Ethan stood on top of the rooftop, his silhouette almost invisible against the crumbling brick wall behind him. Gotham's skyline stretched ahead, a wounded giant bathed in the last remnants of the day's polluted sun. He adjusted the dark hoodie over his head, feeling the wind shift as he gazed down at the streets below.
A group of men in crisp suits exited the Bank of Gotham's lower branch, laughing as they carried briefcases heavy with stolen dreams. Ethan didn't know them personally, but he knew the type — parasites living off the rot.
He scoffed.
"I really need to get a job," he thought grimly.
His mind flickered through possibilities. He had the skillsets — combat, tech, infiltration, even tactical medicine — basically a résumé that would make any government agency salivate. But in Gotham, you needed records: birth certificates, work histories, background checks.
Ethan didn't officially exist before a few days ago.
"I could fake them," he muttered under his breath, hands tucked deep into the pockets of his jeans.
Decision made, he pulled back from the rooftop edge. He wouldn't rely on some shady third-party broker either. No middlemen. He'd do it himself — the right way. If there was one thing his past life had taught him, it was that relying on strangers got you killed.
At home, the modest apartment he rented was bare but functional. He powered up his computer and started scanning Gotham's darknet hubs.
It didn't take long.
One hub promised "Dependable, Untraceable, and Affordable" forged documents, with an address only five blocks from his apartment.
Perfect.
He sent a basic encrypted message:
"Need a full ID package. Will pay cash."
The reply came less than an hour later:
[Come to ------ at 1:50 AM. Bring payment.]
No names. No faces. Ethan liked that.
He leaned back against his mattress and closed his eyes, counting the minutes until nightfall.
1:43 AM
Gotham's night air was heavier than usual, reeking of smog and decay. Ethan pulled a simple cloth mask over the lower half of his face and tightened the gloves over his fingers. His Dead Knight armor sat in the corner, folded neatly, but he knew he might need it. Gotham was never kind to the unarmed.
He packed the chest plate, gauntlets, and sleek matte-black helmet into an old duffel bag and walked casually toward the meeting point.
The directions led him deep into a labyrinth of alleys. Garbage piled up in sickly mountains, rats squeaking and darting in and out of drains. The air tasted metallic.
At the corner of a cracked brick wall, a scrap of paper fluttered under a loose brick.
He bent down and picked it up:
[Turn left, 70 meters. Turn right, 80 meters.]
Ethan nodded and followed.
As he turned the final corner, his boots hit gravel. An enormous, long-abandoned paper mill loomed before him, its skeletal frame barely standing. But inside, the place pulsed with life.
He crouched behind a rusted crate and scanned the scene.
Hundreds of men and women bustled inside. Laminators, printers, computers — it was like a twisted factory from some dystopian nightmare. Fake passports, IDs, licenses — all churned out by sweaty hands.
And it wasn't just document forging. Ethan's sharp eyes caught crates filled with illegal firearms, their serial numbers crudely scratched off. Another section looked like a call center, probably scamming desperate people across Gotham.
"This isn't just a forgery ring," Ethan thought. "It's an empire."
Inside the Mill-
"Hey, John!" A middle-aged man in a leather jacket hollered across the buzzing room.
"What's up, Mikey?" the younger one yelled back, leaning over his desk.
"You said a customer was coming tonight, right?"
John scratched the back of his head, frowning.
"Yeah. Should've been here already... Maybe he got lost?"
Mikey grunted. "Better safe than sorry. Send the boys out on patrol."
John gave a quick nod, pulling a walkie-talkie from his belt.
"All units, sweep perimeter."
Outside the Mill-
Ethan saw the patrol coming before he heard them.
A dozen men, all built like tanks and armed to the teeth, fanned out across the alleyways.
"Time to suit up," Ethan thought.
He ducked behind a stack of rusted crates.
Piece by piece, the Dead Knight armor strapped onto him. The matte-black plating hugged his body like a second skin, its blood-red accents pulsing faintly under the moonlight. The helmet pulled over his head — HUD systems flashing online — and his massive black broadsword slung onto his back.
He flexed his fingers. The armor hummed in response.
"Showtime."
Two guards, guns casually slung over their shoulders, patrolled the area.
One of them, Richie, chuckled nervously.
"Hey, you hear about that freak prowling Gotham lately?" he asked the other man.
