Whoosh!
A faint slicing sound cut through the air. As Robert sprinted through the alley, he sensed it—an object hurtling toward him from the left. His pupils shrank in an instant. In the next second, his arm shot up, and he caught the spinning baton mid-air with a sharp snap!
But before he could gloat, he realized something—there was resistance.
A chain was attached to the end of the baton, and a force tugged hard, nearly wrenching his arm out of its socket. The weapon was yanked from his hand and zipped back into the darkness above.
Robert looked up, eyes narrowing.
There, perched on the rooftop like some demonic gargoyle, was a red-suited figure with devil horns. His crimson armor caught the dim light of the city, and his posture screamed discipline and readiness.
If the color scheme and the horns were different, Robert might've thought he'd landed in Gotham and was staring at a throat cancer-stricken Batman.
Instead, he muttered, "Great. Daredevil's back. Just my luck."
The figure didn't speak. Instead, the sound of his chain crackled again, and the red devil descended swiftly, his body swinging in a perfect arc through the night sky.
"Lawyer Matt!" Robert called up casually, hoping words might spare him a scuffle. "Don't you think it's a little late to be playing Batman? You've got an office to run in the morning. Filing paperwork. Arguing in court. Y'know—boring adult things. Did you even pay rent this month?"
No answer.
Matt didn't seem interested in negotiating this time.
Like a predator striking, the Devil of Hell's Kitchen launched downward in a blur. His boots hit the ground first, followed by a blur of motion as he lunged straight at Robert.
But Robert had already activated bullet time.
His eyes slowed the world to a crawl, letting him follow every twitch of Matt's muscles. As the vigilante closed in, Robert swung the butt of his gun toward Matt's cheek.
Clack!
Matt blocked the strike with his forearm, twisted his body, and delivered a sharp spinning kick to Robert's shoulder. The hit was powerful, sending him crashing into a brick wall with a dull thud.
"Ugh—" Robert grunted, shaking off the impact.
Before he could recover, Matt was already throwing another baton, this one spinning through the air like a deadly boomerang.
Robert raised his pistols and fired. One bullet knocked the baton off its path, the others sprayed in Matt's direction.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Matt, however, wasn't a stranger to bullets. Though he couldn't see them, he could read Robert's muscle movements and predict the trajectories. He darted left, then right, weaving past the incoming rounds, closing the gap with shocking precision.
Within seconds, he was in melee range again—and then the storm began.
Matt's blows came fast and sharp, each one a combination of pressure point precision and practiced aggression. His fists were like hammers, each swing aimed to disarm or disable.
Robert could barely keep up.
Without bullet time, he'd have been toast five punches ago.
But even with his enhanced reaction speed, Robert struggled. Every time he raised his arm to aim, Matt's baton or elbow was there, knocking it aside. He had no time to counterattack, barely enough to block, and absolutely none to breathe.
"Damn it," Robert gasped, ducking another punch. "You leave me no choice!"
Matt stiffened at the words.
He didn't know what Robert had in mind, but anyone this fast—this odd—definitely had something hidden up their sleeve.
Suddenly, something metallic clinked at Robert's waist.
Jingle!
Matt's enhanced senses immediately picked up the sound. A hiss of gas followed.
"Smoke bomb," he thought.
He didn't flinch. Smoke bombs were a nuisance to sighted fighters. For him? Irrelevant.
But then he paused.
There was… a smell.
A horrific smell.
Not smoke—something rotten.
Matt's nose twitched.
The odor punched through his senses like a sledgehammer dipped in sewage. He staggered slightly, instantly nauseated. "What the hell is that!?"
From behind the cover of the haze, Robert's voice floated out like a cheerful devil's lullaby.
"Relax, it's just a stinky tofu-flavored smoke bomb. A delicacy where I come from."
Matt coughed, eyes watering behind his mask. "That's not food. That's chemical warfare."
For someone with enhanced smell like Matt, it was worse. His nose picked up every microscopic detail in the air, and right now, it was overwhelmed by the fermented nightmare that was stinky tofu gas.
He tried to breathe through his mouth.
Bad idea.
The taste was worse.
Even worse, he remembered something else—some stink bombs used in the underworld were laced with sedatives.
Had Robert just poisoned him?
He focused on his heartbeat, checked his motor control. No dizziness, no blurred perception—just unfiltered disgust.
As he began to regain his composure, he heard another jingle.
Matt's face paled.
Another gas bomb exploded—this time the scent was different, but equally vile. His stomach churned.
"This one's flavored like fermented bean juice," Robert announced, barely suppressing his laughter. "Pretty authentic, huh?"
Matt staggered.
His superhuman senses were becoming liabilities. The intense smells—one after another—slammed into his brain like a freight train. Taste, smell, memory—they all collided in a perfect storm of sensory overload.
And then, one after another:
Jingle! Hiss!
"Durian gas bomb!"
Jingle!
"Hot and sour noodle stench grenade!"
Jingle!
"Canned herring, imported straight from Scandinavia!"
The smell cocktail blended into a singular, radioactive monster of rot.
Matt stumbled, clutching the wall for support. His body convulsed. His knees hit the ground.
A second later, the Devil of Hell's Kitchen vomited.
Everything from the day—coffee, lunch, maybe part of yesterday's dinner—came up in a spectacular mess that echoed through the alley.
Robert stood to the side, arms crossed, grinning like a mad scientist who'd just succeeded in creating the world's first olfactory WMD.
"Beautiful," he said to no one in particular. "Truly beautiful."
Matt didn't respond.
He was too busy experiencing what could only be described as the theological opposite of divine inspiration.
By the time he looked up again, Robert was gone. The alley was quiet except for the lingering haze of weaponized cuisine.
Matt wiped his mouth and leaned back against the wall, breathing through his teeth.
His mind was still spinning, but one thought burned bright among the rest:
"Next time… I'm bringing nose plugs."
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