Gotham City.
Bloss Street.
WEE-OO! WEE-OO!
The blaring of sirens sliced through the filthy air, echoing between rows of decaying brick buildings. Three police cruisers sped down the narrow, trash-strewn street, their tires splashing through puddles of oily rainwater that glistened faintly under the dim streetlights. The scent of rot and diesel fus hung thick over everything.
For the locals, it was just another night.
People didn't even turn their heads anymore. The shriek of sirens was as familiar as the sound of wind rattling a loose shutter. In Gotham, the arrival of the police was nothing remarkable—just another routine punctuation in the city's endless symphony of cri.
If anything, the citizens' only reaction was a silent thought:
Another cri, another ss.
Because this was Gotham—a paradise for sinners, a hell for everyone else.
Cris happened so often that the absence of one would've felt unnatural. If Gotham ever passed a full day without a mugging, a shooting, or a corpse turning up in an alley, people might have wondered whether the world was ending.
And yet… a few sharp-eyed residents couldn't shake the feeling that sothing was different tonight.
Police cars had been racing back and forth across the city all evening—too many, too often.
Sothing big was happening.
---
With a harsh splash, the three cruisers slowed, their tires slicing through a pothole filled with dark water. The vehicles ca to a halt beside a narrow alley. Doors opened in quick succession, and several officers stepped out, tension etched into every line of their faces.
At the head of the group was Commissioner Jas Gordon, his coat collar turned up against the chill, eyes grim and sleepless. His colleagues followed close behind—each of them wearing the sa expression of dread and exhaustion.
> "Which number is this?" one of the detectives muttered, a thin Black officer whose voice cracked under stress. "God… please tell we won't see that na again tonight."
The others didn't need to ask which na he ant.
When he said that na, everyone's faces darkened.
Even Gordon's jaw tightened.
It was their fifth call that night.
And every single ti, the scene had been the sa—a massacre.
Bodies everywhere. Faces twisted in terror. So sites had one or two victims, others had dozens. But what united them all was a single signature scorched into the ground, glowing faintly from residual heat:
HOLANDER.
That word had beco a curse among Gotham's officers.
---
So of the cri scenes had been tucked away in backstreets, hidden from public view. Others had unfolded in broad daylight, in front of crowds. There had been witnesses—many of them—and their testimonies were chillingly consistent.
> "It was him!"
"The man from TV! The one who called himself Holander—he killed them!"
Each account matched perfectly, down to the detail: the red beams from his eyes, the word burned into the floor, the impossible speed and strength.
Holander's so-called vow—that Gotham would no longer have criminals—had sounded like the ravings of a delusional narcissist on television.
But now?
He was making good on it.
Word by word.
Corpse by corpse.
---
"Clear a path! Police investigation!"
"Back it up, people! Make so space!"
The officers pushed through the onlookers, voices sharp with authority. Flashlights flickered across the scene, illuminating a fresh body sprawled in the dirt.
Another victim.
Another word burned into the ground beside it—HOLANDER—seared into the pavent by sothing unimaginably hot.
The letters were identical to the previous four scenes. Sa depth. Sa burn marks. Sa thod.
No question about it—this was his work again.
Gordon exhaled through his nose, the sound half a growl. Rage simred beneath the surface. Holander wasn't just killing criminals—he was mocking them, mocking the entire Gotham Police Departnt.
It wasn't justice. It was a statent.
> "Who reported it?" Gordon asked, forcing his voice to stay even.
A young man raised his hand hesitantly and stepped forward. He was pale, still visibly shaken, his suit rumpled and stained with gri.
> "I did," he said quickly. "The man on the ground—he was a hitman. I think he was sent by Lawrence's people to kill . I—I'm a defense attorney, working on a case against the Lawrence Group. You have to look into them, I—"
> "Slow down," Gordon cut him off gently. "We'll deal with Lawrence later. Right now, tell what happened. Who killed him?"
The lawyer's throat bobbed as he swallowed.
> "Holander," he said, almost whispering. "It was him—the guy from TV. The killer was about to shoot , and then… he appeared. Out of nowhere. One punch, and the man was dead. Then his eyes started glowing, and he—he burned that na into the ground."
A heavy silence fell.
Gordon's expression turned even grimr.
Around him, the other officers shifted uneasily.
Every word matched the previous witnesses' statents. The description, the heat vision, the burned signature—it all lined up perfectly.
They didn't believe in laser eyes—not really. But when five separate witnesses told the sa impossible story, disbelief started to crumble.
Gordon clenched his fists. His knuckles went white.
> "Holander…" he muttered, almost to himself. "In less than a day, he's already killed five tis."
And that was only what they knew of.
He thought back to the broadcast, to the arrogant voice that had declared Gotham would no longer tolerate cri.
Now, standing amid the ashes of another scene, that proclamation sounded less like bravado and more like prophecy.
A bad feeling twisted in his gut.
If this continued, by dawn, the city would drown in blood.
---
"Sir," one of the officers said softly, breaking his thoughts. "We'll need the witness to co with us—to give a formal statent."
> "Right," Gordon said, pulling himself together. "Mr. Carter, you'll need to co down to the precinct. We just need to go over your testimony."
The lawyer—Carter—nodded at once, still pale but cooperative. He followed them quietly back to the cruisers, grateful just to be alive.
---
When they returned to Gotham PD headquarters, the atmosphere inside was electric with tension. Phones rang nonstop. Officers shouted updates across desks piled with files. The air slled of coffee and gun oil, thick with the fatigue of a city always on fire.
> "He's lost his mind! Absolutely insane!"
"How many people did he kill today?"
"Every single call we've had—every damn one—is a homicide!"
"And guess who's behind every single one?"
"Holander! Every case tonight is a Holander murder!"
Gordon froze in the doorway, staring at his colleagues in disbelief.
> "What did you just say?"
One of the sergeants looked up from a whiteboard filled with red pins marking every cri scene. His voice trembled.
> "It's true, sir. We cross-checked everything. Every homicide reported since noon—it's him. All of them."
> "How many?" Gordon demanded.
> "At least thirty-five," ca the answer. "And counting."
Thirty-five killings.
Half a day.
Across nearly every district in Gotham.
It was impossible—and yet the reports were sitting right there in black and white. Witnesses from every borough, all describing the sa thing: a man in a blue suit, eyes glowing red, moving faster than sound.
Gordon sank into his chair, mind reeling. The precinct buzzed around him like a hive in panic, but his thoughts were frozen on a single, horrifying truth.
Holander's war on cri had begun—
and Gotham was his battlefield.
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