THE DEATH KNELL

The rhythmic clapping echoed through the dimly lit chamber, accompanied by an almost childlike glee.

"Papa, Papa… Bravo, Mr. Deathstroke! You are the most powerful warrior I have ever seen," Victor exclaimed, her delicate face flushed a shade as deep as her crimson hair. Her breath came in rapid bursts, her excitement barely contained.

Slade Wilson, clad in his signature black-and-orange armor, slung his shotgun back over his shoulder. Dealing with the mechanical dinosaur had been nothing more than an inconvenience. The creature's titanium-reinforced jaws and steel-plated hide might have posed a challenge to an ordinary person, but to him, it was just another obstacle easily dismantled. With his enhanced reflexes and self-healing abilities, the blows he had taken earlier were already forgotten.

His lone eye flicked toward Victor, unimpressed. "Even if you shout encore, I'm not giving you a second round. Do what you need to do—we're here for information, not theatrics."

Victor pouted but nodded. "Oh, okay. But... can I take a piece of the dinosaur as a souvenir?" She lingered near the wreckage, her fingers already itching to pick apart the robotic beast.

Slade exhaled, already turning away. "Do whatever you want. But if you think you can trace Batwoman's identity from scrap metal, don't waste your time. She's not that careless."

Victor stomped her foot in frustration, muttering under her breath. She had hoped for a more enthusiastic response, but Slade Wilson—Deathstroke—was not the type to indulge curiosity. Still, that only made him more intriguing.

Slipping off her heels, Victor trotted toward the remains of the robotic dinosaur. She reached for one of its massive, shattered eyes, her small fingers slipping into the exposed circuitry. With a practiced tug, she extracted a still-sparking wire, her grin widening as she examined it.

Slade didn't bother watching her any longer. He knew Victor's insatiable curiosity bordered on obsession, but she understood limits—most of the time. Instead, he moved toward the illuminated screens where Barbara Gordon and the others were working. The glow of the monitors bathed them in an eerie blue hue, reflecting off Barbara's glasses as she furiously typed. Lines of code flashed across the screen, decrypting layers of security at an impressive speed.

"The dinosaur is taken care of. What's the status on your end?" Slade asked, his voice even, his stance relaxed but alert.

Barbara didn't glance away from the console. Her fingers danced across the keyboard, eyes locked onto the text streaming across the interface. "Almost there…" she murmured, adjusting a slider before pressing enter. The system hesitated for a moment. Then, with a soft chime, a new image appeared on the main screen.

"Open sesame," she whispered.

The display shifted to an aerial view of Gotham. The city sprawled beneath them, captured from an impossibly high vantage point. Slade's spatial awareness immediately pieced it together. This was the perspective of a camera mounted on the grotesque gargoyle perched atop Wayne Tower.

Not just any camera—Batman's camera.

Barbara inhaled sharply, her eyes widening as more feeds populated the screen. The network of surveillance probes spanned the entire city. Every alleyway, every street corner, every rooftop. The sheer volume of data being collected was overwhelming.

"He's monitoring the entire city…" she murmured in disbelief.

Her fingers hesitated over the keyboard as the realization sank in. These weren't just standard security cameras. They were everywhere—from the VIP sections of high-end restaurants to the crumbling underpasses where Gotham's homeless sought shelter. There was no distinction between the powerful and the powerless. No one was beyond his watchful gaze. Even more unsettling, she spotted multiple feeds locked onto her own home.

Slade watched her closely. He had already known this, but seeing Barbara's reaction unfold in real-time was telling.

"Welcome to the Dark Knight's inner world," he said, his voice neutral. "Yes, he is exactly what you think he is."

Barbara swallowed, her throat dry. "This is insane. I don't know if…" Her hands balled into fists. "Is he really the hero Gotham needs? He's violating everyone's privacy—criminals and civilians alike."

She had always admired Batman. Despite their ideological differences, she believed in his cause. But this? This felt like paranoia taken to the extreme.

"He doesn't see people the way you do," Slade said. "To him, Gotham's citizens exist in only two states: already a criminal… or a criminal waiting to happen."

Cindy, who had been silent until now, scoffed from the corner. "And that's why I've never liked his methods." She leaned against the console, arms crossed. "At least I operate on contracts. I believe in balance. But Batman? He just believes in himself."

Barbara turned toward her, conflicted. "Even my father? He's been one of Batman's strongest allies. He trusts him."

Slade shook his head. "Even your father." His tone was calm but unwavering. "For Batman, Commissioner Gordon is simply less likely to become a criminal. That's it. Even if he considers him a friend, that friendship isn't what you think. Batman always has a contingency plan."

Barbara's fingers trembled as they hovered over the keyboard. She had always assumed there was a mutual understanding between Batman and her father. But now… she wasn't so sure.

"No. You're just speculating."

Slade shrugged. "Maybe. But let me tell you something."

Cindy leaned forward, seizing the opportunity. "After your accident, when Gordon and Batman caught the Joker, your father had a gun aimed right at that bastard's head. He could have ended it right there. But guess who stopped him?"

Barbara's heart pounded. "…Batman?"

Cindy nodded. "He knocked the gun away."

Barbara's face paled. Her stomach twisted at the memory. "That doesn't mean—"

"Oh, please," Cindy interrupted. "If it were me or Slade, we wouldn't have hesitated." She leaned in, pressing a hand on Barbara's wheelchair armrest, dragging her closer. "You know that."

Barbara turned away, hugging her arms as a chill ran down her spine. "That's because you don't care about the law."

"That's because we knew your father wouldn't pull the trigger." Cindy didn't let up. "But Batman? He wasn't willing to take that chance."

Barbara's breath hitched.

Cindy's voice softened, but it carried the weight of reality. "I've read Gordon's psychological profile. So has Batman. We all knew he wouldn't do it. But Batman still stepped in. Do you really think that's trust?"

The words sank deep, planting seeds of doubt.

Barbara had spent years believing in Batman's mission, thinking that despite his secrecy, he stood for the greater good. But now, as she stared at the countless surveillance feeds—one of which still had a view of her own home—she realized something.

Batman didn't trust Gordon. He didn't trust anyone.

Even after decades of working alongside Gotham's best, he only ever trusted one person: himself.

And that was the most dangerous thing of all.