Summer, 1982.

Gotham, an ever-ill municipality. Only the forced and mindless live here. Ailing men hated it, the emphatic use of it; the strongest thrived in it.

Dark, deserted scenes were cast as a nocturnal pall under the moon and its cloudy, hazy blankets. A genetically enhanced anthropomorphic fox-man with onyx fur and an alabastrine underside fluff of his chest that goes to his thighs and the lower half of his mouth, with swarthy dreads and unlit, continuously lofty, swiveling canid ears on his head and glowing blue eyes without pupils. Not much of a talker despite his unnaturally astute intellect, this was Nitefox, a relentless legend of the city that only emanated from the whisper of an uneducated lip. Nevertheless, whenever he spoke the few words he decided his hunt would need to hear, they were sonorous incarnate.

"Hmm," Sleek with a sleeper build, Nitefox stood over a hundred ninety centimeters with an athletic build, effortlessly performing acrobatic stunts with every hunt of his game unable to elude his martial claws and fists. Of course, they were the same claws that would put his spoils afterward into his maw, just barely staining his thoroughly ebony gradient tank top with a moon insignia plastered widely across it. Other than that, he wore black-hued puffy street pants with no shoes or socks, letting his bare fur connect with cold concretes with every step and his foxish tail to sway autonomously. Even that exuded malevolent intention with his dousing brutality.

Tonight was the night he would lure out the finest, ultimate game conceivable: The Batman. Because of this, the fur-clad figure needed an orchestration for a fair hunt—his moon-eyed gaze turned to slanted orbs once he manipulated the psychic faculties he had honed from his unnatural conception. Nightmarish visions and telekinetic techniques were his favored from the pain inflicted on the enemy as he zoned in under curt muteness.

Quintessential to his plan, The Nitefox confronted a low section: the squats.