By nightfall, the deal was set. The ltdown Lounge was chosen—a place Roman owned down to the last bulb and cocktail napkin. Gotham's glittering rot funneled into this club: neon bleeding across polished glass, velvet booths, the air thick with liquor and perfu. A temple of decadence where Roman's shadow stretched long and unchallenged.
Black Mask arrived first, naturally. He always did. He claid a table in the VIP section, a dark silhouette under the pulsing glow of red and violet. The bass from the dance floor below thudded through the walls, muffled but steady, like the heartbeat of the city. Waitresses drifted in black dresses, graceful and wordless, filling glasses, distracting patrons too drunk to notice the storm building in their midst.
Roman sat tall, fingers tapping against a glass of whiskey he hadn't touched. Behind the mask, his jaw worked, teeth grinding. He hated waiting. Every second that ticked by was another slight.
Finally, the doors parted, and Big Lou lumbered in. The man was a wall in a suit, broad shoulders stuffed into fabric that strained against seams. His belly pressed against the buttons, and his smug little smirk was carved deep across his fleshy face. Roman's fingers twitched at the sight.
"Thanks for coming," Roman said, standing just enough to nod, extending a gloved hand that carried no warmth. Then he sank back down, voice sharp around the edges.
"Sure," Lou replied, settling into the chair opposite him with a casual grunt. "But we've got to wait for one more."
Roman tilted his head, the skull mask turning the gesture into sothing predatory. "And who might that be?"
The answer arrived on stiletto heels. The sound of them clicked sharp against the polished floor before Sophia Falcone stepped into the glow. Sharp suit, sharper gaze, hair framing her face. She moved with effortless control, slid into the empty chair like she owned it. She didn't need to say a word—her presence shifted the entire table. Two against one now, even here in his house.
Roman's lips curled beneath the mask, though he forced his body still.
He wasted no ti. "We've got a problem. Red Hood. He's torching shipnts, crippling crews, spreading fear in every corner. He's making us look weak in a city already crawling with scavengers. You both know what happens if he keeps spreading—he becos the problem, bigger than any of us." His words were deliberate, soaked in venom, carrying the weight of a man who'd seen empires burn. And burned so himself.
Lou leaned back, folding his thick arms, smirk widening. "Sounds like a you problem, Roman. Not mine."
Sophia's smile was faint, humorless. "You've been in this business long enough to know the rules. You pick a fight with one of these freaks? It's personal. Don't expect us to bleed for your mistakes."
"I didn't even pick the fight!" Roman snapped, his voice rising. "He ca at . I'm telling you, this piece of garbage is dangerous. He needs to be clipped before he gets too comfortable and spreads his wings."
The two exchanged a glance, silent, before turning their eyes back to him. The ssage was clear: they didn't care.
Roman's fists tightened under the table, leather creaking with the strain. "This isn't about . It's about Gotham. You think he'll stop here? No. Today it's my shipnts. Tomorrow it's your vaults, your clubs, your n bleeding in the gutter while this psycho builds his empire on our corpses."
Big Lou chuckled, low and dismissive. "Then you better deal with him quick, before that happens."
Sophia's eyes never left the skull. "We're not interested in your war, Roman. Not today. Not ever."
The words sliced deep. Roman leaned back, forcing his body to stay calm while rage scread inside him. His glass trembled in his grip before he slamd it down, the clink loud and sharp. The skull mask hid his expression, but the fury bled through every taut movent, every strained breath.
"Fine," he said, voice low, dangerous, like embers burning under ash. "But don't co crawling to when his warpath reaches your doorsteps."
Neither flinched. They were already gone, in spirit if not in body. To them, he was noise. A relic screaming at a tide that was already rising.
Roman sat still even as they rose, his gloved fingers digging into the armrests, leather groaning under the pressure of his grip. In his head, he ran through other options. If they wouldn't stand with him, then he'd stand alone—and Gotham would drown for it.
Downstairs, the ltdown Lounge pulsed with life. Music slamd, glasses clinked, laughter spilled out across velvet and neon. But in the corner booth where Black Mask sat, there was no music, no laughter. Only the silent, grinding fury of a man denied, a man already scheming.
Because in Gotham, you didn't brush off Roman Sionis. Not without paying the price.
He didn't storm out. He never gave anyone the satisfaction of seeing him rattled in public. Roman rose slowly, smoothed his coat, and moved through the club like a spiteful spirite. The neon lights bled over the skull mask as he passed, painting its grin in shifting reds and purples. Patrons barely noticed him, too drunk or too terrified to et his gaze. By the ti he stepped outside, the night air bit cold against the heat of his rage.
His car waited at the curb, engine humming, headlights glowing pale in the fog that rolled off Gotham's streets. Roman paused before sliding in, his breath sharp, his chest tight. Lou's smirk. Sophia's cold stare. Their dismissal scraped at him worse than any bullet wound.
He jerked the door open and told the driver, "Take the long way."
The sedan pulled off, winding through Gotham's arteries. Downtown's glitz fell away quickly, replaced by rusted steel, cracked concrete, and alleys that stank of piss and rot. Streetlamps flickered weak, half-dead, spilling pools of sickly light onto pavent slick from earlier rain. Roman's rage sharpened in that darkness, narrowing into sothing cruel and deliberate.
