Derek had no idea he was being watched by Bruce.
Not that it would've mattered. Even if he did, he wouldn't have given a toss.
After slipping through the police cordon, he swaggered back to the exact spot where he'd carked it.
The scene had changed. Fewer Russians now. The Italians were clearly taking the upper hand. Derek didn't care who was winning. He just wanted a gun in his hand and a bit of peace to pull the bloody trigger.
Bang!
He dropped the nearest Russian like a sack of bricks, nicked his pistol, and kept moving—both hands now armed and itching for more action.
Across the way, a few of Falcone's lads had just breached the Russian side. One of them spotted Derek, grinned like a shark, and gave him a slap on the shoulder.
"Nice work, mate. Didn't think anyone had the bollocks to flank the Dimitrov crew. We'll put a word in with the boss for you after this."
Derek turned to face him.
"Piss off."
Bang!
The Falcone thug dropped with his mouth still open, confusion frozen on his face.
The others stared, gobsmacked. Derek didn't hesitate—emptied both mags into the first wave of Italians who'd pushed in. Five down before they even realised what was happening.
Then all hell broke loose.
"Oi! He's not one of ours!"
"Fucking lunatic!"
"Whose crew's he in?!"
"Waste the bastard!"
"Fredrey's down!"
"Fuck him—he's already dead!"
Bullets rained down from both sides. Derek was shredded within seconds, his body catching fire mid-collapse, lighting up the damp Gotham gloom with a final burst of flame.
Then—darkness.
A breath. Then two.
And just like that, Derek was back—standing, alive, clutching two fresh pistols, steam curling off his jacket.
Dying in the morning had come with perks, it seemed. A new trick: every time he died, he'd respawn somewhere nearby. Random, sure—but better than staying dead. Derek wasn't complaining.
He looked up. Two homeless blokes were standing rigid under the elevated tram tracks, huddled round a trash fire. Their faces turned ghost-white as they clocked him striding through the rain.
They bolted.
Bang!
He fired into the sky. "Stop!"
The bums skidded to a halt like schoolboys caught nicking sweets. Hands went up, trembling. One of them started babbling.
"I—I didn't see anything, mate!"
"Where am I?" Derek barked. "No taxis, no signs. Where the hell's this?"
One of them answered, teeth chattering. "Naihe Island, sir. Gotham's arse-end. No cabs round here. If you see one, they're either lost or mad. We're lucky to eat leftover chips."
They exchanged a glance, then scattered like rats.
Derek sighed.
"Naihe Island, right. Arkham's around here somewhere."
He stuffed his pistols into his coat and started walking, footsteps splashing through black puddles. The Island of the Dead—what a name. Fitting. It wasn't just a slum; it was where hope came to curl up and die.
Clothes ripped, soaked through, he fit right in.
After about half a kilometre, a car came crawling up the road.
Derek stepped into its path without hesitation.
The driver slammed the brakes, screeching. The door burst open.
"Are you blind, you twat?!"
The driver reached for his waistband. Derek was faster—gun out, pressed against his temple.
"Want a third eye, sunshine?"
He turned his second pistol on the back seat.
"Out. Now."
"No trouble, mate." A smooth voice. The back door opened, revealing a man in a sharp suit and gold-rimmed glasses. Polite smile. Calm as anything.
"You seem like you're in a hurry. I don't mind sharing."
He turned to the driver.
"Anthony, guns away. Let's not escalate. This gentleman clearly needs help. Let's give him a lift."
He turned back to Derek.
"Name's Jonathan. I work at the asylum down the road—you've probably heard of it."
Derek didn't respond.
"No? Doesn't matter. Where to? We'll take you."
Derek got in, dripping rainwater across the leather seats. Jonathan didn't flinch—just handed him a towel.
"You'll feel better drying off. Got a spare coat, too, if you need it."
Then to Anthony: "Come on, don't sulk. Get in. Drive."
Anthony climbed back in with a snarl. "This bloody city… should've just run the bastard over."
He spat out the window. "Where to, arsehole? Better not be halfway across Gotham."
"Downtown," Derek muttered. "Near the bus terminal."
Anthony's eyebrows shot up. "You mad? There's a war zone over there."
"Drive."
Derek pressed the barrel into the back of his skull. Anthony stiffened.
"Right you are, boss."
The car rolled forward through the gloom.
Jonathan poured himself a whiskey, offered one to Derek.
"Fancy a nip? Gotham's rain chills to the bone."
"No. Shut up."
Derek knocked the glass from Jonathan's hand, then shoved the gun into his chest.
Jonathan adjusted his glasses, unbothered.
"Shame. Expensive trousers, too."
Bang!
The bullet sliced through the shoulder of his suit.
"Alright, alright. You've made your point. Quiet it is."
They drove on in silence. Half an hour later, they rolled up near the scorched remains of the earlier battlefield.
Derek stepped out without a word, not even glancing back.
Inside the car, Anthony leaned toward Jonathan.
"Are we just lettin' him go?"
Jonathan was already changing jackets. "It's Gotham. Men like him don't last long."
He lowered the window and watched Derek disappear into the mist.
"I'll have a word with Falcone. Don't know his name yet—but he'll come find me."