"Give me a gun."
Derek shoved open the door to the gun shop, speaking before he'd even stepped inside. The place stank of oil and old leather, and behind the scratched-up counter sat a bald guy in bifocals, half-buried in a newspaper.
The man looked up, gaze sliding over Derek through grimy lenses.
"You don't look like a guy who can pay. Why the hell would I give you a gun?"
He folded the paper, eyes narrowing at Derek's sorry state. The guy looked like he'd clawed his way out of a grave—clothes soaked in blood, holes punched clean through his shirt and trousers. His slacks were so torn up, the old man could see leg hair poking through.
And his pockets? Flat as pancakes.
Derek didn't flinch. He stepped up to the counter, planting a hand on the scratched surface.
"If you're expecting payment, the least you can do is let me see what I'm buying."
He tapped his fingers twice. Calm, like this was a coffee run and not some half-crazed bloodied stranger demanding a firearm.
"Just a pistol. Something that works. I'm in a hurry."
The shopkeeper snorted.
"A pistol, huh? Should probably toss you a Glock, but that's too vanilla. You seem like a man with taste."
Something about Derek's stare lit a fuse in the old man. Fire behind the eyes—quiet, smoldering, and the kind that burns long. Against better judgment, the guy reached under the counter and pulled out two classics.
"Colt M1911. Solid. Dependable. And this baby? Mark XIX. Modified. That one kicks like a mule and punches like a freight train."
He set both down with reverence, loading them as he spoke.
"These are antiques, kid. My personal stash. But I get it—times are tough. You look like you've been through hell. I'll give you a discount."
Watching the guy chamber rounds, Derek chuckled under his breath.
"Generous. You're even loading them for me. Not worried I'll shoot you?"
The old man just grinned and didn't stop.
"This is Gotham, kid. You think I've made it this long by being slow on the draw?"
His hands hovered over both guns, fingers twitching with practiced ease. One wrong move and Derek'd be eating hollow points.
Didn't stop him.
He reached forward, brushed the man's hand aside, and grabbed the Desert Eagle.
The bald guy immediately lifted the M1911, aiming it straight at Derek's chest.
Derek smiled, wide and fearless.
"Why pay when I've already got the gun? Respect the merchandise, boss."
Then, without hesitation, he raised the Desert Eagle and pointed it at the old man's face.
The tension snapped into place, cold and electric. The shopkeeper didn't shoot—just flicked the muzzle of his pistol at Derek, twice.
"You're about my son's age. I'll give you one chance to rephrase that."
His voice softened, but his grip didn't.
"Listen, this city's crawling with psychos ready to blow holes in people. Gotham doesn't need one more. You survived something, I can see that. But if you're still breathing, you ought to start giving a damn about staying that way."
Derek cocked his head, slipping the Desert Eagle into the back of his waistband.
"Why should I care? If something doesn't kill me, it makes me stronger. If it does kill me? Then I'll be stronger than anyone."
He smirked.
"Didn't realize this antique was a blue Desert Eagle. You really are just a good ol' redneck with a license."
The old man watched him turn and walk off like nothing had happened.
"You're a real bastard, kid," he muttered, grabbing a box of .44 Magnum from under the counter. "Fine. I'll rent it to you. Take these too—on the house. Come back alive tomorrow, and we'll settle up."
He tossed the bullets. Derek caught them without missing a beat.
"What's your name?" the man called out.
"Derek. Derek from Downton Abbey," he said without turning around.
The shopkeeper's lips twitched into a grin as Derek disappeared into the street. He flexed his trigger finger once, twice, tempted.
But he let the kid go.
Gotham's used to robberies—used to killing. But something about that one felt different.
"Derek, huh?" he muttered to himself.
"If I wanted to, I could've shot him ten times before he even blinked. But if a man doesn't care about dying... what's the point?"
He holstered his gun and returned to his paper.
The headline hit him like a brick: Bruce Wayne Returns to Gotham.
He looked up slowly, gaze drifting through the cracked wall, toward the tallest spire in the skyline—Wayne Tower.
This was his city.
The king of Gotham had come home.
Outside, Derek pulled up his collar as the cold rain hammered down. The sky was ash-gray, the kind of Gotham gloom that stuck to your bones.
He hated this place. Gotham was a rotting hellhole, but somehow, Gotham seemed to like him.
This morning, he'd been in his old neighborhood, stocking shelves at the community store he'd just taken over. Just another rainy day. And then the lightning struck.
Literally.
Next thing he knew, he was here.
No warning. No rules. Just dumped into this miserable world.
He'd scoped it out quick—scoured newspapers, internet cafes, back alley whisperers. No Batman. No Superman. No Flash. No heroes. No villains.
Just gangs, crime, and guns.
Derek had made a decision then and there: Get the hell out of Gotham.
He'd bought a bus ticket to Metropolis—figured it was the safest place in a world without capes. From there? Washington. Maybe Europe. Switzerland sounded peaceful. Quiet.
But Gotham had other plans.
Before the bus even pulled out, it was caught in a gang war crossfire. Rockets. Gunfire. A goddamn explosion. The bus went up in flames. Derek went with it.
He died.
He remembers dying.
And yet... here he was.
Alive.
Breathing.
Angrier than ever.
If Derek had any patience left, it burned with the rest of that bus.
Someone used him for cover. Someone launched an RPG at civilians like it was just another Tuesday.
Now, he was going back.
They wanted to fight in the streets? Fine. But he was bringing hell with him.
As rain slicked his hair to his scalp, Derek flagged down a cab.
The driver slowed, rolled down the window, and waved a gun out first.
"Better just be looking for a ride, man."
"Yeah," Derek said. "Take me to where that bus exploded earlier. Near the Gotham Transit Hub."
The cabbie's eyes narrowed, taking in the bullet holes and blood.
"Lotta action today. Russians and Italians at it again. That area's Sabatini turf. He works under Falcone. You sure you wanna go pokin' around there?"
"Drive," Derek growled.
The driver hesitated, then shrugged. "I'll drop you a block away. You didn't see me, yeah?"
"Fine by me."
"You don't look Italian. Or Russian. What's your stake in this?"
The man glanced at Derek again—at the wild fire in his eyes—and whistled.
"Actually, forget I asked. Guys like you? You're the reason Gotham has such a high body count."
Derek tossed a handful of .44 Magnum rounds into his lap.
"Don't have any cash. That'll cover the fare."
The cabbie grinned. "Now that's a tip."