THE DEATH KNELL

The rain lashed against the windshield in thick, unrelenting sheets, blurring the neon glow of the city beyond. Water pooled along the edges of the cracked asphalt, reflecting fractured images of streetlights that flickered with the failing power grid.

Cindy adjusted her grip on the steering wheel, exhaling as she pushed wet strands of blonde hair away from her forehead. "Lucky we didn't take the tram," she muttered, glancing toward Slade Wilson, who sat beside her in the passenger seat. She nodded toward the dashboard. "At this speed, we should reach our destination in about half an hour."

Slade didn't immediately answer. His gaze remained fixed on the storm-washed landscape beyond the window. In the distance, on the elevated highway, a tram hung motionless above the city, its power stripped away by the blackout. Frozen mid-transit, it looked eerily suspended in time. He wondered if there were still passengers inside, waiting—hoping the lights would flicker back to life so they could continue their journey home.

But deep down, he knew. If the worst had come to pass, those people might never make it home at all.

Slade had considered this before. The way civilians clung to the illusion of safety, the desperate belief that their world was still within their control. They had families, apartments, places waiting for them at the end of the night. But him? He had no real home—only a temporary shelter, another rented space he could walk away from without a second thought.

He leaned back slightly, his fingers tracing the worn leather of his jacket. His voice was low, almost distant. "If I get the chance, once this is over, I'm leaving. I need to find a way to Earth 0."

Cindy cast him a sideways glance, her brow furrowing. "And then what?"

Slade hesitated, as if weighing how much to say. "That's where the real fight is. This place... it's already lost."

He felt her stare linger on him before she returned her focus to the road. The silence stretched between them, broken only by the rhythmic drumming of rain against the car's roof.

Eventually, she spoke again. "This is my world," she said simply. Then, after a pause, "That Earth 0 you mentioned… is that your home?"

Slade exhaled through his nose, reaching into his pocket and brushing his fingertips over the last few cigars he had left. "No," he admitted. "Not really. My home is much farther away. Earth 0 is just a place I know better."

Cindy slowed the car as a dimly lit supermarket came into view—a lone structure standing against the darkness, abandoned but intact. She eased the vehicle to a stop at the curb and turned to face him fully.

"Then where is your home?" she asked, curiosity laced in her tone.

Slade didn't answer. Instead, he pushed open the door and stepped into the storm without hesitation, his boots splashing through the shallow puddles on the pavement. Cindy followed suit, gripping her long staff as she approached the entrance.

With a swift, practiced movement, she swung the staff downward, striking the lock. The metal gave way with a sharp crack, and the door creaked open, revealing the dim interior of the store.

As they stepped inside, the scent of dust and stale air filled their lungs. The aisles were lined with half-empty shelves, remnants of rushed evacuations and looting. Cindy moved ahead, grabbing a few brightly colored bottles of liquor and stuffing them into her backpack.

"Heh," she murmured, inspecting the label of a cheap whiskey bottle. "Maybe my world has a number. Maybe it doesn't."

Slade wandered to the snack aisle, picking up a bag of chips before tossing it back onto the shelf. "Wouldn't it be easier to stay here?" Cindy continued casually. "We could be partners for a long time."

Slade let out a slow breath, shaking his head. "Your world is numbered Negative 11 in the Blood Domain," he said. "It's the eleventh world of the Dark Multiverse. Barbatos can't be defeated here. He's the god of the Dark Multiverse. If I want to end this crisis completely, I need to go to Earth 0. That's the only way I can survive."

The weight of his words settled heavily in the air.

Cindy, halfway through tossing another bag of chips into her backpack, froze. Her hand hovered in place for a moment before she slowly turned to face him.

"Really?" she asked, her voice quieter now. "Sounds like there's a lot you still need to explain to me…"

Elsewhere in Gotham…

Jim Gordon awoke to darkness.

A dull, throbbing ache pulsed at the base of his skull, radiating outward like the echo of a distant explosion. He reached up instinctively, fingertips brushing against the sore spot, trying to piece together his last clear memory.

Rain. Mud. Rough hands gripping his arms.

He had been thrown into a vehicle—black, unmarked. Before that, while kneeling in the filth, he had discreetly carved the van's license plate number onto his glasses and wedged them into a crack in the curb.

Maybe someone would find them. Maybe they wouldn't.

Batman was gone. And Gotham? Gotham was sinking.

Gordon blinked away the haze clouding his vision. The bed beneath him was too soft, the silk sheets foreign beneath his fingertips. This wasn't a prison cell.

That didn't mean he wasn't a prisoner.

Slowly, he sat up. His clothes were intact, his belt still fastened—but his gun was missing.

A bedside lamp stood nearby. Gordon reached for it, flicking it on with a quiet click. Warm, dim light flooded the room, revealing an unsettling sight.

On the nightstand, a glass of water. A bottle of aspirin.

And a prescription slip with his name written neatly in the designated column.

His stomach clenched.

They took this from my house.

Then, a more terrifying realization hit him.

Barbara.

The woman who had captured him had mentioned another team heading to the police station.

Panic surged through him, raw and suffocating. Gordon shoved the medicine aside and lunged for the door. The handle twisted easily in his grip—it wasn't locked.

A calculated move.

Two guards stood just outside, clad in black. They barely flinched as he emerged, but Gordon wasted no time grabbing the closest one by the collar.

"Where is my daughter?" he demanded, his voice edged with steel.

The second guard moved swiftly, prying Gordon's hand away.

"Commissioner Gordon," a familiar voice drawled from down the hallway.

Gordon turned sharply.

The woman who had knocked him unconscious earlier approached, walking with measured ease. She stopped just short of him, an infuriating smirk playing at her lips.

"Once you see our boss," she said smoothly, "you'll understand."

Gordon exhaled sharply, adjusting his trench coat as if to maintain some illusion of control. "Fine," he said. "Lead the way."

She turned on her heel, leading him down a long corridor lined with closed doors. The sterile overhead lights cast harsh, unforgiving shadows.

Eventually, they reached a set of imposing double doors—dark wood with intricate gold filigree, carved with an image of the Three Fates.

The woman knocked. Then, with a knowing smirk, she stepped aside.

Gordon squared his shoulders and strode inside.

And then he saw him.

Seated behind a grand desk, dressed in an impeccably tailored suit, was a man Gordon hadn't seen in years. A red rose was tucked into his breast pocket. A white cat purred lazily in his lap.

His once-dark hair had grayed at the temples, but his eyes… those remained the same.

Cold. Sharp. Dangerous.

"Gordon, my old friend," the man said smoothly. "Welcome to my home."

Gordon's breath hitched.

"...Falcone."

Even after all these years, some shadows never faded.

And Carmine Falcone was one of them.