The possessions were slowing down. Fewer shadows seeped through the cracks, and most of the officers were either recovering or helping restrain the last few who were still fighting off the demons.
Marco did a quick headcount. There were no fatalities. There were plenty of minor injuries, but nothing serious.
It could have been worse.
Then he saw it.
A shadow demon broke away from the dispersing smoke near the wall. Instead of fleeing like the rest, it shot straight toward him.
Marco did not have time to dodge.
The thing slammed into his chest. For a split second, it felt like being blasted in the face with exhaust from a busted tailpipe. The air was thick and choking. The sensation crawled across his skin as if searching for a way in, trying to take hold.
Then everything stopped.
The shadow demon recoiled. It hissed, and fled so fast that it left a trail of dissipating smoke behind it. It dove into the nearest crack in the floor and vanished.
"Hey! Captain!" Dr. Quinzel came running over. She reached out like she was going to grab his face. "You're fine! Quick, tell me what it felt like!"
Marco caught her wrist before she could touch him. "Nothing. I didn't feel anything."
"Nothing?" She looked disappointed. "But it hit you directly. I saw it. There should've been..." She leaned in closer. "Is your skin discolored? Any visual changes? Auditory hallucinations?"
"I'm fine."
Dr. Quinzel's expression shifted. "How did you resist it? What's your psychological defense mechanism? Are you on any medications? History of dissociative episodes? Because statistically, possession resistance correlates with either extreme mental fortitude or severe psychological fragmentation, and given your stress responses I'm leaning toward—"
Marco grabbed her by the collar.
"Whoa! Hey! What are you doing?!"
He walked her backward toward the holding room where Raven was resting, Dr. Quinzel stumbling along in his grip like a cat being carried by the scruff of its neck. When they reached the door, he pushed her inside and slammed it shut.
CLANG.
The lock engaged.
"No arguments," he said through the small window in the door. "You stay in there with Raven. Keep her company and provide psychological support if she needs it. Without my permission, you don't come out. And you don't record anything else. Clear?"
Dr. Quinzel blinked up at him. For a moment, Marco thought she was going to argue. She opened her mouth, ready to launch into some psychological justification for why locking her up was counterproductive.
Then she saw his face.
The exhaustion etched into the lines around his eyes was impossible to miss. There was blood spattered across his collar, and it was not his.
"All right, Captain. Following orders. Protecting the key witness." She even gave a sloppy salute. Then she turned and dropped onto the edge of the cot beside Raven, like a cat that had been briefly confined and did not care very much.
"Hi!"
Raven's eyes opened slowly. She'd been resting, but not sleeping. She looked at Dr. Quinzel for a moment, then her eyes flicked to Marco through the window.
"Another anomaly," she said quietly. "But you're not the same as him."
"Oh?" Dr. Quinzel's interest spiked immediately. She leaned forward, elbows on her knees. "Because I'm younger and more professionally qualified than that big dumb lug out there?"
"No." Raven's expression didn't change. "Your soul's colors are chaotic and fragmented. And you are older than he is."
---
Officers and tactical team members were scattered across the floor. Seven or eight were still unconscious, small wounds on their hands and arms where their partners had driven keys, pens, or whatever sharp object had been handy into their flesh to break the demons' hold. The injuries looked worse than they were.
The ones who were conscious sat against walls or slumped in chairs, drinking water, pressing gauze to their wounds, or just staring into space.
The air smelled like sulfur. Someone had opened a window, trying to air out the stench.
Darnell sat on the floor near the monitors, wiping sweat from his forehead. There was blood on his hands, not his own, from the look of it. Probably splatter from one of the exorcisms.
Marco walked over and dropped into a chair next to him.
"Everyone accounted for?"
"Yeah." Darnell didn't look up. "Rodriguez is gonna have a hell of a scar on his ear, and Hopkins is out cold, but the medics say he'll be fine."
Gordon came over. He looked as tired as Marco felt.
"Headquarters wants a full report by oh-six-hundred. I told them we'd have it ready by noon. They weren't happy, but they can file a complaint if they want."
"Good." Marco checked his watch. Three-thirty in the morning. "If we hold out a little longer, we can grab breakfast at the new building. You hungry?"
"I could eat something." Gordon managed a tired smile. "But you're buying."
"Why am I buying?"
"Because you're the one who convinced me this was a good idea."
Marco thought about his bank account, winced, then shrugged. "Fine. We'll put it on the chief's tab."
