THE DEATH KNELL-Chapter 33: A CITY BUILT ON PROMISES AND BLOOD

The flickering glow of the fireplace cast long, wavering shadows across the dimly lit room. The scent of aged whiskey and burnt wood hung thick in the air, mixing with something colder—something that smelled like the past.

James Gordon's consciousness stirred as he drifted back into his body, his senses sluggishly returning. The warmth of the fire brushed against his skin, but it did nothing to thaw the ice in his heart. Everything inside him felt frozen—stiff, brittle, and dead, as though winter had taken permanent residence in his soul. There was no sun here, no hope, only the weight of a lifetime's worth of sacrifice.

A firm yet measured hand settled on his shoulder. The touch was meant to be reassuring, fatherly even, but Gordon had been in this city too long to mistake kindness for anything other than leverage.

"Gordon, my good Gordon," Carmine Falcone's voice was smooth, almost gentle, as if he were speaking to a wounded animal. "It's over now. Everything will be fine. You've given this city everything—two wives, your own children. You're not weak, just... tired."

Gordon's shoulders slumped slightly, his breath uneven. His voice was barely above a whisper when he answered, "Tired... yeah. I'm tired."

But Falcone shook his head, his grip tightening just enough to keep him from slipping into defeat. "No, not yet. Not before the work is done. Gotham still needs saving, and only you can do it. You promised me."

The old crime lord leaned in, pulling Gordon into a firm embrace—an almost unnatural display of affection coming from a man who had built his empire on brutality. His thin, wiry frame belied the strength in his arms, nearly lifting Gordon from the couch.

Gordon's mind was a fog of half-formed memories and broken oaths. What had he promised? When had he promised it? His thoughts felt like scattered puzzle pieces, none of them fitting together.

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"I... yes, I promised," he muttered, unsure if the words were even true.

Falcone smiled, a flicker of triumph in his eyes. "That's right. A better Gotham. A Gotham where people can live without fear. This city is our legacy, and we both want to see it rise above the filth."

Gordon let out a strangled breath, his fingers digging into his temples. "My child... my child..." The words spilled out in anguish.

Falcone's grip softened just slightly, his other hand offering a reassuring pat on the back. "It's over now, James. You will have a new wife. A new Gotham. And when it's built, I'll be there to officiate your wedding with Sofia."

Gordon barely registered the way Falcone turned expectantly toward his daughter.

"Yes, Father," Sofia purred, her expression as poised as ever. Her smile, perfectly practiced, reminded Gordon of a porcelain doll—beautiful, hollow, and eerily timeless. "Everything is as you wish."

Falcone beamed at her approval, then turned back to Gordon, extending his hand. A gold ring gleamed on his finger, its surface engraved with the Falcone family emblem—a rose, elegant yet deadly.

"Come, Gordon," Falcone coaxed. "Kiss the ring. Accept my promise, and from this moment on, we will be family. For the good of Gotham."

The firelight caught the ring, making it glow like an ember in the dark.

Gordon turned his head away.

Just like he had ten years ago.

---

The Edge of the Storm

Miles away, on the outskirts of Indian Mountain, Slade Wilson crouched inside a battered OB van, his patience wearing thin. The rain hadn't let up, a relentless downpour hammering against the metal roof in rhythmic waves. The clock on the dashboard had just ticked past four in the morning, and still, nothing.

The world outside was dark, windswept, and unforgiving. Rainwater lashed against the windows, twisting into streams that slithered their way through the vehicle's smallest cracks, sinking icy fingers into their already chilled bodies. The wind howled, making it impossible to tell if the storm was just nature's fury or something more.

Slade sat in the driver's seat, a bottle of beer in one hand, his eyes locked on the world beyond the windshield. Cindy was beside him, mirroring his posture, the two of them sitting in thick silence.

Six hours.

That's how long Slade had been in this world—six and a half, if he wanted to be exact. And yet, in that time, he had witnessed more chaos, faced more uncertainty, than in any battlefield he had ever walked.

A few hours ago, in the dim glow of a small supermarket, he had laid everything out for Cindy—everything about the multiverse, the hidden players pulling strings, the dangers that lurked in the shadows. He had told her more than he had ever intended to, but the truth was simple: she was the only person he could trust here. And if he wasn't around tomorrow, she needed to be prepared.

Cindy had taken it all in with unnerving ease. No wide-eyed disbelief, no panic. When he finished explaining, she had simply shrugged and said, "Oh." That was it.

Slade still wasn't sure whether she truly understood the gravity of it all, or if she had simply learned to mask her emotions the way a soldier does when staring down death.

Now, they waited.

In the distance, a junkyard stretched like a graveyard of metal and rust. Fires flickered in the wreckage, makeshift torches lit by homeless wanderers trying to keep the cold at bay. Some flames sputtered out under the merciless rain, their failure met with frustrated curses that echoed in the night.

Slade's sharp eyes caught movement—rats scurrying between the wreckage, dragging scraps of food to higher ground. Even the smallest creatures knew to prepare for the worst.

And still, their target hadn't shown.

"Damn it," Cindy exhaled, resting her forehead against the steering wheel. "Did the Shadow Dancer League run into a damn flash flood? Where the hell are they?"

Slade narrowed his gaze, his instincts gnawing at him. "Something's wrong. Batwoman's surveillance still hasn't detected any ninja activity in Gotham. That's not normal."

He turned to Barbara, who was perched in the back seat, hunched over her laptop. The Batcomputer's feed flickered across the screen, flipping between security cameras, yet there was nothing. No movement. No signs of the League.

"What do we do?" Cindy asked.

Slade considered the possibilities, a knot tightening in his gut. Cindy had only found ninja tracks on the rooftop earlier that night. But what if the Shadow Dancer spies hadn't even bothered going downstairs to check the body?

They didn't need details.

They only needed to know one thing—their leader was dead.

And in their eyes, there was only one culprit: Gotham.

With Batwoman out of the picture, the city was more vulnerable than ever. If the League wanted vengeance, there was no need for an investigation. No need for questions.

Just fire.

Just destruction.

Ra's al Ghul could already be gathering his forces in Nanda Parbat, rallying assassins from every corner of the world. By the time they returned, it wouldn't just be an act of revenge—it would be war.

A city-wide purge.

A nuclear-level reset.

Slade exhaled sharply, his decision made. "We move in. Now. Whatever's inside that facility, we need to secure it before it's too late."

Cindy gave him a sidelong glance, a smirk forming. "And if it's a trap?"

Slade checked his weapons, his mask snapping into place. "Then we do what we do best."

He stepped out into the storm.

There was no more waiting.

Gordon had to be found.

And the Bat... the Bat had to be ready.