What… what just happened?

A heartbeat ago, that man had been standing more than twenty meters away—just a blur at the far end of the dock, framed by flashing police lights.

Now, suddenly, he was right in front of him.

Gordon's breath caught. For a fleeting instant, he thought maybe his eyes were playing tricks on him, that the stress and the blood and the chaos were finally taking their toll.

But the look on the other officers' faces told him otherwise.

They had seen it too.

"Fall back!"

"Everyone, move back now!"

There was no time to analyze it, no time to question physics. Every instinct Gordon had honed over decades screamed one thing—danger. The sheer pressure radiating from Alex's presence was enough to make his pulse spike.

He drew his service pistol, hands steady despite the cold sweat running down his temples, and aimed squarely at Alex's chest.

Whoosh—

Alex moved before he even finished taking aim.

It wasn't a blur so much as a flicker—an impossible shift of motion that the eye couldn't track. Gordon blinked and suddenly felt his grip lighten.

Before his brain could process what had happened, the gun was gone.

And then he saw it—gleaming black in Alex's hand.

Gordon froze. So did everyone else.

Click! Click! Click!

A chorus of gun-cocking echoed through the dockyard, overlapping with the distant wail of sirens. The remaining officers raised their weapons, surrounding Alex in a semicircle of trembling steel.

"Drop the gun!"

"Right now!"

Their shouts ricocheted off the cargo containers, harsh and panicked. Even the air itself felt heavy, thick with tension and gunpowder.

Alex's eyes swept over them, calm, almost pitying. When he finally spoke, his tone was unhurried, conversational—like someone making small talk in a coffee shop rather than standing in the middle of a crime scene surrounded by armed men.

"Listen carefully," he said. "Even though I'm about to put all of you down, I want you to understand something—" his voice softened, almost kindly "—I'm not your enemy."

A pause.

"In fact, my goal… is the same as yours."

For a moment, Gordon almost laughed. He could feel the anger rising in his chest, hot and absurd. This guy—standing over a pile of corpses, holding his gun—was claiming they were on the same side?

What kind of lunatic logic was that?

"Put the gun down! Now!" he barked again, the edge of command cutting through his disbelief.

Alex sighed, a faint, disappointed sound. "So be it."

Then he moved.

Bang!

The sound came almost too late. The impact hit Gordon like a sledgehammer, knocking the air from his lungs. Pain blossomed across his chest as he was thrown backward, crashing onto the ground. The world spun; he couldn't even tell what had hit him.

He hadn't seen Alex move. No one had.

"Open fire!"

"Shoot him!"

The command shattered the paralysis. Gunfire erupted in a thunderous wave—bang, bang, bang!—the noise deafening, blinding in its fury. The muzzle flashes turned the night into a flickering storm of orange and white.

But the bullets might as well have been pebbles.

Alex walked through the barrage, expressionless, his cape rippling from the shockwaves. Every shot bounced off him, every impact harmless.

He moved like a phantom through smoke, weaving between the officers, each motion a blur of impossible precision.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

Each sound of contact came not from bullets hitting him—but from fists striking uniforms, from bodies slamming into the ground.

One by one, the officers fell. Groans filled the air. Metal clattered. Within seconds, the entire squad was down—dazed, bruised, disarmed.

Their pistols and rifles lay scattered around Alex's boots, kicked aside like discarded toys.

He stood in the middle of the wreckage, unscathed.

"Wh-what is he?" someone whispered hoarsely.

"Dear God… what is this man?" another gasped.

The question hung in the air, unanswered. Because there was no answer—at least not one that made sense in the world they knew.

---

"Quick! There were more gunshots just now!"

"Get over there and see what's going on!"

The command cut through the night as the last echoes of gunfire faded. Headlights swept across the bloodstained dock as a white news van screeched to a stop.

The passenger door swung open with a metallic clang.

A woman stepped out—mid-thirties, sharp-featured and striking, her hair perfectly styled despite the late hour. A cameraman followed close behind, lugging his heavy rig.

