The creature dropped without sound. Not a fall—a descent , like a hanged man cut loose. Before the guard could scream, a gauntleted fist found his throat. The second guard fired blindly. Bullets sparked off cape-lined ceramic. Then darkness folded over him, and the last thing he heard was a rattle—low, guttural, the sound of a predator tasting prey.
He woke three weeks later in a cargo hold, a crude bat-shaped blade buried in his shoulder—a parting gift. The League would not forgive. But Gotham was waiting, her bones picked clean by Falcone’s crows and the rot of broken banks. Batman Begins
He rose, and for one second, Falcone saw the man beneath—the jawline of a dead prince, the eyes of a boy who never stopped falling. Then the window exploded inward, and the Bat was gone, leaving only a smear of rain on the glass and a single playing card—the Joker—that Falcone had never seen before. The creature dropped without sound
He spun. Nothing. But the moisture on his neck wasn’t water. It was warm . He looked up. The second guard fired blindly
Bruce stared at the cowl on its stand. The ears were crooked. He’d fix that tomorrow. “Did he ask for a name?”
The lights died. One by one, the monitors went black. Then the lieutenant’s chair spun—empty. Falcone reached for his gun.