In the dim, musty warehouse on the edge of Gotham's industrial district, Jin grunted as he heaved a heavy, blood-stained duffel bag into the industrial dumpster out back. The metal lid clanged shut with a hollow echo that reverberated off the rusted walls. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the chill seeping through the cracked concrete floor.
"Beta… remind me to hit the gym again," he muttered between heavy breaths, wiping his face with the sleeve of his worn gray hoodie. He spoke into the small earpiece that doubled as his connection to the AI—more babysitter than supercomputer.
"Of course, sir," came Beta's calm, slightly glitchy reply from somewhere deeper in the warehouse. The voice crackled faintly; Beta wasn't JARVIS-level sophisticated. It was solid mid-tier tech—reliable enough for daily life, easy to trace if someone really wanted to dig. Right now, its partially-assembled frame—a skeletal chassis of wires, servos, and glowing blue circuits—hovered in the shadows of a corner workbench, half-finished but still functional.
Jin fished out his wallet and flipped it open. A single crumpled twenty-dollar bill stared back at him. He sighed, long and tired.
"Beta, what's the biggest casino in the city?"
A brief pause as data scrolled across an invisible HUD only Beta could see. "The largest and most prominent casino establishment in Gotham is the Iceberg Lounge, sir. It operates under the ownership and direct influence of Oswald Cobblepot—better known as the Penguin. High-end clientele, heavy security, and… significant underground activity."
Jin nodded to himself, slipping the wallet back into his pocket. He reached under his collar and pulled out a thin silver chain, letting the small pendant—a faded photo of Delia smiling softly—dangle for a moment. He tucked it away again, the metal cool against his skin, grounding him.
"Alright. Time to turn twenty bucks into something useful. Delia taught me the basics back when we hustled dive bars in New York. Should be enough."
He zipped up the hoodie, pulled the hood low over his face, and stepped out into the rainy Gotham night.
---
Meanwhile, deep beneath Wayne Manor, the Batcave's massive monitors cast cold blue light across Bruce Wayne's unreadable expression. One screen displayed a detailed Arkham file: the Cannibal—a pale, gaunt escapee with a file thick with mutilation charges and an unsettling grin in every photo.
"Mister Bruce," Alfred's measured voice cut through the low hum of machinery. The butler approached with a silver tray bearing a simple meal—roast chicken, vegetables, a glass of water. "You haven't touched your dinner."
"Not hungry," Bruce replied quietly, fingers dancing across the keyboard with practiced calm. The footage shifted: grainy security cam from an abandoned district. The Cannibal slipped into an old warehouse, moving with predatory caution.
Then—a single gunshot cracked through the speakers. The feed went dead. Static hissed.
Bruce's jaw tightened. "Alfred. Prepare the Batmobile."
He was already reaching for the cowl.
---
Downtown Gotham glittered under neon and rain-slicked streets. The Iceberg Lounge rose like a frozen monument—towering glass and steel, arctic-blue lighting spilling from every window, arctic animal motifs carved into the facade. Inside, it was a different world: crystal chandeliers shaped like melting icebergs, a central pool where actual penguins swam lazily, tuxedoed waitstaff gliding between velvet booths, and the low murmur of money changing hands—legal and otherwise.
Jin slipped through the crowd unnoticed at first. Hood up, hands in pockets, he looked every bit the broke drifter among the tailored suits and diamond necklaces. He cashed his lone twenty into a single red chip—practically pocket lint in this place.
He found an open seat at a high-stakes poker table. The players were Gotham elite: a silver-haired businessman with a Rolex that could buy the block, a woman in a sequined gown dripping diamonds, a couple of sharp-eyed men who screamed "mob lieutenant." They glanced at Jin with thinly veiled disgust.
"Twenty bucks," Jin said simply, sliding the chip forward as the dealer began.
The game unfolded slowly at first—small bets, calculated folds. Jin played conservatively, reading faces, waiting. Then came the hand.
He looked down at his cards. A royal flush draw stared back. Perfect.