---
Outside the East End Precinct.
The rain had slowed to a drizzle.
Batman stood at the edge of a factory rooftop across from the precinct. Below him, the open lot was littered with unconscious League of Assassins operatives, some taken down by his mechanical bats, others by his own hands.
He'd originally planned to enter the station. The moment he tried to approach it, his instincts screamed at him to stop.
The windows had been welded shut. The ventilation ducts looked ordinary, but he doubted they truly were. Faint scorch marks near the main entrance suggested that someone had already tried to force their way in and had paid for the mistake.
The entire building had been turned into a fortress, and not by amateurs.
Using explosives on the door was out of the question. That would trigger some unknown defensive response, cause unnecessary damage, and likely get him shot by the very people he was trying to help.
He stood there for a moment, weighing his options.
Then he pressed his comm.
"Gordon."
There was a pause. Static crackled. Then Gordon's voice came through.
"Batman. What's the situation outside?"
"Cleanup is complete. League operatives have been neutralized. What's the situation inside?"
"We dealt with some internal trouble," Gordon said. "Shadow creatures that could possess people. It's hard to explain, but it has been handled for now. We have casualties, but no fatalities. Raven says the threat is contained."
Batman processed that. Demonic entities. Dimensional intrusions. This was escalating beyond street-level crime. But if Gordon said it was handled, then forcing entry would do more harm than good.
"Understood. I'll maintain perimeter security."
"Appreciated."
The line went dead.
Batman took one last look at the precinct. Then he activated his grapnel and fired it toward the next building. He swung into the darkness.
---
Arkham Asylum, Sub-Level Three.
Deep beneath Gotham's most infamous psychiatric facility, in a secret laboratory constructed from stainless steel and bulletproof glass, Strange stood before a bank of monitors.
His eyes tracked the footage playing on the largest screen. High-definition infrared, captured from multiple angles.
His breathing had become shallow, almost ragged.
"Perfect," he whispered to the empty room. "So close to perfection."
His fingers traced Batman's outline on the screen, leaving smudges on the glass.
He turned sharply, yanking a dust cover off a nearby mannequin. Beneath it hung a replica Batsuit.
It was an exact copy, or as exact as he could make it. He'd spent months studying photographs, analyzing video footage, and measuring proportions.
His hands moved over the armor plating.
"I can feel the fear you spread through this city. I can feel the terror you inspire in criminals. But they do not understand it. They fear only the symbol. I understand more than that. I know what you really are."
His mind raced through the footage he'd captured over the past weeks.
"And you..." He pulled up another file on his computer. "Who are you?"
He'd been compiling data and cross-referencing injuries, recovery times, and behavioral patterns. Tonight, after watching Batman interact with Talia al Ghul, a theory finally took shape.
"The Lazarus Pit."
He pulled up everything he had on the League. He reviewed ancient texts, rumored locations, and testimonies from former members who had vanished or died under mysterious circumstances. All of it pointed to the same legend. It spoke of a pool of green liquid that could heal any wound, extend life indefinitely, and even resurrect the dead.
"That's your secret, isn't it?" His hands trembled as he zoomed in on Batman's face, or what little could be seen beneath the cowl. "The League used their blasphemous pool to create you. They shaped you into what you are."
He imagined it clearly. Batman submerged in glowing green water. The liquid knitting torn muscle, reinforcing bone, and pushing past every human limitation. He emerged stronger, faster, and immortal.
"You've wasted this gift. You were given a great vessel, and you chose vigilante justice. You chose a child's revenge fantasy."
He clenched his fists.
"But I would know how to use such power. I would become more than you. More than a symbol. I would become perfection itself."
He pulled up the architectural schematics for the East End Precinct. Every entry point was mapped out. And every structural weakness was exposed. The trap system had already been installed, and it was clearly the work of someone with exceptional intellect and resources.
"Edward Nygma," Strange muttered, pulling up another file.
A forensic analyst at Gotham Central. Brilliant. Obsessive. Apparently talented enough to turn a police station into a death trap that even Batman hesitated to breach.
"Your tricks hindered the League tonight. You also hindered me. Let's see whether your riddles and traps can stand against someone who truly understands the human mind."
He opened an encrypted folder.
Inside it were neurochemical formulas and brainwave mapping charts, along with detailed psychological profiles. The files represented decades of research into fear, paranoia, and obsession. They were the tools he had used to break countless minds during his time at Arkham.
"The smarter you are, the easier you fall."