❝Are we really going to do this again? We both know I could rip you to shreds and do my nails at the same time.❞
𝐈𝐒𝐀𝐁𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐀 𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄, known as the formidable Wolf, had fought side by side with the legendary Arrow in a battle to protect their...
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IN THE GRIM and decaying streets of Gotham, a white truck rolled quietly into a narrow, dimly lit alley. The city's ever-present smog clung to the air as two men stood vigil at the alley's entrance, their eyes sweeping the deserted street. The flickering streetlamps cast long shadows on the barren sidewalks, which remained eerily empty. Satisfied that no one was watching, they signaled to each other before slipping into the alley where the truck had come to a stop.
The truck's driver and passenger had already exited, their faces obscured by the low light. Silently, the two guards approached them, their boots crunching softly against the gravel. The driver acknowledged their presence with a curt nod before moving to the back of the vehicle. With a low creak, he swung open the trailer doors, revealing a meticulously organized pile of wooden crates, each one marked with cryptic symbols. The faint scent of sawdust and metal wafted out from the interior.
The leader of the group, a tall, imposing man dressed in a sleek black coat, stepped forward. His presence commanded respect, and the others stood straighter as he spoke. "Mr. Falcone expects this shipment by sunrise," he said, his voice low but authoritative. "We need to move quickly. And for God's sake, don't drop anything."
One of the men, younger and less experienced, hesitated. He peered at the crates, curiosity etched across his face. "What's in these crates, anyway?"
The alley seemed to hold its breath. The leader's eyes flicked toward the man, his expression darkening. In a movement so fast it barely registered, he drew a silenced pistol from his coat and pulled the trigger. The muted pop echoed in the enclosed space, and the questioning man crumpled to the ground, a neat hole in his forehead. His blood spread slowly across the cold pavement, pooling beneath him in a dark crimson puddle.
The rest of the crew froze, their expressions a mix of shock and fear. The leader lowered his weapon, his face a mask of icy indifference. "You're not paid to ask questions," he said, his voice devoid of emotion as he glared at the remaining men. "Understood?"
They nodded quickly, avoiding his gaze, and without another word, scrambled into the truck to begin unloading the crates. Their hands shook as they lifted the heavy cargo, the weight of fear pressing down on them as much as the burden in their arms.
For a few minutes, everything proceeded in tense silence. The sound of crates scraping against the truck's metal floor mixed with the distant hum of the city. But then, one of the men froze, his eyes locked on the ground. A strange shadow moved across the pavement, a fluid silhouette that shouldn't have been there. His head snapped upward, and his blood ran cold.
High above, perched on the roof like a specter, was a figure. The poor lighting made it impossible to identify them, but the shape was unmistakable—someone was watching them.
