THE DEATH KNELL-Chapter 48: THE INTRUDER IN WAYNE MANOR

Batwoman moved gracefully across the reception room, balancing two wine glasses in one hand. She had intended to return to the study for a moment of quiet reflection, away from the buzzing conversation of the guests. But the second she stepped inside, her sharp eyes locked onto something unusual.

A trail of black footprints stretched across the polished wooden floor, leading directly to the bookshelf.

She inhaled sharply, instantly on high alert. The footprints were fresh—still damp from Gotham's endless rain.

She stepped forward, following the evidence, her gaze sweeping the room. The piano in the corner caught her attention. Several black handprints smudged the pristine ivory keys, as if someone had caught themselves mid-fall or tried to stabilize their footing.

Batwoman's jaw tightened.

Whoever had been here wasn't just passing through. They had been searching for something.

Barry's Arrival

"Ah... Oh."

Barry Allen's voice carried a note of exasperation as he stepped into the room behind her. He exhaled, running a hand through his damp blonde hair.

"I swear, I've investigated break-ins all over Central City, but this?" He whistled low, shaking his head. "A break-in at Wayne Manor? Even if it's your version of Wayne Manor, Bat, that's rare."

Batwoman crouched beside the footprints, analyzing the depth and shape. Something about them sent a chill down her spine.

The pattern was distinctive. No standard tread marks. Just a metallic flat surface.

Her pulse quickened.

She knew this type of footprint all too well.

Blood-stained ones, usually.

This time, though, just mud.

Her expression darkened as realization hit.

"Slade Wilson?!" she hissed, fury creeping into her voice. "How the hell did he get in here?"

Barry blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the venom in her tone.

"Wait—your Slade? As in, Deathstroke?" He let out a short chuckle, rubbing the back of his head. "Huh. Well, tell him I said hi. He's the same pain in the ass in my world too."

Batwoman wasn't amused.

She shot a sharp glance toward Alfred, who had just entered the room.

"Call Gordon. Find out if Deathstroke's been active in Gotham lately."

The butler gave a curt nod and stepped away to make the call.

Barry, meanwhile, crouched beside the footprints and studied them with an analytical eye. He gestured to the smudged handprints on the piano, then to the placement of the footprints.

"From the spacing and depth, I'd say whoever it was stole something." He tapped the damp marks thoughtfully. "Judging by the water displacement, whatever they took wasn't heavy." He smirked. "Probably just the missing turkey."

Batwoman crossed her arms, unimpressed.

"I don't care about the turkey," she said flatly. "I care about why an international assassin broke into my home."

Barry nodded, sensing the shift in her tone. This wasn't just about what had been taken—this was about who had taken it.

Batwoman took a steadying breath before moving toward the grand piano. With a precise touch, she pressed one of the keys.

Click.

A quiet mechanism triggered, and the bookshelf slid open to reveal a dark passage leading downward.

Barry peered inside. "Huh. Secret passageways. Gotta say, Bat, the classics never get old."

The Descent into the Batcave

As they descended, Batwoman's mind raced. If Deathstroke had broken in, he wasn't after money or valuables. He was after something specific.

And she had a terrible feeling she knew exactly what.

The moment she reached the bottom of the stairs, she froze.

The Batcave was a disaster.

Her stomach twisted at the sight.

Footprints of all sizes tracked across the rocky floor, meaning multiple intruders. The mechanical T-Rex—her favorite relic—had a hole blown through its head, electrical sparks flickering weakly from the damaged circuits.

Her city-monitoring system had been hacked.

On the massive central screen, security footage flickered chaotically, displaying random angles of Gotham, distorted and looping. The primary console's wiring had been torn out, suggesting a direct breach.

Batwoman clenched her fists.

Deathstroke hacked my system?!

Barry blurred across the cave, scanning the area in a blink. Then he suddenly stopped.

"Uh... Bat? We've got a problem."

His tone was different now. Less casual.

More concerned.

Batwoman turned sharply. "What?"

Barry gestured to the floor, his gaze focused.

"High heels. Sneakers. Wheelchair tracks."

Her brow furrowed. "Wait, what?"

Barry pointed at the distinct axle markings. The spacing, the tread width—it was unmistakable.

"Yeah. Definitely a wheelchair." He followed the tracks with his eyes. "And from what I can tell... whoever was here wasn't just passing through. They were staying here."

He gestured toward the scattered food wrappers on a nearby table. "They raided your fridge, ate at your table, and... yeah, definitely took the expired turkey."

Batwoman ignored that last part.

Her focus was locked on something far more alarming.

There were two distinct sets of Deathstroke's footprints.

One was slightly larger and deeper. The other? Smaller. Lighter.

Her expression hardened.

"Barry."

He glanced up at her.

She took a slow breath, her voice grim.

"We might be dealing with two Deathstrokes."

Breaking News

Before Barry could respond, Alfred descended the stairs behind them. His voice was calm, but there was a quiet urgency beneath it.

"Miss Wayne," he said, adjusting his cuffs. "I believe you should see this."

He pressed a button on the console.

The massive screen flickered—then switched to a live news feed.

Batwoman's stomach dropped.

The normally fearless news anchor looked pale.

Terrified.

On screen, Deathstroke stood tall. His single red eye glowed behind the mask, his presence alone commanding the room.

Then—

BANG.

A gunshot echoed through the Batcave.

Barry and Alfred flinched.

The footage showed Barbara Gordon—Oracle—falling.

Silence.

A deep, terrible silence filled the cave.

Barry's hands clenched into fists. His voice, when it came, was barely above a whisper.

"That... doesn't make sense."

His head shook furiously, as if trying to dispel the thought. "Slade wouldn't kill her. Barbara's too valuable—he wouldn't just throw away that kind of intel asset."

Alfred's expression remained unreadable. "Mr. Allen, we are discussing Deathstroke. He is a mercenary. He works for money, not for morals."

Barry exhaled sharply. "Not my Slade." He pointed at the screen, voice urgent. "That shot? It missed. By exactly one centimeter."

Batwoman narrowed her eyes.

She rewound the footage. Slowed it down.

Barry was right.

The bullet had been deliberately off-target.

Barry's foot tapped restlessly. "So if he didn't kill her, where is she?"

Alfred stepped forward. His voice was quiet. Certain.

"If I had to guess, sir... she is already here."

Batwoman's fingers flew over the keyboard, running a system scan.

Then—

She froze.

On screen, the footage zoomed in.

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The camera focused on Deathstroke's mask.

And in that close-up—staring back at them—

Wasn't Slade Wilson.

It was someone else entirely.

A different Deathstroke.

An imposter.

The air in the Batcave grew heavy.

Barry let out a slow breath.

"Well... that just made things way more complicated."

Batwoman's eyes hardened.

She pressed a button.

Above Gotham's stormy skyline, the Bat-Symbol blazed to life.

"We're going hunting."