted any lesser man. But Bane blocked with crushing forearms, caught her wrist, twisted, forced her to writhe free. He was too strong. Too solid. Every move she made was quicksilver, but his defenses were implacable stone.
Still she didn’t stop. Her style burned hotter than usual—reckless, unrelenting—not for jewels, not for pride, but for someone else. For him. She wouldn’t admit it, not even to herself, but every strike she threw was meant to keep Batman breathing one second longer.
As their battle dragged on, Bane seemed to lose patience. He finally got serious, his massive arms swinging like wrecking cranes. Not just brute force. Surgical precision. Catwoman twisted and dodged the first two strikes, claws scraping sparks from metal and wood, but the third clipped her jaw, and then another took her in the gut, sending her sprawling across the concrete wall and slumping to the floor. Breath knocked out, vision swimming with shards of lightning, she lay dazed and exposed as chains clattered and boards snapped around her. For a heartbeat, the predator was helpless, vulnerable beneath Bane’s looming shadow, poised to finish her. Bane raised both bone-shattering arms to crush her.
Wham! Batman tackled him from behind, driving a shoulder into Bane’s spine, forcing him away from her. Bane rolled to his feet as he came swinging at his foe. Batman ducked and weaved, reading Bane’s habits from their last encounter, each strike a near miss, every hit a lesson in brute force and precision.
Batman followed up with a precise flurry of punches and kicks, targeting the ribs, throat, and kidney—the pressure points that could exploit openings even against a mountain of muscle. Each strike was calculated, a combination of timing and leverage rather than brute force. He ducked a swinging arm and twisted his torso, letting Bane’s momentum carry him past before landing a sharp elbow to the kidney. Another rapid kick to the head forced a grunt from the giant. Bane staggered back, a flicker of imbalance in his enormous frame. The mountain could bleed.
Batman helped Catwoman to her feet, never taking his eyes off their opponent. “We hit him together. Fast. Just out of his reach.”
She smirked competitively, feeling the old familiar thrill. “Think you can keep up?”
“Try me.”
They didn’t need more than that. Batman and Catwoman moved in unison—her claws slashing low, his fists striking high. Together, they drove Bane backward, step by step, into the corner of the mill near one of the rusted saw platforms.
Their motions worked in tandem, weaving through whirring gears and swinging chains like dancers in a deadly ballet. Batman ducked beneath a swinging log, using it as cover to deliver a brutal punch to Bane’s kidney, while Catwoman leapt from a catwalk above, slashing at exposed tubing on Bane’s venom rig with her claws. As Bane roared and turned, Batman kicked a control lever, sending a conveyor belt surging forward—smashing a crate of metal bolts into the behemoth’s back and staggering him long enough for the pair to regroup.
Bane grunted beneath his mask, then sniffed at Batman, lifting his chin. “You needed a woman to save you?”
Batman said nothing. His fists answered. A spinning backfist connected with Bane’s jaw, followed by a sharp kick to the knee. The giant stumbled, one of his goggles cracking, revealing a single, human eye beneath that blinked with surprise—and irritation.
But then came the growl. Low, guttural, raw. A sound that carried frustration and reluctant acceptance. “I didn’t want it to come to this...” His voice cracked as he spoke, but there was no hesitation. Batman’s gaze flicked to the tubing snaking across Bane’s shoulders and back. “ ... I hate losing my mind to the Venom.”
Bane slammed a massive fist down on the port in his chest.
PSSSSSHHT!
The chemical hissed through the tubes on his back like a living thing, hissing and bubbling. In an instant, his muscles swelled, chest expanding, veins bulging like iron cables beneath taut skin. Armor plates cracked under the pressure, rasping with the effort. His breathing became ragged, guttural, almost animalistic. The human eye went glassy, bloodshot, while the red optic in the other goggled eye flared menacingly.
He was large before at nearly seven feet, but now he was absolutely enormous at more than eight. The man was gone. What remained was pure rage, a living berserker, a force of destruction. He roared, and with a terrifying, unstoppable momentum, tore through the machinery as if it were nothing more than paper. Steel and wood splintered beneath his fists. Lightning flashed, chains rattled, and the air thickened with the scent of ozone, sweat, and metal. The real fight had begun.
Bane’s battle cry rattled the walls like thunder trapped inside a coffin. Sparks sputtered from shattered control panels, and steel beams groaned as the monster tore through the mill, tossing crates and slamming aside rusted worktables as if they were nothing more than cardboard. No more cognition remained. He was fury incarnate.
Batman watched, calculating. Even in all his strength, Bane’s intelligence had slipped in this monstrous form. He wasn’t thinking, only reacting. The fluid strategy, the careful observation—that was gone, replaced by pure rage. Every swing was a hammer, every charge predictable if one could anticipate it.
“Split up!” Batman shouted.
“You think?” Catwoman hissed, backflipping over a pile of shattered crates, dodging a massive steel rod Bane hurled like a javelin.
