Flipping Through the Pages
Copyright© 2026 by Dragonpig
Chapter 35
The luxurious penthouse bedroom was bathed in the soft glow of Gotham’s city lights filtering through floor-to-ceiling windows at eleven PM. Alice lay in the massive bed, her blonde hair spread across the silk pillowcase as she was catching her breath. Jervis was beside her, and on his other side lay the younger woman they’d brought up from the third floor.
“That was good, Little Alice,” Jervis murmured, his voice carrying that peculiar mix of gentleness and authority that Alice had grown to both love and fear. She watched as he addressed the thirteen-year-old, noting the satisfied smile that played across his lips.
Alice felt a familiar knot forming in her stomach. She was his second-in-command, his right hand, his Alice—but lately, she’d been noticing the way his attention lingered on their regular bedmate. The girl was fresh-faced, eager to please, and undeniably younger than Alice’s twenty years.
As they lay in the afterglow, the thirteen-old was drawn closer by Jervis, being positioned between Jervis and her. The arrangement felt foreign and wrong to Alice, who was used to having that coveted spot, curled against Jervis’s side where she could claim him as hers.
This isn’t right, she thought, watching as Little Alice nestled comfortably between them. That’s my place. I’ve earned that place.
“Well,” she said, forcing casualness into her voice as she propped herself up on one elbow, “I think our Little Alice should head back down to the third floor now.” She tried to make it sound routine, natural, while simultaneously beginning to move toward the center herself—toward her rightful position against Jervis.
But as Alice attempted to reclaim her usual spot, Jervis’s hand gently but firmly stopped her progression. “Now, now, Alice,” he said softly, that infuriating smile growing wider. “Let Little Alice stay right where she is. She’s been such a good girl today—she deserves to sleep with us tonight.”
Alice’s heart clenched as she felt herself being redirected back to the outside edge of the bed. He’s choosing her over me, the realization hit like a physical blow. When did I stop being his good girl?
“There’s plenty of room for all of us,” Jervis continued, his arms wrapping protectively around the younger woman, holding her close with a tenderness that made Alice’s jealousy spike. His hand reached over to pat Little Alice’s head, fingers threading through her long blonde locks with obvious affection. “She deserves this comfort after being so obedient.”
Alice tried to school her features into neutrality, but inside, jealousy burned like acid in her veins. Lying on the outside of their embrace, she felt more alone than she had in years. Does he want her more than me? The thought tormented her as she watched them settle together. Am I too old for him now? Is twenty already past my prime in his eyes?
She stared at the younger woman’s peaceful face, noting how perfectly she fit against Jervis’s side—the way Alice herself used to. She’s taking everything from me, she thought bitterly. My position, my place in his bed, his affection. And I won’t let her.
Batman 47-X presses his back against the cold concrete wall, his suit’s adaptive camouflage responding instantly to the mottled gray surface. The fabric shifts and ripples like liquid mercury, taking on the texture and color of weathered cement until he becomes little more than a shadow that belongs to the hallway itself.
Ahead, two guards flank the reinforced steel door that leads deeper into the warehouse complex. Their conversation drifts back to him in fragments—complaints about overtime, crude jokes about the people inside. The casual boredom in their voices makes his jaw tighten beneath the mask.
Selina’s voice comes through his earpiece, crystal clear through the high-tech communication system. “47?”
“Here,” he subvocalizes, the words barely a breath that his suit’s internal microphone picks up and transmits.
“Bruce Wayne wants to talk to you. Are you busy?”
Batman 47-X’s eyes remain fixed on the guards, calculating distances and angles. “I’m about to infiltrate this sweatshop slavery operation, but I have time.”
“Patching Bruce through.”
A moment later, Ultimate Bruce’s voice fills his ear with perfect clarity. “47, sorry for interrupting what you’re about to do. How’s everything going?”
“Everything’s going pretty well,” Batman 47-X subvocalizes, beginning to move forward with glacial slowness. Each step is deliberate enough to maintain the camouflage’s adaptive response, slow enough that the movement won’t catch his targets’ vision. “How can I help you?”
“I have a favor I might need from you. Here it is—”
Batman 47-X listens to Bruce’s request while continuing his approach, his body moving like a snail along the wall. The suit’s technology is remarkable—as long as he maintains this careful pace, the optical camouflage creates the illusion that the hallway is empty, that the shadows are exactly where they should be.
“Sure,” he subvocalizes when Bruce finishes. “I’ll be happy to do that.”
“Thanks,” Bruce replies, then disconnects from the channel.
“Selina, prepare your part,” Batman 47-X informs her, now less than six feet from the guard on his side of the hallway. “I’m about to make my move.”
“Sure, 47,” Selina’s voice comes back, tense with excitement.
The guard is close enough now that Batman 47-X can smell his stale cigarette breath and see the grease stains on his uniform shirt. The man’s attention focuses on his partner, who tells some rambling story about a bar fight from the weekend.
In one fluid motion, Batman 47-X’s camouflage flickers as he strikes. His left hand clamps over the guard’s mouth, cutting off any sound before it can begin. Simultaneously, a long, slender blade extends from beneath his gauntlet with a barely audible snick, sliding into the man’s back and piercing his kidney. The guard’s eyes go wide with shock and pain, his body convulsing, but the hand over his mouth traps his scream in his throat.
The kidney strike isn’t immediately fatal—Batman 47-X draws the blade across the guard’s throat in one swift motion, opening his carotid artery. Blood sprays briefly before the man’s body goes limp. Batman 47-X lowers him silently to the floor.
The second guard hears something—a muffled grunt, the wet sound of blood hitting concrete. He turns, his mouth already opening to call out to his partner, but stops when he sees his fellow guard crumpled on the hallway floor.
