The Death knell

"It seems that someone had the same idea as us."

While Albert pedaled the unicycle furiously, he held both guns in his hands and turned off the safety.

Charles did the same. When the combat distance couldn't be guaranteed, two pistols were more reliable than the shotgun strapped to her back.

"At least we can rule out Harley as a suspect. She and Poison Ivy are drunk as hell. There's no way they could've beaten us here."

"It doesn't matter who did it. We just need to go in and wipe out these business robbers."

Gotham had no shortage of people who liked to play with bats, and it was hard to tell who was acting at any given moment.

After his previous battle with the circus, Albert had fully accepted that he was Death Knell—and Death Knell was him. If this body was a house, then Slade was just its previous tenant. Now that it belonged to Albert, he would rewrite its legend with his own name.

He would control it with his own will. He could never go back, and keeping his old name was more of a habit, a small nod to his past life.

Charles didn't know what was going through Albert's mind, but she keenly sensed that he had changed. The man who once seemed detached from the world was now fully immersed in it.

She was curious but said nothing. Instead, she holstered her guns, sensing she wouldn't need them just yet.

As they arrived at the small park, Deathstroke's enhanced eyesight allowed him to see the entrance of the Gotham Police Department.

The building was ancient, likely built when Gotham was founded. Despite numerous renovations over the years, it still reflected the fortress-like vision of its original architect.

Thick, solid walls. Tiny windows. A wide rooftop with protective railings. Independent water supply equipment, air conditioning units, and, of course, the famous bat signal perched atop the structure.

A large, weathered GCPD sign hung on the front. It looked old, but it was still intact.

The parking lot in front of the station was packed with black vans, parked haphazardly in the pouring rain. They looked like dark rocks scattered along a stormy shore.

Blood mixed with rainwater, streaming down the steps where the bodies of slain officers lay motionless.

Near the shattered entrance, a few men in black stood guard with submachine guns, patrolling warily. Every so often, they glanced inside, as if waiting for someone.

"A black suit, a felt hat, a white silk scarf, and a Chicago-style typewriter. Their boss must be a fan of 'The Godfather.'"

Hiding in the shrubs, Albert and Charles blended into the shadows. The heavy rain masked their movements. Albert could see everything clearly, but to their enemies, they were invisible.

Charles frowned. "Gotham's gangsters have been dressing like that for decades. You can't tell who they are just from their outfits."

She glanced at the distance to the police station and then up at the sky.

"The weather and time are in our favor. We can either attack or infiltrate under cover of darkness."

"They probably planned to use Gordon to lure the Bat. If we go in guns blazing, they'll be too distracted to focus on their real target. If they capture Gordon, things will get complicated."

Albert made his decision. Without hesitation, he raised both guns, dashed out from cover, and fired while running.

His brain processed space with precision. Calculating ballistics wasn't just Deathstroke's ability—it was his, too. He didn't aim in the traditional sense; he calculated everything—wind speed, refraction, gravity, energy loss.

Each shot was perfect. The men in black guarding the entrance collapsed instantly.

The heavy rain lashed at the pavement as Albert sprinted forward, his speed unnatural. By the time the surviving gangsters realized where the attack was coming from, Albert had already leaped over a van and into the parking lot. He grabbed its edge, hoisted himself up effortlessly, and landed on the roof.

Their stunned faces barely had time to register their impending doom before he fired again, each shot a calculated execution.

Seconds later, silence.

"Tsk tsk..." Charles landed beside him, glancing at the bodies scattered below. "You really ran ahead of me. I wasn't even done answering you."

"They wanted a fight. I gave them one." Albert shrugged.

"You gave them a massacre, not a fight," Charles snorted, stepping off the van and walking toward the station. "No one's reimbursing us for this mission, you know. We're paying out of pocket. Couldn't you have used a knife?"

"Do you always count expenses this closely?" Albert chuckled, picking up a discarded submachine gun and checking the magazine. ".45 caliber rounds. Forty-five per drum. Seems like a fair trade."

Their conversation was casual, as if they had just finished shopping rather than slaughtering a dozen men.

Just before entering the station, Albert noticed one of the gangsters still alive. Though Albert's shots always hit the heart, this one had been born with their heart on the right side. A one-in-a-thousand anomaly.

"Who sent you?"

Albert kicked her gun away and crouched beside her, his scarlet eye glowing ominously through his mask.

Coughing up blood, the gangster grinned defiantly. "Our boss... won't let you go, Deathstroke."

Albert raised an eyebrow. This fool clearly didn't understand the situation. Everyone else was dead. No one would know he had been here. This was a perfect assassination.

"You're loyal. That means your boss must have told you something."

Lightning-fast, he drew his katana and plunged it into the gangster's right chest, pinning her to the ground.

"Don't. Provoke. Deathstroke."

With a swift motion, he withdrew the blade. Blood spurted from the wound like a fountain.

The warm liquid momentarily eased the chill of the rain, but an unsettling hunger stirred inside Albert—a craving for more blood. He clenched his jaw and shook his head, suppressing it.

Charles, misinterpreting his reaction, smirked. "See? I told you. A knife is better."

Albert sighed. "Fine. You handle things inside. I'll evaluate your methods after we're done."

Charles grinned. "Forget it. I'm not interested in the minions. Just save their boss for me."

Without further words, Albert pushed open the doors and entered the police station.

The chaos inside was evident. The lobby was filled with bodies—mostly officers, but a few gangsters as well.

Gunfire erupted, not from the third floor where the commissioner's office was, but from the basement.

"What's down there?" Albert asked.

"If I remember correctly—the morgue, the power room, and the communications center," Charles replied, scanning the area.

Albert noted something odd. The gangsters hadn't gone upstairs at all. Their focus was entirely underground.

"Strange..."

Without hesitation, he stepped over the bodies and furniture, moving toward the source of the gunfire.

In the dim corridor, men in black and officers exchanged shots, ducking in and out of rooms like a deadly game of whack-a-mole. The police were clearly at a disadvantage.

Charles tightened her helmet. "If they're guarding the communications room, someone inside must be important—maybe Gordon, calling for backup."

Albert doubted that. Gordon wasn't the type to hide while his men fought outside. But Cindy knew Earth Minus-11 better.

"Doesn't matter. Let's wipe them all out and see for ourselves."

Charles smirked. "Bet you a cigar Gordon's in there."

Albert pulled out a cigar. "I bet he's not."

They placed their wagers on the doorframe. Then, Charles drew her sword and charged.

Albert followed.

It was time to end this.