THE DEATH KNELL-Chapter 14: GOTHAM’S LONGEST NIGHT

The night hung heavy over Gotham, a suffocating shroud of cold mist and flickering neon. Rain hammered the broken pavement, pooling in the jagged scars of the ruined police station. Distant sirens wailed, though their cries were scattered, disorganized—a city too exhausted to fight back.

Victor Valli leaned against the rusted metal railing of the collapsed overpass, absently tapping her fingers in a slow, contemplative rhythm. Below her, the camera crew scrambled, adjusting lighting, cleaning up the broadcast equipment. The flickering remains of the police station cast eerie shadows across their faces.

She had seen Gotham at its worst before, but tonight was something else. The weight in the air wasn't just fear. It was resignation.

Then came the scream.

High-pitched. Raw. A sound ripped straight from the depths of a man's soul.

Victor arched an eyebrow, shifting her gaze to Pete, her cameraman. The broad-shouldered, normally loudmouthed brute had crumpled into himself, shaking like a leaf in the storm. His scream had been so sharp, so genuine, that for a brief second, she almost believed a ghost had clawed its way out of the wreckage behind them.

Not bad, she mused. Though a little late.

She exhaled, shaking her head. "Decent reaction, Pete, but you dragged the scream too long. You want panic, not a theatrical performance." She smirked. "And try to keep it sharp—drawn-out terror just makes the editing team hate you."

Pete remained frozen, his breathing erratic. His eyes were wide, fixed on something just beyond her shoulder.

Victor frowned.

That wasn't just lingering shock. That was something deeper. Something primal.

The first chill of real fear crawled up her spine.

Then, the voice came.

Calm. Measured. Amused.

"He didn't see a ghost."

Victor felt the words vibrate through her bones.

"He saw me."

She went rigid.

She had been staring at the wreckage. No one had been behind her. She was sure of it. And yet, the voice had come from mere inches away.

Her breath caught in her throat as she forced herself to think.

There were no gunshots. No sounds of an ambush. If Pete wasn't moving, it meant whoever was behind her hadn't needed an army. They hadn't needed to announce their presence. They had simply... appeared.

That kind of movement only meant one thing.

A killer.

Victor swallowed, her mind racing through every possibility. But before she could turn, the voice spoke again.

"Vic Valli," it mused. "I really like your show."

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The breath hitched in her chest.

Recognition hit like a sledgehammer.

That voice. That name.

Slade Wilson.

The Deathstroke.

A walking legend of carnage, whispered in hushed tones in Gotham's underground. Assassins feared him. Crime bosses paid him fortunes to eliminate their enemies. And yet, here he was—alone, in the ruins of the Gotham City Police Department—speaking to her like a casual fan.

Cold sweat trickled down Victor's spine.

A nervous chuckle escaped her lips, though it sounded weak even to her own ears. "H-Heh... My fans are everywhere, huh?" she managed. "No need to—ah—hurt me."

Slade said nothing. But she could feel him watching. Calculating.

Why was he here? What did he want? Slade Wilson wasn't just some brute for hire—he was methodical, deliberate. If he was speaking to her, it meant she had something he needed.

Her fingers twitched slightly, hovering near the concealed knife in her coat sleeve. But she knew better. If she tried, she'd be dead before the blade even cleared the fabric.

"Turn around," he instructed, voice casual. "I have business with you."

Victor inhaled sharply, forcing herself to move. Slowly, deliberately, she turned.

And there he stood.

No army. No backup. No raised weapons.

Just him.

Clad in battle-worn black and gold armor, arms folded, gaze unshakable.

And yet, despite his relaxed stance, he exuded an unmistakable presence—one of absolute, lethal control.

Slade Wilson had come alone.

And that meant he had no reason to be afraid.

---

A Deal with the Devil

Slade had originally planned to steal the TV crew's van and vanish into the storm. A quick, simple escape. But when he had overheard Victor Valli's voice in the parking lot, something had changed.

An opportunity.

He motioned toward the waiting van, where Cindy stood beside their other captive—Barbara Gordon. Rain soaked the redhead's face, but she remained silent, her glare cutting through the dark. She wasn't screaming. Wasn't begging.

Smart girl. She knew better.

"Take her back to the van," Slade ordered Cindy. "She'll be useful later."

Cindy nodded, yanking Barbara by the arm. The young woman resisted for only a moment before stepping into the shadows, disappearing with their handler.

Slade turned his attention back to Victor and Pete.

"This is an opportunity," he said, his voice smooth as steel. "For both of us."

Victor's throat went dry. "Wh-What do you want?"

Slade tilted his head slightly, his gaze flicking toward their van, where the live broadcast equipment still hummed with activity.

"I want a live broadcast."

Pete paled. Victor felt her pulse spike.

"Th-That's not how it works," she stammered. "The network has to approve—"

Slade drew his pistol with unhurried ease, the click of the safety impossibly loud over the rain.

"Make it work."

---

Gotham City News – Live Broadcast

At GCTV headquarters, the midnight news dragged on like a sluggish tide.

Bored anchors recycled the same weather reports. The night-shift producer slumped in her chair, sipping stale coffee, eyes glazed over as the city's plummeting ratings crawled across the screen.

Then—her earpiece crackled.

"Boss, we've got a direct transmission request from Victor Valli. It's marked urgent."

She sighed. "Ugh, what now? Another car explosion?"

Then—the footage played.

And the studio went silent.

The screen flickered to life, revealing the shattered remains of the Gotham City Police Department. Fires smoldered in the wreckage. Blood stained the pavement.

Then, the camera panned.

And a figure stepped into frame.

The producer's coffee cup slipped from her fingers, shattering against the floor.

It was him.

Slade Wilson.

Deathstroke.

---

Midnight's Warning

The live studio anchor sat up so fast his chair nearly tipped over.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he stammered, his voice trembling. "We... we have breaking news—"

Then, the live feed cut to black.

For a moment, silence reigned.

Then, a voice broke through.

Smooth. Amused.

"Good evening, Gotham."

The screen returned.

Slade Wilson filled the frame.

Behind him, the rain-slick pavement glistened under broken streetlights. The wreckage of the police station loomed like a mausoleum.

And bound at his side, drenched in the cold storm, was Barbara Gordon.

"This," he gestured to her, "is Commissioner Gordon's daughter. I was looking for her father—but someone else got to him first."

A pause.

"I want them found. Now."

His tone was calm. But the threat was absolute.

He leaned in slightly, rain trickling down his mask.

"Whoever took Gordon—return him to me."

A heavy silence.

Then, he gave his final warning.

"If not..."

The screen flickered.

"Then I start hunting."

The feed cut.

For a long, terrible moment—Gotham held its breath.

Then, the phones at GCTV started ringing.

And Deathstroke's game began.