"You—what did you just do?!"

"What the hell do you want?!"

The survivors were scared out of their wits, their voices breaking and echoing off the cold metal walls of the dockyard. The scent of oil, saltwater, and gunpowder clung thick in the air, mingling with the metallic tang of blood. Even the few who dared to shout at Alex didn't notice how their words quivered, how fear had already stolen the strength from their legs. Their faces were pale, eyes wide and glistening under the dim floodlights that flickered like dying stars above them.

Alex didn't bother answering. His gaze, calm and detached, drifted over the crowd like a god surveying ants. Without a word, he simply raised his hand again—smoothly, unhurriedly, as though this entire massacre were nothing more than a tedious chore.

And then he pointed.

Crack.

Another neck snapped with a sickening crunch, sharp and final. The man's body went limp before his mind could even register the pain, collapsing into the puddles beneath his feet with a hollow splash.

"Ahhh! You bastard—die!"

"Shoot him! Kill that freak!"

The shouts were half courage, half desperation. Muzzles flared as a storm of bullets ripped through the night.

Ratatatat!

Ratatatat!

Shell casings clattered to the ground, sparks flying as the barrage hammered against the shipping containers and steel pillars around them. The smell of cordite grew thick enough to burn the lungs.

They didn't know what kind of creature they were facing—what kind of monster could walk through a firing line without flinching—but surely, they thought, no one could survive this much firepower. Surely, even demons bled.

The next instant, the echoing gunfire faded, and every last one of them went pale as corpses.

Because the bullets… bounced off.

Each round struck Alex's body, flattening and ricocheting away like rain off glass. Sparks danced across his shoulders, harmless and fleeting. His expression never changed. He didn't even blink.

Not a drop of blood. Not even a scratch.

"W-what… how is this possible?!"

"God… what kind of monster is he?!"

The panic spread like wildfire. Weapons slipped from trembling hands, hitting the concrete with dull clatters. Some men fell to their knees, their will to fight evaporating as they realized nothing they did mattered.

"Please! Please don't kill us!" one screamed, voice cracking.

"Take whatever you want, just let me live!"

Their pleas fell on deaf ears.

Alex moved through the chaos like a shadow given form—slow, deliberate, almost graceful. Every motion precise. Every breath measured. One by one, the men before him fell, their necks twisted at impossible angles, their bodies broken under invisible force.

Those who tried to run only died faster.

"Damn you! I'll fight you to the end!" someone roared, though the tremor in his tone betrayed him.

"Go to hell, you freak!"

Desperation had replaced courage. The last few, realizing there was no way out, raised their guns again and emptied every round they had left. The flashes of light from their muzzles painted their faces with terror.

"DIE!"

One of them, trembling so badly the pin nearly slipped from his grip, hurled a grenade.

BOOM!

The explosion tore through the air, a thunderous roar that rolled across the docks. Flames bloomed into a blazing sphere, devouring everything in a wave of heat and smoke. The shockwave rattled the cargo containers and sent debris flying into the sea.

But when the smoke cleared—

He stood there.

Completely unharmed. Not even his clothes were singed. The firelight reflected off his calm, unblinking eyes.

That was the final straw. Whatever sanity the survivors had left shattered like glass. Their screams faded into whimpers, into sobs, into silence.

Alex didn't slow down. He finished the job calmly, efficiently, each motion a surgical act of violence. There was no thrill in it—only precision, purpose. Within minutes, not a single heartbeat remained in the dockyard. Only the whisper of waves and the distant hum of the city.

Beep-beep. Beep-beep.

The shrill sound of approaching sirens reached his ears just as he crushed the last man's throat.

Four cruisers, by the sound of it.

Exactly as planned.

That was why Alex had taken his time—like a cat toying with its prey. The chaos, the screams, the gunfire… all of it was bait. He wanted the noise. He wanted attention.

If he was going to send a message to Gotham, it had to be one the city would never forget.