"Pfft," the man snorted. "What, that 'Dead Knight' crap? Urban legends, Richie. Don't piss your pants."
Richie laughed, but it sounded forced.
"Yeah... still. People say he's a demon or somethin'..."
Suddenly, the air shifted.
Richie's laughter died in his throat as he turned — and looked up.
Six-foot-six of armored nightmare stood in front of him.
The man had never had to look up at anyone in his life. Yet here he was, staring at the dark helm of Dead Knight, whose broadsword gleamed in the half-light.
The world slowed down.
Richie opened his mouth to scream — but the flat side of Ethan's sword slapped against his temple.
The thug dropped like a sack of bricks, unconscious before he hit the ground.
Dead Knight tilted his head.
"Should've trained your mind and your muscles, my boy," he said coldly.
The second guard shouted and opened fire. Bullets pinged uselessly off Ethan's armor, sparks flying.
Dead Knight didn't flinch.
He advanced, every step a drumbeat of inevitability.
The second guard panicked, trying to reload — too slow.
Ethan was already there, grabbing the man's face and slamming it into a nearby crate. The crate splintered under the force.
Inside the mill, alarms blared.
"INTRUDER! HE'S INSIDE!" someone screamed.
The workers dropped their tools, scattering like rats. Dozens of armed guards swarmed toward the entrance.
Ethan sprinted forward, his sword a black blur in the night.
Gunfire erupted. Ethan dipped low, weaving between the bullets, armor absorbing the hits. His HUD flickered with minor warnings, but nothing he couldn't handle.
He slammed into the first group of guards like a wrecking ball.
One swing of his sword — non-lethal but brutal — sent three men flying.
A fourth tried to tackle him. Ethan sidestepped and elbowed him in the throat.
The man gasped and crumpled.
Another thug raised a shotgun — but Ethan was faster.
He hurled a broken piece of wood like a spear, knocking the weapon from the man's hands.
"You think bullets will save you?" Ethan growled, his voice distorted and mechanical through the helmet. "You should've run."
Panic set in.
The guards tried to retreat, but Ethan pursued.
He aimed low — knees, arms, shoulders — disabling, not killing. His strikes were efficient and deliberate. He didn't revel in their screams. It wasn't about sadism. It was about precision.
In the chaos, Ethan found the main office.
A fat, balding man in a sweat-stained shirt — probably the manager — cowered behind a desk.
Dead Knight smashed the door open with a single kick.
"Please! Please! I'm just the accountant!" the man squealed, waving his hands.
Ethan ignored him, stepping over papers and documents.
On the desk sat the database: forged birth certificates, social security numbers, blank driver's licenses.
"I don't need these things," he thought.
He looked back at the accountant.
"I know you're not the accountant. But you're not in charge either. Who is the main boss?" he asked, his tone robotic.
"..."
The man stood silent, sweating like a broken faucet.
"ANSWER MEEE!!" Ethan bellowed, his voice booming.
"Black Mask!! He's the boss!" the man replied instantly.
"Hmm, makes sense," Ethan thought.
Then he turned back to the accountant.
"Leave this place. Abandon it. Gotham needs to be crime-free," he said flatly.
"What?! I need a j—" the man tried to say, but Ethan's sword cut through the desk with a sharp screech.
"How much money do you have?" Ethan asked, voice commanding.
"...17 million dollars," the man stammered.
"How much in cash, right here?" Ethan demanded.
"A few hundred thousand."
"Leave. Those. Here. And. Get. OUT."
The man nodded so fast it looked painful.
He ran from the room like a squealing pig.
"Stop." he said.
The man stopped like a child caught eating sweets.
He turned around.
"Donate most of your money. If you don't i'll come find you....and the result won't be pretty"
The man,intimidated,ran away once more.
Ethan left the office, sprinting toward the exit.
A final group of guards tried to block his path.
Dead Knight spun his sword once — a dark halo — and the guards stepped back instinctively.
He watched them evacuate.
Walking back toward the office, Ethan found the safe the fat man had hidden.
He cracked it open with a swift strike of his sword.
Inside lay piles of cash.
He mentally counted.
"About 500 thousand," he thought.
It could fund a stable life for a few years, considering his hero activity. So he took it.
Guilt pricked his conscience. This money was most likely stolen from desperate people.
So he made a decision.
He would invest it wisely, keep only the profits, and donate the rest.