"Oh my God…" she breathed.

Her voice faltered as her eyes swept over the scene.

Dozens of bodies—criminals, by the look of them—lay strewn across the concrete. Nearby, uniformed officers groaned in pain, some clutching bruised ribs, others staring into the distance as if their minds had simply broken.

It looked less like a crime scene and more like a war zone.

"What the hell happened here?!" she whispered.

The cameraman, Parker, swallowed hard but lifted his camera anyway, the lens reflecting the chaos.

Had the cops and the gangs killed each other? A shootout gone wrong? Nothing made sense. But the confusion didn't matter—the story did.

Her pulse raced. Her instincts screamed this was it—the scoop every reporter dreamed of.

And then she saw him.

A third figure, standing perfectly still amid the wreckage.

A young Asian man, tall, broad-shouldered, eyes unreadable. Not a scratch on him.

"Parker," she said, voice trembling with adrenaline. "Get the camera on him. Go. Now."

Parker hesitated, his eyes darting to the fallen officers, then back to the man she pointed at.

"Are you serious? He looks like he did this!"

But Emily—she had that look again. The one that meant nothing could stop her when the scent of a headline was in the air.

With a resigned sigh, Parker steadied his camera and followed her toward Alex.

"Sir, hello," Emily began quickly, raising her press badge with one hand, microphone with the other. "I'm Emily from Gotham TV News. This is my cameraman, Parker. Could we have a brief interview?"

Alex's gaze flicked to her, then to the lens. He smiled faintly.

"Of course," he said. "I've been waiting for you."

Emily blinked. "You have?"

"Emily," Alex continued, his voice smooth as glass, "today's your lucky day. You're about to cover a story unlike anything you've ever seen in your career."

Her mouth went dry. "Is that so? Then, Mr.…?"

"Alex."

"Mr. Alex," she pressed on, trying to steady her breathing. "Can you tell me what exactly happened here? We heard gunfire. There are bodies—police officers wounded—and yet you seem completely fine."

Alex's tone didn't change. He might as well have been commenting on the weather.

"The bodies belong to the Pink Powder Gang and the Skulls," he said. "They were here for a drug deal. I killed them all."

Emily's knuckles whitened around the microphone. He said it so casually, so flatly, that it took her a moment to process the words.

"As for the police," Alex went on, "they came to arrest me. But obviously…" He gestured faintly toward the groaning officers on the ground. "They lacked the ability."

Emily's heart thudded painfully in her chest.

He wasn't boasting in anger. He was stating facts. Facts that were terrifying.

This man had slaughtered dozens of gangsters, dismantled an entire police unit—and now stood calmly before a live camera, offering commentary.

This wasn't a story. This was a legend being born in real time.

"So," she said finally, her voice trembling but steady enough to do her job, "it seems you stayed here on purpose… waiting for us?"

"Exactly." Alex's faint smile widened just slightly. "And do you know why?"

Emily shook her head.

"To use you—and your camera—to send Gotham a message."

He turned toward the lens. The faint amusement in his eyes vanished. His expression hardened into something fierce, something absolute.

When he spoke, his voice was deep, resonant—like thunder rolling over the city itself.

"I am Homelander.

And I will not allow crime in Gotham."

The words hit like hammer blows, echoing through the empty dock. Even the night seemed to hold its breath.

He took a slow, deliberate step forward, every motion radiating power and conviction.

"Until now, I didn't care what this city became. But from this moment on—anyone who dares commit a crime will be defying me personally."

He raised one gloved hand and pointed toward the piles of corpses beside him.

"These men… are what defiance looks like."

Emily's throat tightened. Parker's hands shook so badly the camera trembled, but he didn't dare stop filming.

They had no idea what they were witnessing.

Justice, perhaps—delivered by something far beyond human.

Or maybe they were recording the first appearance of Gotham's most terrifying tyrant.

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