Gotham was quiet tonight. Too quiet.

No sirens in the distance. No rain drumming against rooftops. Just the heavy silence of a city holding its breath beneath a blanket of darkness unlike any other city in the world.

The Iceberg Lounge stood like a jewel on the waterfront, glowing with neon blues and frosted whites. From inside came the muffled pulse of jazz music, glass clinking, the smug laughter of Gotham's wealthy elite mingling with the low rumble of criminals doing business in darkened corners.

From an alleyway that bled into the street, a figure emerged. The suit he wore was sharp, cut to perfection. His face, however, was hidden behind a theater mask one side carved into a grotesque, wide smile, the other streaked with tears. The mask gleamed pale under the streetlight as he strode forward.

In his gloved hand, he held a metal cylinder no bigger than a cigarette pack. He clicked it once. A faint electronic pulse hissed, and then vanished. He slipped the device back into his suit jacket.

One by one, every camera he passed went black. Their feeds blinked out into static, blind to his approach.

Two guards stood at the rear entrance. They didn't even have time to draw their weapons. The masked man raised a pistol fitted with a suppressor and fired twice. Phfft. Phfft. The muted cracks were swallowed by the pulse of bass from inside the Lounge. Both men dropped without a sound, their blood soaking into the wet concrete.

The figure stepped over them and slipped inside.

***

Inside, the corridors of the Iceberg Lounge twisted like veins through the walls. Neon lights bled through smoky glass. Music thudded, laughter spilled from above. The figure moved in silence.

A guard rounded a corner. Phfft. One round to the throat. He crumpled.

Another came rushing, shotgun raised. The figure caught the barrel, twisted, snapped the man's wrist with a crunch, and slammed his head into the wall - once, twice, three times until bone gave way.

Two more rushed him. The silenced pistol barked twice, each shot clean, efficient. They fell before their weapons even cleared their holsters.

The man in the mask flowed through the halls like a well oiled machine. Every kill was surgical. Brutal. The kind of violence that made even seasoned killers look like amateurs. By the time he reached the upper floors, the trail of bodies was silent, cooling behind him.

He came to the last corridor. Two guards posted outside the office door, heavier builds, alert. He shot the first in the chest, pivoted, caught the second's arm mid-draw, and jammed his knife into the man's ribs before he could scream. Both went down.

The masked man adjusted his tie, stepped over them, and opened the office door.

***

Penguin was mid-draw on his cigar when the door swung inward. His eyes went wide. He half rose from his chair, sputtering —

CRACK.

A bullet slammed into the floor between his legs, splintering wood. The sound echoed like thunder over the lounge's music.

"Sit," the masked man growled.

Penguin froze, breath caught in his throat, before lowering himself back into his chair. He tried to muster bravado, puffing out his chest, gripping his umbrella cane, letting his lips curl around a grin.

"Whatever they paid I can double it," he rasped, voice guttural, gravel edged.

The masked figure tilted his head, the laughing side of the mask catching the light. His silenced pistol hung loose in his hand, yet somehow heavier than a loaded cannon.

Vey stood there, mask gleaming faintly in the dim lamplight of the Penguin's office. The distorted smile-and-weeping visage didn't move, but the cold silence between them did all the speaking it needed to. Penguin shifted in his leather chair, his fat hands twitching, hovering close to the edge of the desk. His eyes darted down once, almost reflexively, to the button hidden beneath.

Vey finally broke the silence, voice low, even, with an edge that cut clean through the air.

"I wouldn't press the panic button if I were you."

Penguin froze mid-breath, cigar hanging from his lips.

"I didn't come to kill you," Vey continued, tilting the pistol ever so slightly, barrel glinting in the light. "But… more people come up here, I can't promise stray bullets won't find their way into you."

For a moment, the Penguin weighed the threat. His thumb flexed once, then drew back, away from the button. He leaned back, puffed once on his cigar, forcing calm into his act.

"…What do you want?"

Vey gave a small shake of the head, almost disappointed, before answering.

"Our boss wants a meeting. To discuss… the differences you two hold."

Penguin let out a short, bitter laugh. "You work for the fucking homeless people," he said, sneering. His teeth clenched around the cigar as he jabbed it toward Vey. "I can pay you triple the amount they're paying you."

The mask tilted. From behind it came a low chuckle, dry and sharp.

"I'm sure you can."

Vey moved now, slow and deliberate, circling the office like a predator tracing the edges of its cage. His gloved fingers brushed across the wood of Penguin's desk, across the frames of expensive art lining the wall. He glanced over the gilded excess of the room, at the opulence Penguin built around himself.

"A meeting," Vey said, voice calm, almost conversational. "On neutral ground. Our boss sent me to tell you… you've taken some of his people. And he's taken some of yours. If you don't want this to escalate…" He stopped, turning back toward Penguin. "It's best to have a conversation."

Penguin's jaw worked as his face reddened. He clenched his cigar tighter between his teeth, fury flashing in his eyes as he realized he was being cornered in his own office.

Finally, through gritted teeth, he spat out, "Fine. Fine. A meeting will do."

Vey gave a small nod, like a teacher satisfied with a student's reluctant answer.

***

Down in the sewers, where the pipes groaned and the air stank of rot and rust, Killer Croc crouched in the shadows. His yellow eyes cut through the gloom, unblinking as he watched the shapes moving in the tunnels below.

The homeless.

They weren't soldiers, not the kind he'd run with before. Not Penguin's cutthroats or Black Mask's killers. These ones… they acted different. Croc saw them hauling crates, stashing cans, patching up makeshift tarps to keep the drip off. They moved careful, deliberate, like they'd been drilled. But it wasn't just order—it was something else.

A thin woman with bad shoes stopped to help an old man roll out his bedding. Two kids passed along a bundle of scavenged blankets, laughing low to each other as they worked. A scarred-up guy with one arm balanced pots over a fire pit, and the others gathered close, sharing what they had.

It looked more like a family than a crew.

Croc's jaw flexed, teeth grinding softly. He'd seen gangs tear each other apart over scraps. He'd seen bosses bleed their men dry just to climb higher. But this… this was different. No boss barking orders. No one taking more than their share. Just people… surviving.

He leaned forward, claws scraping wet stone, and the firelight flickered across his scaled face. Something twisted in his gut, something he didn't bother to name.

"They ain't like the rest," he rumbled under his breath, voice lost to the tunnels.

For a moment, he kept watching, listening to the quiet rhythm of their camp settling in. Then he pulled back into the dark, vanishing into the dripping silence of the sewers.