That's when he spotted them.
Two young hustlers, barely old enough to shave, slouched at a corner. One was passing a baggie into a shaking hand, the other keeping half-hearted watch. Rats, bold enough to crawl out into his streets like they owned them.
Roman tapped the divider. "Stop the car."
The driver braked. Roman stepped out, polished shoes crunching wet gravel. His presence carried before him—the skull mask glowing under the streetlight like a death's head. The kids froze, eyes wide.
"Hey—hey, man, we—we ain't on your turf," one stamred, hands up.
Roman didn't reply. Silence was worse. His pistol ca out instead, and with one sharp swing, he cracked the butt across the boy's jaw. Teeth hit the ground. The kid crumpled, wailing.
The second bolted.
Roman's hand shot out, grabbing his hoodie. He yanked him back, slamming him against a brick wall so hard dust shook loose. The boy gasped, scrambling to breathe. Roman buried a fist in his gut, folding him, then flung him to the ground like trash.
"You think these streets belong to you?" Roman snarled, his voice echoing harsh from behind the mask. He seized the kid by the hair, forcing his bloodied face up. "This is my city. Mine. And I don't share."
The boy tried to beg, but Roman cut him off with a vicious kick to the ribs. Bone cracked. The sound rang down the alley.
The first one crawled, dragging himself through filth, but Roman turned, grabbed his ankle, and dragged him back across the pavent. Sparks scraped from the sole of his sneaker. Roman crouched over him, close enough that the mask filled the boy's vision.
"This city doesn't forgive weakness," Roman hissed. "And neither do I."
Then he brought the pistol butt down. Once. Twice. Three tis. Wet crunches filled the air, the boy's cries twisting into gargled sobs.
Roman straightened, chest heaving, breath fogging in the cold night. The alley now stank of iron and blood, layered over garbage rot. His rage cooled, not gone but tempered, like a blade pulled fresh from fla.
He holstered the pistol, smoothed his coat, and turned back toward the waiting car. The driver glanced at the blood on his gloves but said nothing. He never did. Roman slid inside, the mask's hollow grin fixed forward as the sedan pulled back into the night.
Behind him, the two kids twitched weakly, broken and forgotten. They were never the point. They were release.
And as Gotham's lights blurred past the windows, Roman's thoughts narrowed to one na, one problem. Red Hood.
He slipped a hand into the inside pocket of his tailored suit, pulling out his phone with the kind of calm that ca only from a man used to making life-and-death decisions like ordering takeout. A quick dial with no hesitation. The line clicked, soone picked up, and Roman didn't even bother with greetings. His voice was sharp, cold, and final.
"Put a ten million dollar bounty on the Red Hood."
That was all he said. No explanations, no follow-up. He ended the call with a snap of his thumb, sliding the phone back into his jacket like the words he'd just spoken weren't about to send shockwaves rippling through Gotham's underworld.
If Lou and Sophia wouldn't help him, fine. He didn't need them. He'd make an example of Red Hood so brutal, so final, that Gotham itself would rember why Black Mask was feared.
And when he was finished, the others would crawl back.
They always did.
Word of the bounty didn't spread slowly—it tore through Gotham like shrapnel from a grenade. Within the hour, whispers beca chatter, and chatter beca a roar that reached every corner of the city where blood and money dictated loyalty.
In the shadows of Cri Alley, a pair of rcenaries known as the Heat Brothers—ex-military, dishonorably discharged, and now hired killers—perked up at the figure.
Across town, the Bravado Crew, a gang of thrill-seeking vigilante-hunters with more guns than brains, slamd a fresh magazine into their rifles, already hyping themselves up on the fantasy of taking down Gotham's newly most dangerous wild card.
The Iceberg Lounge buzzed with talk as Oswald Cobblepot's hired guns debated the odds. A few of Penguin's regular hitters—the likes of Victor Zsasz, always itching for an excuse to carve another tally into his skin—smirked at the news, practically licking their blades. Zsasz wasn't loyal to anyone but his compulsions, and a payday like this was just an excuse to indulge them.
Down in the Narrows, Deadshot was already on the radar. Floyd Lawton didn't need anyone to tell him twice—he was a professional, a perfectionist, and when you heard "ten million," you loaded your rifles and calculated angles before the echo of the words even faded.
Not to be left out, rumors even reached Coal Cash—Grifter, a mber of the Wild C.A.T.s covert action team. He didn't need the money, not really, but the challenge of putting down soone who took out the Hands of Four, solo? That was the kind of hunt he lived for. Whether he'd take the job or not was anyone's guess, but just the whisper that he might was enough to make smaller players think twice before jumping in.
Bounty hunters, smugglers, low-life assassins, and rcenaries—every rat, snake, and vulture Gotham bred over decades—were suddenly on the prowl. So were eager. So were cautious. But all of them were hungry.
Roman Sionis leaned back in his chair, sipping his drink as though nothing had changed. Behind the blank, grinning face of his black mask, his eyes glead with cruel satisfaction. He knew exactly what he'd just done: he'd unleashed Gotham's deadliest on one man.
And to him, it wasn't a question of if Red Hood would fall, but how soon.
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