Marvel's The Caped Crusader

Chapter 7

Falcone's Abandoned Office – December 20th, 2005 – 10:42 PM

The tall oak doors burst open.

Red Hood strode through the abandoned office like he owned it—because now, he did. His entourage fanned out, positioning themselves along the walls and flanking the entrance like loyal shadows. He took his place behind the grand mahogany desk, settling into the plush leather chair with a dramatic flourish—one leg over the other. Behind the frosted windows, Gotham's winter night sparkled with eerie beauty. Moonlight bled through the glass, casting long, cold shadows across the room. His city. A city of crime. Of rot. Of opportunity.

"Everything is being unloaded now, sir," Number One reported, taking position beside him.

"The trucks made it through?" Red Hood asked, voice distorted through his modulated helmet.

"Yes, sir. The cops were too busy with the diversion at Blackgate."

"Two birds, one beautifully timed explosion," Red Hood said with grim satisfaction, propping his boots up on the desk, surveying the frost-covered cityscape through the tall windows. "BlackGate kept the cops busy, and our convoy slid right through the cracks. Classic misdirection. Efficient. Elegant." He glanced around the office, his voice taking on a proprietary tone. "This place will do nicely. With Falcone dead and the rest of his inbred dynasty buried, there's a wide-open vacuum waiting to be filled." He turned toward Number One, the glow from his visor flickering like an ember. "And we're going to plant our flag deep in the heart of it."

The words hung heavy in the air—not a boast, but a promise. Red Hood sat still behind the desk, his figure framed by the cold moonlight spilling through the frosted windows. Behind the red glow of his helmet's optics, silence ruled for a moment. Not a single breath dared break it. The gang members lining the room said nothing. They didn't have to. They felt it. The shift in Gotham's underworld was already happening, and the man behind the helm was no mere player.

He was staking a claim.

"Any word on our reptilian associate?" Red Hood finally asked, snapping the room back into motion.

Number One shook his head. "Croc got himself bagged. GCPD's got him in max lockdown—WayneTech hardware all over it."

Red Hood exhaled slowly through his helmet. "Tch... shame." The word fell like a bullet casing on marble—sharp, cold, final.

Number One tilted his head. "You want us to break him out?"

"No, no," Red Hood said with a dismissive wave of his gloved hand, as if brushing away the very thought. "Let Waylon rot in his cage a little longer." His tone was calm, but laced with venomous displeasure. "Time behind bars might help our reptilian friend understand the value of following orders—and the cost of failure." He leaned back in the leather chair again, the creak of it subtle but deliberate, like the slow windup of something dangerous. "Besides..." he added, almost as an afterthought, "we'll break his scaly ass out when he's learned some respect. Consider it... tough love." There was no humor in his voice—only ice. "Now..." He snapped his fingers once, sharply. "Have the canisters been delivered like I instructed?"

"Yes, sir. The last one left about an hour ago," Number One confirmed.

Red Hood gave a single nod, pleased. "Good," he said, his tone laced with satisfaction. He reached into his coat and retrieved a sleek, vintage pocket watch, its silver casing glinting under the pale office light. With a soft click, it opened, the delicate ticking echoing faintly. "Right on schedule," he repeated, his voice low and deliberate. He closed the watch with a snap and slid it back into his coat before leaning back into the leather chair, fingers steepled together. His gaze lifted. It landed squarely on the massive, self-aggrandizing portrait of Carmine Falcone looming behind the desk.