Before the man can process what he’s seeing, Batman 47-X raises his right arm. A flat, razor-sharp blade shoots out from his forearm gauntlet and embeds itself in the guard’s throat, lodging in his windpipe.
The second guard clutches at his throat, his eyes bulging as he tries desperately to breathe around the obstruction. He drops to his knees, then collapses forward, choking to death on his own blood in silence.
Batman 47-X steps over the bodies and approaches the steel door. His fingers find the handle, turn it slowly, and feel the mechanism disengage with a soft click. The door swings open on well-oiled hinges, revealing the large room beyond.
He pauses at the threshold, his enhanced hearing picking up the sounds from within—machinery, muffled voices, and beneath it all, the quiet desperation of people trapped against their will.
Batman 47-X steps through the doorway and freezes at the sight before him. The warehouse stretches out like a cathedral of human misery—hundreds of feet long and wide, with a ceiling that disappears into shadows above industrial lighting. The space hums with the mechanical rhythm of forced labor.
Men and women sit chained to long assembly benches, their bodies clad in nothing but underwear and bras for the women, underwear only for the men. Heavy shackles bind their ankles to the floor beneath each workstation. Their hands move with the practiced desperation of people who know that slowing down means punishment. They assemble purses, shoes, clothing—an endless stream of products that will bear designer labels and command premium prices in stores thousands of miles away.
Batman 47-X’s enhanced vision takes in every detail through his mask’s tactical display. The prisoners’ faces tell the story—hollow cheeks, sunken eyes, the gray pallor of malnutrition. Their movements are mechanical, exhausted, the motions of people who have been broken down to nothing more than human machinery.
Seven guards patrol the warehouse floor, assault rifles slung across their chests, watching the workers with the casual indifference of farmers monitoring livestock. They joke among themselves, smoke cigarettes, occasionally bark orders at prisoners who dare to slow their pace.
Near the center of the warehouse, one of the women raises a trembling hand. “Please,” she calls out in accented English. “I need ... bathroom...”
A guard ambles over, keys jangling from his belt. He unlocks her ankle shackle with obvious irritation, then grabs her roughly by the arm. “Make it quick,” he growls, hauling her toward a side corridor.
Batman 47-X remains motionless against the wall, his optical camouflage rendering him invisible to the naked eye. But he knows that the moment he strikes, the entire operation will explode into chaos. Once the first guard falls, the others will notice. He needs to move fast and deadly.
He selects his first target—a guard standing closest to him, near a stack of shipping containers. Batman 47-X moves with the same glacial pace as before, each step calculated to maintain his camouflage. The guard stands with his back turned, rifle hanging loose, completely unaware that death approaches from behind.
Batman 47-X closes the final distance in a single, fluid motion. His left hand clamps over the guard’s mouth while a long, sharp blade extends from beneath his right gauntlet. The steel slides through the man’s eye socket and into his brain with a wet snick. The guard’s body goes rigid, then limp. Batman 47-X lowers him silently behind the containers.
“Where’s Rodriguez?” one of the other guards calls out, noticing the empty space where his colleague had been standing.
Batman 47-X doesn’t wait for them to investigate. He raises both arms, targeting systems in his cowl painting red dots on his enemies. Flat, razor-sharp blades shoot out from his forearm gauntlets, streaking across the warehouse like metallic lightning. The projectiles find their marks—throat, chest, neck—and the poison coating each blade ensures that even non-fatal wounds become lethal within seconds.
Three guards drop immediately, clutching at the steel embedded in their bodies as the toxin races through their bloodstreams.
The remaining guards spot the blades, see their comrades falling, and panic takes hold. “Contact! Contact!” one screams into his radio. Muzzle flashes light up the warehouse as they open fire, spraying bullets in Batman 47-X’s general direction.
The prisoners scream and throw themselves to the floor as best they can, their ankle chains clanking against the concrete. Bullets spark off metal worktables and punch holes in shipping containers. Batman 47-X moves constantly, his camouflage flickering in and out as he darts between cover points. The guards catch glimpses of him—a shadow here, a hint of movement there—but their shots go wide in their desperation.
Two guards, firing wildly in opposite directions, accidentally cross their lines of fire. Their bullets find each other instead of their target. Both men drop with cries of pain and confusion.
The last guard, smaller and smarter than the others, grabs the nearest prisoner—a young woman with tears streaming down her face. He presses his pistol against her temple and backs toward the main entrance, using her as a human shield.
“I don’t know who you are!” he shouts, his voice cracking with fear. “But if you make one more move, I’ll blow her brains out! Show yourself! I’m not kidding!”
Silence fills the warehouse. The guard’s breathing comes in ragged gasps as he scans the shadows, his gun hand shaking against the woman’s head.
“Okay then, I warned you—”
The guard’s words cut off abruptly. His body goes rigid, his eyes rolling back in his skull. The pistol tumbles from his nerveless fingers as he collapses, revealing the slender blade protruding from the base of his neck.
The woman he had been holding looks over her shoulder in shock, seeing the mysterious figure in the tactical Batsuit for the first time as his camouflage fully disengages.
“Are you ... Are you the Batman?” she whispers.
“Yes, I am,” Batman 47-X replies, his voice a low growl. “I’ll have you out of this soon.”
He walks to the dead guard’s body and retrieves a ring of keys from the man’s belt. Moving systematically through the warehouse, he unlocks each prisoner’s ankle shackle. The sound of metal clicking open echoes through the space as men and women rub their raw, bleeding ankles and struggle to stand on unsteady legs.
“Thank you,” they whisper in various languages—English, Spanish, Mandarin, Arabic. “Thank you, thank you...”
Batman 47-X acknowledges their gratitude with a brief nod, then activates his comm system.
“Selina,” he subvocalizes. “Execute your part of the plan.”
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