He wanted this scene carved into the collective memory of every lowlife and thug who prowled these streets at night.

The plan was simple—to shock every criminal in Gotham into silence.

He didn't care about the police. They were predictable, bureaucratic, weak. What he wanted was the media.

He wanted cameras to roll. He wanted reporters to swarm like flies to blood. He wanted them to film the carnage and broadcast it across every television and phone in the city.

He wanted them to deliver one clear message:

> "I am Homelander.

Gotham will have no criminals under my watch.

Defy me—and die."

He gazed down at the blood-soaked ground. The corpses were strewn like discarded dolls, their faces frozen in terror. Each body was proof of his declaration, a warning written in flesh.

Let's see, he thought coldly, how long Gotham's vermin keep their heads up now.

Of course, he knew this city too well. Gotham was a breeding ground for lunatics—people who defied logic, who thrived on chaos. This one massacre wouldn't fix that. But it was a start.

Just the beginning.

"Move! We've got a shooting at the old dock!"

"I want that scene locked down—now!"

"I need live footage in five minutes!"

The voices were growing louder—reporters shouting orders to their crews, cameramen hustling toward the smell of blood.

Alex smirked faintly. Journalists… he thought. They always knew when to show up. Like vultures circling a fresh carcass. They'd almost beaten the police here. He had to give them credit for that.

He could already picture their faces when they saw him—how quickly shock would turn to awe, and awe to fear.

Judging by the sirens, the police were still about fifteen minutes away.

So Alex hopped up onto the hood of a nearby car, the metal creaking under his weight. He lay back lazily, eyes on the sky. The moon hung high above the smog, pale and distant, casting its cold light over the carnage.

It wasn't that the moon was particularly interesting—he just had nothing better to do while waiting for Commissioner Gordon.

Yes. That Gordon.

After a few minutes of quiet moon-gazing, the calm was broken by the screech of tires and the sharp slam of car doors.

Four police cruisers skidded to a stop, red and blue lights flashing across the bloodstained dock.

Detective Gordon stepped out first, trench coat billowing in the night breeze, a dozen officers fanning out behind him. Before they even reached the scene, the coppery scent of blood hit them, thick and nauseating. The air itself seemed to hum with death.

Under the pale moonlight, bodies lay scattered across the dock—dozens of them, motionless, broken.

No one was sleeping here. Anyone with half a brain could see what had happened.

"Jesus Christ…" Gordon muttered, sweeping his flashlight over the ground. The beam caught the glint of empty shells, the twisted limbs, the lifeless stares. More than twenty bodies. Even for Gotham—that was a massacre.

"Who's there?!" one officer shouted, his voice slicing through the silence.

From atop a nearby car, Alex dropped lightly to the ground, landing without a sound. The impact barely stirred the dust. He straightened and stepped forward into the glow of their flashlights.

Instantly, every beam locked onto him.

A young Asian man stood there, calm and composed, eyes steady and unreadable amid the chaos.

"Who are you? What are you doing here?" Gordon barked. "Do those bodies have anything to do with you?"

Alex shrugged, casual as ever, as if they'd just asked him for the time.

"Of course they do," he said lightly. "I killed them."

Gordon's expression darkened. The officers froze, guns rising in unison.

Wait—hold on.

Something about this man… the build, the face, the quiet arrogance—it all clicked. Gordon's pulse quickened as realization dawned.

This was him. The one Batman had warned him about.

"Hands up! Now!"

"Put them where I can see them!"

Gordon's voice was sharp, commanding, every syllable echoing across the dock.

Alex's lips curved in a faint, mocking smile.

"Sorry," he murmured. "Not gonna happen."

Before the words had even finished leaving his mouth, his figure blurred—and vanished.

A gust of wind swept through the dockyard.

"What—?!" Gordon's eyes widened, flashlight trembling in his grip as he spun toward the sound.

The nightmare had only just begun.

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