THE DEATH KNELL-Chapter 15: THE BALANCE OF CHAOS

The city quaked under the weight of its own uncertainty. The broadcast had cut to black, leaving Gotham in eerie silence—before the inevitable explosion of fear and anarchy erupted in its wake. A city-wide descent into madness, as if a single push had sent it over the edge.

But Slade Wilson had no interest in the wider chaos. His mission was focused, his objectives clear. If Gotham's collapse drew the Bat out of the shadows, then all the better. A ghost only came to life when the living stirred.

Raindrops drummed against his armor, a constant rhythm that accompanied the low growl of the van's engine. He glanced down at Barbara Gordon. She lay motionless on the wet pavement, rain-soaked and limp, strands of auburn hair plastered against her pale face. With a firm, practiced grip, Slade lifted her into the wheelchair and secured her in place.

"Quite the talent for theatrics," he remarked dryly, pushing her toward the vehicle. "Ever consider a career in broadcasting?"

Nearby, Vic Vale crossed her arms, unimpressed. "Excuse me? Acting isn't just reading a script and looking pretty. It's an art—presentation, poise, knowing the world's pulse. That takes skill."

Slade smirked at the reporter's indignation but said nothing. Instead, he focused on Barbara, who trembled violently, her soaked clothes clinging to her like a second skin. Her lips, nearly bloodless from the cold, parted with effort.

"If... if we do this," she whispered, her breath unsteady, "will my father be safe?"

Slade didn't answer immediately. Instead, he motioned toward the van. Vic and Pete hesitated before climbing in, their expressions tight with unease. Cindy revved the engine, ready to move. The rain had turned Gotham's streets into a glistening snare, but she handled the wheel like she owned the city.

Finally, Slade turned back to Barbara, meeting her desperate gaze. "I can't promise anything," he admitted. "But using you as leverage will buy him time. And for now, you're safe. The city believes you're dead. No one will come for you. The dead aren't hunted."

From a side compartment, he retrieved a dry towel and held it out to her. Barbara hesitated, then took it with trembling fingers, pressing the fabric against her face.

Slade continued, his voice as measured as ever. "Your father's captors will rethink their strategy now. If they have any sense, they'll realize angering me has consequences. That hesitation might be all the time we need."

Cindy pressed harder on the gas, weaving through Gotham's labyrinth of streets with a predator's instinct. She barely flinched as a burning car exploded in the distance, sending shattered glass skidding across the asphalt. The city was unraveling fast. Yet, even as she drove, she kept an ear on the conversation.

Barbara swallowed, then nodded. "Thank you... You're not as cruel as people say."

Slade scoffed. "Spare me the 'good guy' speech. Save it for when your father is safe."

Barbara let out a weak chuckle. "You don't act like a mercenary. You actually have a sense of humor."

He shook his head. She was naïve—perhaps too much so for someone who grew up in Gotham. But there was strength in her, too. A fire that refused to be drowned by fear. Jim Gordon had passed something to his daughter, something unbreakable.

She wiped the rain from her face, then glanced at him thoughtfully. Is this what my father meant? The power that lurks in the dark?

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Across from them, Vic Vale drummed her fingers against the van's armrest. The absurdity of it all hit her in waves. A world-renowned assassin casually chatting with the commissioner's daughter? Staging a death to manipulate the underworld?

Everything about this situation felt like a fever dream.

"Using murder to save someone..." she muttered. "It's both the most illogical and the most logical thing I've ever heard."

Pete, beside her, stiffened. You idiot, don't provoke him!

But Slade merely arched an eyebrow, intrigued. "You think too much," he said simply. "It's balance. Kill one, save another."

With a slow, practiced motion, he removed his helmet. Steam coiled from the interior, a mix of body heat and Gotham's relentless humidity. The van was practically a furnace, the air thick and stifling.

Vic studied him, curiosity flickering in her eyes. "Do you ever wonder if you're... not normal?"

Pete's frantic hand signals begged her to stop talking.

Slade smirked. "Do you think this world is normal?"

The counter left Vic momentarily stunned. She frowned, chewing on the thought.

Pete, on the other hand, looked ready to resign from life itself. I swear, I'm quitting after this. No paycheck is worth this kind of stress.

Cindy, still locked on the road ahead, absorbed Slade's words. Balance... The idea had a strange, poetic quality to it. Like something ripped from the philosophy of an ancient warlord.

"Balance, huh..." she muttered.

The van roared through the storm. Streetlights flickered, some shattered, casting fractured shadows across the rain-slicked roads. Occasionally, looters and gangsters appeared—figures emboldened by the city's disarray. But one glimpse of the van, of the predator behind the wheel, and they vanished like ghosts. No one in their right mind wanted to cross Deathstroke.

Vic, regaining her nerve, let out a sigh of disappointment as another would-be mugger fled. "Damn. That could've been great footage."

Slade caught the slump in her shoulders. "You're upset there wasn't a fight?"

"No, no," Vic said quickly, though her expression betrayed her. "It's just—people eat that stuff up. The audience loves action."

Slade considered her words. "You want footage? Fine. When we find the gang holding Gordon, you can film while I take them apart." He smirked. "That is, if your cameraman doesn't throw up."

Vic's eyes gleamed. "Really? What do you say, Pete?"

Pete, visibly on the verge of a breakdown, gave a weak, trembling nod. "I—I'll try..."

Vic grinned and leaned closer between Slade and Barbara. "In that case, I have an exclusive question for you."

Slade raised an eyebrow. "And?"

She flipped open a small notebook, taking a poised stance. "Your partner—the one driving. Who's the real Deathstroke? You or her?"

Cindy let out a laugh from the front seat. "See? Even strangers know I'm the real deal."

Slade sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I don't have time for this."

But Vic wasn't giving up. "Come on. Gotham wants to know. Who's the real Deathstroke?"

His fingers flexed over the hilt of his knife. "You're testing your luck."

Undeterred, Vic smirked. "If I leave you my contact info, will you pass it to Batgirl? Maybe she'll agree to an interview."

Slade paused. "Are you talking about the Bat or... the clown?"

"I'm open to either."

Barbara's eye twitched. What the hell is wrong with this woman?

Slade exhaled, shaking his head. "This city is insane."

The van rumbled deeper into the storm, disappearing into the labyrinth of Gotham's underbelly. In its wake, the city continued its downward spiral—chaos, violence, and fear spreading like wildfire. But within that storm, a legend was unfolding.

Because tonight, Gotham belonged to Deathstroke.