Headlights tore down the slick streets of Chinatown, cutting through the mist of neon and rain. Steam billowed from vents and reflected a thousand colors from the dragon-shaped signs that hung over the narrow lanes.
SCREEECHHHH
A black Jeep fishtailed around the corner of Hester and Bayard, tires burning against the wet asphalt. Muzzle flashes spat from the open tailgate — pop-pop-pop! — as the men inside leaned out, shouting in Mandarin, one clutching a smoking SMG, the other reloading mid-yell. Their faces were masked with red bandanas marked with the twin serpents of the Jin Long, one of the old Triad splinters that had claimed this district since the Dragon Split began.
Two SUVs careened after them, battered silver imports with shattered headlights. Men from the White Lotus faction leaned from the windows, returning fire with pistols and sawed-off shotguns. Shells rained onto the asphalt as their cars swerved, colliding with parked scooters and market stalls, sparks flying as steel met steel.
A noodle vendor dove behind his stand, bowls shattering. A woman screamed from a balcony as bullets tore through a paper lantern, scattering glowing red fragments through the night like embers from hell.
The Jeep's rear window exploded inward; one of the Jin Long men slumped forward, dead before he hit the seat. The driver snarled and twisted the wheel, sending the Jeep crashing through a street barrier and into a crowded open-air market. People scattered as the vehicle slammed into a row of tables, toppling crates of fruit and fish, blood and water mixing on the ground.
The pursuers stopped just short of the wreckage one SUV jerking to a halt, the other still rolling, its doors thrown open as the White Lotus men jumped out, weapons ready.
Their leader, a broad man with tattooed arms and a long braid, barked in Cantonese,
"Finish them! No one walks away with Dragon turf!"
But before they could move in, a thunderous burst of gunfire echoed from above — automatic, disciplined. The White Lotus leader froze just as bullets tore through his crew from a rooftop across the street.
A rival faction — Los Muertos, the Southside cartel's Gotham cell — had arrived, their shooters perched on the edges of the building with scoped rifles and AKs. They weren't allies of either gang; they were vultures, here to pick apart whoever showed blood first.
The street became a three-way massacre.
No side even tried to retreat.
Cars erupted in flames, lighting the Chinatown gate in a flickering orange glow. The scent of gasoline mixed with incense and blood. Somewhere down the block, a police siren wailed and then cut short, almost immediately, as if whoever was driving had decided this wasn't worth dying for tonight.
And this was only one corner of Gotham.
Across the city, other districts were burning in miniature wars — the Odessa Family and the East End Saints trading grenades in a warehouse by the docks, the Iron Syndicate ambushing a convoy near the Narrows bridge, and the Red Hand setting up makeshift checkpoints in the Bowery.
***
The smell hit first.
Burnt cocaine and gun oil. Sweat and cheap cigars.
Inside a half-lit warehouse near the docks, the Escabedo Cartel were getting ready for war. Crates of assault rifles lined the walls, stacks of wrapped bricks sitting under tarps. A portable radio buzzed with static as men in leather jackets loaded magazines and slotted grenades into webbing.
Spanish curses echoed off the concrete.
"¡Rápido! Manuel wants this done tonight!" shouted a tall man with a jagged scar across his chin. He slapped a drum magazine into his weapon and checked the safety. "No más waiting. The Penitentes think they can move product through Burnley without paying. Vamos a mostrarles."
A few laughed nervously. Others were too busy gearing up to bother. They wore mixed gear — tactical vests, bulletproof plates, tattoos peeking out under sleeves. On a table nearby, lines of powder were half-cut, half-forgotten.
Someone turned down the music.
"Did you hear?" one man muttered. "Penitentes are working with the Iron Syndicate now. They got new toys from the Russians. We hit them fast, hard, before they—"
The window above them exploded.
Glass rained down like a thousand shards of ice, and a black shape dropped through the smoke.
A smoke bomb hissed, swallowing the room in gray fog. Shadows twisted. Gunfire erupted blindly — deafening, panicked.
Then came the voice.
Low. Hoarse.
"You're not going anywhere."
The first man didn't even see him, a blur cut through the smoke, his rifle ripped from his hands and tossed it to the side. A boot slammed into his chest, sending him crashing into a stack of crates.
Another swung a machete Batman caught his wrist, twisted until the bone cracked, and dropped him with a backhand that sent teeth scattering across the floor.
Three more opened fire. Batman rolled behind a concrete pillar, cape snapping, then threw three batarangs in one motion — each finding a mark. The first hit a gun hand; the second took out the light; the third sparked against a gas line plunging the room into darkness lit only by muzzle flash.
A thug screamed in Spanish and rushed forward. Batman met him mid-swing, drove a knee into his stomach, elbowed him across the jaw, and slammed him into the wall so hard the drywall cracked.
"¡Dios mío!" one whispered, backing away — then turned to run.
Batman's grapple line snapped out, caught his ankle, yanked him back into the shadows.
A thud. Silence.
When the smoke finally cleared, the warehouse floor was littered with unconscious men and scattered bullets. One flickering light swung from the ceiling.
Batman stepped over a fallen crate, picked up a rifle, examined it — customized parts, foreign manufacture, untraceable serials. The kind of hardware the Penitente Cartel in Gotham shouldn't have.
His comm crackled.
"Robin to Batman. Got a group of Los Penitentes packing up on 5th and Riker. They were gearing for a drive-by. Took 'em down before they could leave. Couple broken bones."
Batman's jaw flexed. "Good work."
"You think this is it? A one-off?" Robin asked, breath short but proud.
Batman glanced at the bound men on the floor, then up toward the shattered window.
"Not a chance."
He pressed two fingers to his ear. "Regroup."
Before Robin could reply, Alfred's voice cut through calm but urgent.
"Sir, I'm intercepting multiple GCPD bands reporting a major firefight in Chinatown. Dozens dead, several gangs involved — and it's still ongoing."
Batman's expression hardened. "Coordinates."
"Transmitting now."
He turned toward the open window. The Batmobile's engine roared to life somewhere outside, its distant growl echoing through the docks.
Robin's voice came back, a hint of defiance in it.
"Still don't want any help from Young Justice. We can handle this."
Batman's cape swept around him as he stepped onto the ledge. For a second, the city lights reflected in his cowl a thousand broken promises in orange and white.
He grimaced.
"I'll let them know they have a new mission."
And then he dropped into the dark.