In DC universe as Batman

"You just need to—"

"Shut the fuck up. Can't you see he's just playing with us? Not even Batman can win against this monster."

"You don't have to worry about that. Just stop him and you'll earn enough—"

"Get lost. I'm out. And don't talk about \$200 million—I'm afraid I can't resist the temptation. But no matter how much money you have, you still need to live..."

"Yes. You have to live, Lawton(Deadshot's real name)"

Deadshot froze. That voice—it came from behind.

"There's still a chance to survive if you cooperate with the Cheshire Cat."

Deadshot turned slowly, scowling. From the shadows, the Ventriloquist stepped out, face grim, round, sweat-drenched. The cowardly bastard who'd been hiding like a turtle was suddenly bold, pointing a Thompson submachine gun at him with trembling hands.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Mr. Lawton. I really am. But Bat Baby asked me to do this."

The Bat Baby doll in his hand spoke next, voice low and rotten.

"Don't force me to do it, Lawton."

Deadshot's heart sank. "Arnold, you—"

"If you don't attack him, I'll attack you."

Bruce, watching from afar, couldn't help but smirk.

Good. That's a proper assist. Supervision team move—check.

"Fuck!" Deadshot spat.

The Ventriloquist was right. With Cheshire Cat stalling Bane, they could survive at least a minute. But if he turned on Arnold now, he'd be caught between a psycho in front and a traitor behind. A stupid death.

He grabbed the rocket launcher from the ground.

"One minute!" he muttered. "Just one goddamn minute!"

He raised the launcher and fired.

Boom!

"Get out of the way!" he screamed.

The Cheshire Cat nearly ate the blast. She leapt aside, tumbled, panting hard—her voice no longer cold or elegant.

"Asshole! You mutt! You almost blew me up!"

Countdown: 50 seconds.

BOOM!

Flames and smoke erupted around Bane—but Deadshot knew better. That would only slow him down. Barely.

He kept firing. Then dashed, taking cover behind the crushed frame of a car.

Countdown: 40 seconds.

Bane erupted from the smoke.

"Time to end this," he said.

The Cheshire Cat tried to intercept, but Bane ignored her. His eyes locked on Deadshot. He charged—each step blurring into the next like a teleporting juggernaut.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

Four lights burst, plunging the area into darkness. Bane slowed, just slightly. But moonlight still lit his path.

BOOM!

Bane's kick obliterated the spot Deadshot had just left. Debris exploded upward like a lawn mower tearing through weeds.

Deadshot had barely rolled away when steel bars and concrete rained down with surgical precision.

"Ahhh!"

He dodged the killing blows but caught a boulder on the shoulder.

Shit. He wasn't fooled. Not for a second.

Bane wasn't just strong—he was smart. An escape artist second only to Batman or Mister Miracle. Deadshot's tricks were child's play to him.

And now, he'd pissed him off.

Swish.Swish.Swish!

Despite his injury, Deadshot fired three more rockets in rapid succession.

Desperate. Desperate enough to hope.

But then...

He watched in horror as Bane caught each rocket with his bare hands, one by one. And threw them back—like a demigod hurling javelins.

The round heads of the shells reflected in his eyes.

"...Fuck you."

Countdown: 30 seconds.

BOOM!

Shrapnel rained like hellfire. Deadshot spat blood. His back screamed with pain—but his armor had held. Barely.

He tried to crawl, but stopped.

A massive rock had pinned his legs.

Bane approached. Calm. Silent. Inevitable.

So this is how it ends, Deadshot thought.

The best marksman in the world, killed by his own ammo. What a joke.

Cheshire Cat tried to bolt—but Bane was too fast.

One punch.

She flew like a ragdoll, crashing through debris, silent.

Countdown: 20 seconds.

Deadshot coughed blood and laughed, bitter and dry.

Maybe his organs were toast. Didn't matter anymore.

He stared at Bane walking toward him, and his mind flooded with fragments:

A broken childhood.

A dream of being a painter.

Twelve bullets that tore through his parents and sister.

A shattered life.

Military service.

Becoming a killer.

And—

"Zoe..."

Countdown: 10 seconds.

So.

This was it.

The end of Floyd Lawton.

Moon... you are dark, and you are bright.

---

The world exhaled in silence, trembling in the aftershock.

"There is no military force here...

except me.

There is no authority here...

except me.

There is no hope here...

except me.

There is no Batman here. No one else.

There is only Bane."

Countdown: 3 seconds.

Bane reached for Deadshot. His huge palm hovered, a brutal final caress.

2 seconds.

It pressed against Lawton's throat.

1 second.

"Go to hell."

0 seconds.

"BANE—!"

The voice wasn't near or far. It was everywhere.

The earth shook. The air screamed. Even the night recoiled.

Bane paused, hand frozen.

He turned—and saw him.

Perched on the mountain of garbage, trembling with wrath. A god. A nightmare.

BWOOOOOM.

It wasn't sound—it was the absence of it. Like the world had inhaled but forgot to exhale.

A wave of deathly pressure hit Bane like a glacier crashing down on his lungs.

What kind of eyes were those?

Bottomless. Blacker than sin.

The wind from his breath was like the polar vortex. Ancient. Relentless.

He wasn't moving. But it felt like the sky had caved in.

[One more step forward, you die.]

Every cell in Bane's body screamed it. Even his genes panicked.

Batman doesn't kill, he reminded himself.

He's a hero. Heroes don't cross that line.

But...

[You die. You fucking die.]

Bane knew Batman shouldn't be able to kill him.

But his bones, blood, muscle, hair—every part of him—howled:

[MOVE, AND DIE!!!]

He didn't know how Batman did it.

That scent. That instinct. That... apex predator pressure.

It made no scientific sense.

But it was Batman.

And that made sense.

The real master of Gotham had arrived.

The Bat had returned, wings casting a long shadow, reclaiming his domain.

Bane looked once more—

—and fled.

With a few leaps, he vanished into the dark.

He wasn't scared.

It just wasn't time yet.

---

In the east, the first light of dawn split the night like a sword, casting its glow on the lone figure who stood unmoved atop the wreckage.

He had come like a nightmare.

Now, he stood like a sentinel.

The red sun climbed the sky.

Its path was bright.

The long, suffocating night—

Ended here.