The fog rolls in thick from the harbor, swallowing the moonlight and muting the distant sounds of the city. Rusted shipping containers loom like forgotten tombstones. A freight crane creaks softly, swaying in the breeze. Everything smells of salt, oil, and secrets.

In the shadows, a dozen men in dark clothing flank a semi-truck with its back doors wide open—its cargo glinting faintly under a dim lantern: crates of high-grade military weapons, some not even in circulation yet.

Laser-guided rifles. Sonic disruptors. Experimental WayneTech stolen off the books.

A sleek black SUV pulls up, headlights off. The buyer steps out—calm, sharp-suited, with cold eyes that scan the operation like a predator assessing prey.

BUYER (quietly) “This everything you promised?”

The seller, a grizzled arms runner known only as Marlow, lights a cigarette with trembling fingers. He’s been in Gotham long enough to know that deals here rarely end clean.

MARLOW “Top of the line. From Blüdhaven to Qurac—untraceable, untouchable. Just don’t ask where I got the WayneTech.”

The buyer chuckles, then signals his men to inspect the merchandise. As crates are pried open, a low hum builds in the air—almost too subtle to notice.

Something watching.

From the rooftop above, a shadow shifts.

Gotham’s underworld is making moves tonight.

But the night belongs to someone else.