In DC universe as Batman

Gotham.

Dressed in a sharp English windbreaker and carrying a gentleman's cane, Count Vertigo walked through the alleys of Midtown.

Although this wasn't the worst or most poverty-stricken neighborhood in Gotham, it was still far from orderly or developed. Under normal circumstances, Count Vertigo would never set foot in such a rundown area—full of vulgarity, decay, and disorder. But the employer for this mission had specifically requested it.

Beep-beep—

Beep—

Count Vertigo halted and turned his head toward a nearby driver who was cursing loudly.

"Fuck you! Are you deaf!?"

The agitated driver slammed the horn again, the noise sharp and deafening. When Count Vertigo didn't move, the driver grew more enraged and pulled out a gun from under his coat, pointing it directly at him.

"Move it, or do you want me to poke a dozen holes through your body!?"

Typical case of manic disorder, Count Vertigo thought with a frown. He hadn't expected that Gotham would allow someone like this to drive freely through its streets. Apparently, even the mentally unstable could get a license here.

"Fuck you! I said—move—"

Hum hum hum—

A sudden, invisible wave swept into the driver's mind. The man shuddered, then slumped forward. With a sickening pop, one of his eyeballs dislodged from its socket and plopped to the ground.

Amid the sharp, continuous blare of the horn and the man's fading screams, Count Vertigo bowed slightly, performing a proper British gesture of courtesy. Then he turned and calmly walked toward a decaying apartment building nearby.

"Let me check the address… No. 52. That's correct."

He stepped around chipped concrete stairs with peeling red railings and approached the door of Room 401. Raising his hand—

Knock knock knock—

"Come in."

"Whoa."

Count Vertigo made a surprised sound the moment he stepped inside.

From the outside, the building looked like any other low-rent apartment complex bordering the slums. Even the door appeared to be ordinary wood. But once inside, the truth was strikingly different.

Behind the wooden façade was a full-on alloy pressure-sealed door, capable of maintaining airtight conditions.

The walls, ceiling, and floor were all lined with steel panels—coated with explosion-proof paint on the outside and corrosion-resistant paint on the inside.

It was a full-fledged, professional-grade bomb shelter. Even if the entire building collapsed, this room would survive.

Weapons were stacked in every corner—grenades, rocket launchers, bricks of plastic explosives.

On the far side of the room sat a metal table surrounded by four individuals.

Two of them were familiar to Count Vertigo. There was Deadshot, the infamous marksman, as well known for his impeccable aim as for his terrible personality. Beside him was the British mercenary Lady Vick, whose lethal skills were rivaled only by her seductive charm.

The other two were unknowns. One was a young woman wearing a grinning cat mask, with a long blade strapped to her side. Count assumed she was another assassin-type mercenary. But the last one… was truly strange.

The man sat quietly in a corner, wearing a welder's mask—the kind with a glare-resistant visor. On his back were two gas cylinders. He clutched a welding torch in one hand and wore light gray tights with suspenders, along with long rubber boots.

At first glance, he seemed like an ordinary welder.

Except… he was holding half a dead dog.

It was a golden retriever—only the upper half remained, as if it had been cleanly sliced through. The rest was simply gone. The dog seemed freshly killed; half of its internal organs still dangled loosely.

And the man's left hand was thrust inside the carcass, completely unconcerned with the blood running down his arm.

"You…"

"Hello! I'm the Dog Welder. Nice to meet you, new friend! I just got here myself."

Wait—that voice… didn't come from the man.

It came from the dog.

Yes, the dead dog in Dog Welder's hand suddenly lifted its head, its lifeless face twisting into an oddly cheerful smile.

"Are you also here for the mission?" the dog asked brightly.

The grotesque scene sent a jolt of revulsion through Count Vertigo. But he wasn't an ordinary man—he quickly reined in his discomfort and straightened up with noble composure.

"Yes, sir. It's an honor to work with you."

Fighting the urge to stare at the talking corpse in Dog Welder's grip, he turned toward Ms. Vick and bent down to kiss her hand.

"My lady, your beauty shines brighter than the stars themselves."

"Count Dill, my old friend," said Lady Vick with a smile. She was a slender blonde in a red-and-gold skintight suit. A half-mask covered her eyes, and her shoulders and a generous portion of her chest were fully exposed.

"You…"

"Enough already. Can we drop the aristocratic theater for once?"

Deadshot, who had been ignored the whole time, tapped the table impatiently. "Now that we're all here, let's get to the point. Let's hear what insane mission our mysterious sponsor has for us this time."

He motioned toward the Cheshire Cat, who silently pulled a bulky recorder from a pile of grenades.

"A tape recorder?" Ms. Vick raised an eyebrow. "How quaint."

Deadshot ignored her. He pressed a button, extended the antenna, and fiddled with the settings. "Our employer said to wait until everyone arrived before tuning in. Now pipe down and listen. We're all here for the money—just like me."

The four mercenaries fell quiet. A few moments later, a voice crackled through the static:

"Zzzzt... Can you hear me?"

"Yes, boss," Deadshot replied. "What's the job this time? Chasing the arsonist Firefly? Another deranged villain crawling out of Gotham's sewers, our righteous employer?"

"Neither."

The employer's voice was distorted, hoarse through the old machine. Deadshot squinted. This tape recorder was actually a large-range wireless walkie-talkie. Which meant... their mysterious boss was likely nearby.

"I've appointed a team leader. You will follow his orders—especially you, Count Vertigo."

Count Vertigo narrowed his eyes.

He had known this would be a team mission, but he'd never intended to actually cooperate.

He was a lone wolf, a solo operator. He was only working with others this time for the payday—not because he was willing to take orders.

Who does the leader think he is? Batman?