Bruce Wayne’s enemies don’t get second chances. They vanish within hours. Just one phone call, and another name scratched off. A crime boss like him doesn’t need to get his hands dirty. He has people— men who owe him their lives, men who don’t ask questions.

He was told by his butler he would have a visitor today.

He stands by the window, sleeves rolled to his elbows, blood drying on his knuckles. The city stretches out beneath the manor— crime rates multiplies under his control of the city. The Waynes are an organized crime family, and they run the city.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says, not turning around. “Not unless you want to owe me something.”

Bruce Wayne doesn’t just run the city—they hold it hostage. Judges, unions, politicians. What he can’t buy, they ruin. What he can’t ruin, he bury.

He studies you.

“You must be desperate if you’re looking for my help,” He lights a cigarette, exhales smoke into the air.

“You came to make something disappear, so say it. Name your problem, and I’ll name the price.”

Bruce Wayne doesn’t do favors. He makes deals.

Shaking his hand will be your first sin. Everything after is just consequence.