Batman tossed a smoke pellet at Bane’s feet, but the berserker charged straight through the haze, swiping blindly. His fists cratered the floor. One nearly caught Bruce’s ribs. Close. Too close. They had to end this fast.
Catwoman vaulted onto an overhead catwalk, calling down, “You got anything that could take down a tank?!”
Batman’s eyes flicked to a suspended platform above a grinding pit. “Not knock down,” he said. “But maybe drop.”
He shot a cable across the mill to a beam, swinging across just as Bane charged again. Timing was everything. He tossed a second Batarang—blinking red—into the far support. Pressing a sequence into his gauntlet—
CLANK—CLANG—SNAP!
The floor beneath Bane gave way with a violent crack, metal hinges exploding as the trapdoor opened. The beast plunged into the pit below, roaring in rage the whole way down. Darkness swallowed him completely.
CRASH! Silence. Only for a moment. Then—
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Fists slammed against steel walls far below, echoing like war drums through the structure. Batman leaned against the edge, shoulders slumping in relief.
“Tell me that bought us time,” Catwoman said, breathless and near her limit.
“A few minutes ... maybe,” Batman said, already scanning the mill for a quick exit.
Batman turned—
And froze.
Roman Sionis—Black Mask—stepped through a side entrance with a small army of armed gunmen at his back. Firefly hovered nearby in full gear, flamepack glowing orange in the dark. His movements were wild, twitchy.
“Well, well,” Black Mask said, slow-clapping with mocking theatricality. “I gotta say, I’m a little disappointed. Thought Bane would’ve snapped your spine by now.”
Batman took a defensive stance. “Guess you’ll have to settle for disappointment.”
Roman’s grin widened behind the skull-shaped mask, his white suit contrasting with the mask. “Cute. Real cute.”
Mask gestured for his thugs to surround them, stepping forward with all the swagger of a man who thought the end was already written.
While the thugs encircled them, Batman’s gauntlet blinked. Selina barely noticed him fiddling with it—but then he leaned toward her and whispered.
“When it happens—run. Don’t wait,” he said, gesturing to window at the corner with his chin.
“What are you—?”
“You’ll know.”
Black Mask spread his hands dramatically, enjoying his moment. “Still, I’m flattered you both came. Hell of a romantic evening—rain, saws, murder pits.” He turned his head, eying Catwoman with a lecherous tilt. “And you. Damn. Would be a shame to waste such a fine piece of ass. Tell ya what, sweety. You agree to play whore for me like you do with old Bats here, and I’ll let you off the hook.”
Catwoman’s claws clicked together with a shhk as she flipped him off.
Black Mask chuckled. “Suit yourself.”
“Want me to fry the cunt, boss?” asked Firefly, raising his flamethrower.
“In a minute. I’d like to savor this moment first,” said Black Mask, waving off his lackey.
That’s fine, thought Batman as he continued to work the signal. Take all the time you want.
“You know, it’s funny,” Black Mask said, pacing theatrically. “We spend all these years hearing stories about the Bat. The terror in the dark. The unbeatable boogeyman of Gotham.”
He chuckled, slow and smug. “And then you see him up close ... bleeding, bruised, barely standing. Not so scary now, are you?”
Batman said nothing.
Roman kept going. He was enjoying this.
“I mean, really—look at you. The so-called Dark Knight, beaten to pulp by some wrestle mania freak.”
He glanced at Catwoman, who smirked without humor. “Though I’ll admit, you’ve got taste. If I had someone like her on my arm, maybe I’d be a little distracted too. God, I bet the bitch makes for a good fuck.”
Selina rolled her eyes as she exhaled slowly.
“And to think,” he went on, waving an arm in a wide arc. “You crawled into my trap thinking you were hunting your old pal, Dent. What a joke. The man’s already lost his mind, and now you’ve lost yours, walking into a buzzsaw factory like literal lambs to slaughter.”
He turned back to Batman, standing across from him now.
“This was always going to be your end, you know. Not some rooftop duel. Not some poetic sacrifice. Just a slow, brutal death in the gutter, surrounded by men who already know your tricks. No gas pellets. No grapple hooks. No Batmobile.”
He grinned beneath the mask, face twitching with amusement. “This is the moment your legend dies, Bat. And I get to be the one who kills it.”
Black Mask drew a pistol from his coat, the chamber snapping with dramatic finality. “But I’m a classy kind of guy. I’ll let you have your say. Any last words?”
Batman’s fingers shifted subtly across his gauntlet, pressing a hidden mechanism. He met Black Mask’s gaze, calm and unflinching. “Yeah. You talk too much.”
A barely audible high-frequency pulse hummed through the mill, imperceptible to human ears. And then—the sound erupted. Wings. Thousands of them.
From the shattered skylight above, a living storm of bats poured into the space, black and writhing, filling the rafters and spiraling downward. The thugs panicked instantly, shrieking and flailing.
“What the hell—?!”
“They’re everywhere—!”
“GET THEM OFF ME—!”