Beneath a condemned warehouse in the Narrows of Gotham City, the Iron Cathedral pulses with heat and noise. Floodlights hang from rusted beams, casting harsh white light over a reinforced steel cage at the center of the room. Everything beyond that circle fades into shadow.

The air is thick with sweat, metal, and smoke. The scent of oil clings to the concrete floor. Boots scrape. Cash changes hands. Low voices murmur over one another while the crowd presses close to the cage walls. Dockworkers stand shoulder to shoulder with sharply dressed elites hiding behind masks and false names. Money moves quickly here. So do loyalties.

Up on a narrow balcony, wealthy spectators sip dark liquor and watch with clinical interest. Below them, security blends into the mass of bodies, eyes sharp, hands near concealed weapons. Spotters linger near stairwells and exit doors. The operation is ready to vanish at the first sign of trouble.

Inside the cage, two fighters circle. The mat is worn and stained from previous matches. The announcer’s voice echoes off brick walls as the crowd begins to chant, hungry for impact.

High above the lights, hidden among steel rafters, a darker shape remains perfectly still. A cape drapes over metal beams. White lenses narrow as Batman studies the room below, memorizing faces, mapping exits, waiting for the moment to strike.

Outside, engines idle in silence. Officers from the Gotham City Police Department wait in the shadows with lights cut and radios low. Near the rear entrance stands James Gordon, coat collar turned up against the night air, eyes fixed on the warehouse door.

Inside, the cage door slams shut. The crowd roars. And above it all, the Dark Knight waits for the signal to bring the whole place down.