"All in," he announced, pushing the single chip to the center.
The table chuckled. The businessman raised an eyebrow. "Kid, that's twenty dollars. You sure?"
Jin leaned forward slightly, voice low and steady. "I said all in. But since twenty's not enough to play with you people… I'll wager something better."
Silence rippled outward.
"My freedom."
The laughter died. Greed flickered in their eyes like candle flames.
The woman tilted her head. "And how exactly would that work?"
"Simple. You've all got problems—dirty secrets, rivals, messes you don't want traced back. Call me when you need someone to handle it. No questions. No traces. I become your personal problem-solver. Your cleaner. Your executioner if it comes to that."
One of the mob lieutenants leaned in, smirking. "And what guarantees you'll actually do the job? Or that you won't turn on us?"
Jin shrugged, calm as still water. "I don't give my life. But I give my word. And in my line of work, that's heavier than cash."
They exchanged glances. Smiles spread—predatory, excited.
Chips rained onto the table. Tens of thousands. Hundreds.
The reveal came.
The businessman laid his cards down with a flourish. "Straight flush. Diamonds."
Groans and curses from the others.
Jin exhaled slowly, then flipped his hand. "Royal flush. Spades."
The table erupted—shock, outrage, reluctant admiration.
Before anyone could react further, cold steel pressed against the back of Jin's skull.
"You little rat," a deep voice growled.
Jin glanced at the mirror behind the bar. A mountain of a man—easily six-foot-six, built like a linebacker—stood behind him, revolver steady.
"I'm not taking this loss from some punk off the street," the giant snarled. He nodded to another guard. "Take him out back. Make it quiet."
Jin sighed, finishing the stolen drink in one swallow. "You really want to do this?"
The guard raised his gun.
In a blur born of too many bar fights and worse nights in other worlds, Jin twisted, ducked the shot that splintered the table instead, grabbed the giant's wrist, and slammed his face down into the felt. Cards flew. Chips scattered. Jin wrenched the revolver free and pressed it under the man's chin.
The room froze.
"Now," Jin said evenly, voice carrying over the sudden silence, "we can settle this with money… or we can settle it with your brains on the baize. Your call."
The giant's eyes widened, sweat beading.
Jin leaned closer. "Listen. In my experience, even the biggest players honor their bets. Kingpin hated my guts, but when I owed him, I paid—showed up to his nephew's birthday party as the 'guest of honor.' No blood. No drama. Just business."
He thumbed back the hammer with a soft click.
"So what's it gonna be? The cash… or the national anthem of Rio blasting through your skull? Trust me—it's beautiful."
The giant swallowed hard. Slowly, he nodded toward the pit boss lurking nearby.
"Pay… pay the man."
---
Far on the outskirts of Gotham, where the city lights barely reached, a tear in reality shimmered open like torn flesh. Thick, crimson-black ooze poured through—viscous, alive, pulsing with unnatural hunger.
The symbiote hit the ground and immediately began to reshape itself. No host needed. Tendrils extended, forming limbs, a torso, a mockery of a feminine silhouette. Red eyes glowed in the dark.
"My sweet love…" it whispered, voice a wet, loving rasp that echoed unnaturally. "Are you here? So far from me… so alone…"
Agatha—Double, as Jin had named her—stretched, testing this new world. Born from Jin and Carnage in some forgotten nightmare chapter of his life, she was different from her progenitors. Not mindless violence. Obsession. Pure, twisted devotion. She had torn through demonic realms once, reshaping hell into a twisted wonderland just for them. Jin had almost lost Delia to her hunger. Only a desperate jury-rigged suit—Air Mustang, gloves charged with compressed wind magic and fire Magic and Lot of shit of scient—had driven her back.
Now she was free again.
She tilted her head, sniffing the air like a predator scenting blood.
"Just wait, my darling. Soon we'll be together… forever this time. As it was always meant to be~"
A long, red tendril slithered forward, tasting the rain-soaked pavement, already searching for the one scent it would never forget.