Something screamed in the dirt.
It wasn't a sound Gotham could hear—not with ears, not with microphones—but the earth itself recoiled, a deep tremor rolling through forgotten soil. In a neglected stretch of parkland near the edge of the city, where old headstones leaned at tired angles and names had been worn smooth by decades of rain, the ground split open.
A hand burst free.
It was enormous, gray-green, fingers like broken stone wrapped in rotting roots. Mud sloughed away as the arm strained upward, veins pulsing with a sickly, swamp-born vitality. Another hand followed, then a shoulder, then a massive head forcing its way out of the grave like a corpse refusing to stay forgotten.
Solomon Grundy rose again.
Worms slid from his stitched flesh. Moss clung to his shoulders like a funeral shroud. His chest expanded as he drew in a breath that wasn't quite air—more a reflex than a need. Death clung to him, heavy and familiar.
For a moment, he simply stood there, hunched and steaming in the cool dawn air, mind empty except for the echo of violence and the dull ache of existence.
Then the swamp spoke.
It always did. The curse surged through him, flooding his mind with fragmented instincts—hunger, anger, the endless cycle of dying and returning. But this time, the current faltered. The familiar pull toward decay twisted, tugged sideways by something else.
Something alive.
Grundy's small, dim eyes narrowed.
This was wrong.
The swamp had birthed him. It had claimed him. Every resurrection tied him tighter to rot and rage. But now there was a second presence in the current—quiet, steady, rooted in life instead of death.
Not stolen. Not corrupted.
Chosen.
"GRUNDY… FEELS… WRONG," he growled, voice grinding like stones dragged across each other.
He turned his massive head toward the distant skyline of Gotham. Toward concrete and steel. Toward something that should not exist.
With a roar, Solomon Grundy stepped out of the grave and began to walk.
Eli felt it hours later, halfway across Burnley, as the city transitioned from late-night haze to early-morning exhaustion.
The sensation hit him like a hammer to the chest.
He staggered, breath leaving him in a sharp gasp, one gray hand slamming against a brick wall to keep himself upright. The city noise dulled, replaced by something deeper—pressure, weight, a sudden closeness that made his skin prickle.
Images tore through his mind.
Cold mud sucking at his legs. A rope biting into flesh. Laughter echoing through trees. A voice that wasn't a voice, repeating a name like a curse.
Grundy.
Eli doubled over, knees bending, heart pounding harder than it ever had. His skin darkened subtly, gray deepening toward slate as faint green veins pulsed beneath the surface, glowing for a heartbeat before fading again.
"That's not me," Eli whispered, forcing the words out through clenched teeth.
The echo didn't argue. It simply was.
He straightened slowly, breathing steadying despite the chaos in his mind. Whatever had just risen was connected to him—not by choice, not by identity, but by proximity in the Green. Two branches grown from the same poisoned soil, one fed by death, the other by life.
And one of them was moving.
Eli could feel the direction now. South. Toward the Narrows. Toward people.
Fear bloomed in his chest—not for himself, but for what would happen when Grundy reached somewhere crowded. Somewhere fragile.
For the first time since the swamp, Eli felt the urge to run toward danger instead of away from it.
High above the city, in the cavernous depths of the Batcave, Bruce Wayne stood surrounded by holographic projections of Gotham. Streets glowed in layered data—traffic patterns, police alerts, seismic readings, bio-energy scans.
Two anomalies pulsed on the map.
One was unmistakable.
Solomon Grundy had announced himself the only way he knew how—through structural damage, civilian panic, and a trail of environmental distortion that screamed necromantic activity. Batman had dealt with him before. Knew his rhythms. His limitations.
The second anomaly unsettled him.
It wasn't loud. It wasn't destructive. It barely registered at all.
And that was the problem.
Batman replayed the data, frame by frame. A fluctuation in bio-mystic energy near the swamp. A brief, localized spike in plant growth beneath Gotham's streets. A human-sized absence where something should have left a trace but didn't.
"It's like he's… grounded," Bruce muttered. "Anchored."
Alfred's voice came smoothly through the cave. "Another monster, sir?"
"No," Batman replied, eyes narrowing behind the cowl. "Something worse. Something quiet."
He pulled up an overlay of recent reports—dock disturbances, gang violence interrupted without casualties, eyewitness accounts of a gray-skinned figure who stopped a collapsing container with his bare hands.
"Grundy doesn't do quiet," Batman said.
"And yet," Alfred replied gently, "he rarely does subtle either."
Batman turned back to the display as Grundy's marker began moving deeper into the city. "Whatever the second anomaly is, Grundy feels it. That makes it a priority."
The Batmobile roared to life moments later, disappearing into the tunnels beneath Wayne Manor.
Grundy hit the Narrows just after sunrise.
The neighborhood reacted instantly. People scattered, storefronts slammed shut, gunfire erupted from panicked hands that didn't understand how useless it was. Bullets flattened against Grundy's chest or sank uselessly into his flesh.
Grundy barely noticed.
The pull was stronger here. Sharper. Like a scent he couldn't quite place but couldn't ignore. He tore a fire hydrant free from the street, water geysering skyward as he swung it in frustration, smashing a parked car into scrap.
"COME OUT," he roared, voice echoing between buildings. "GRUNDY… SMELLS… YOU."
A nearby building cracked as his fist slammed into its foundation. Brick crumbled. Windows shattered. Screams filled the air.
From a rooftop across the street, Eli watched.
His stomach twisted.
Up close, the difference was unmistakable. Grundy was power without purpose—raw, destructive, fueled by decay and rage. The Green recoiled around him, plants wilting where he stepped, roots shriveling as if poisoned.
Eli felt the pain of it like a pressure behind his eyes.
"That's what you are," Eli murmured. "And that's not what I'll be."
He dropped from the rooftop.
The impact cratered the pavement beneath his boots, but Eli barely felt it. Heads turned. Shouts rose. Grundy froze mid-rampage, massive body swiveling as his dull eyes locked onto Eli.
For a moment, the city seemed to hold its breath.
"You," Grundy rumbled, taking a step forward. "YOU… WRONG."
Eli didn't raise his fists. He didn't snarl or roar. He stood his ground, shoulders squared, gray skin catching the morning light.
"I didn't take anything from you," Eli said, voice steady despite the weight pressing down on him. "I'm not your enemy."
Grundy laughed—a hollow, broken sound. "EVERYTHING… IS… GRUNDY'S."
He charged.
The street shattered as Grundy barreled forward, each step a small earthquake. Eli moved to meet him, not with rage, but with intent. Their collision sent a shockwave rippling outward, knocking people off their feet and shattering nearby windows.
Eli slid back several feet, boots carving grooves in concrete.
Grundy staggered too.
They both paused, surprised.
Eli felt it then—his strength wasn't the same as Grundy's. It wasn't limitless, wasn't fed by endless death. It responded to his will, to his restraint. The more he resisted rage, the more controlled it became.
Grundy lunged again, swinging a massive fist. Eli caught it.
The impact cracked the street beneath them, but Eli held fast, muscles burning. He didn't crush Grundy's hand. He didn't retaliate.
He anchored.
Roots burst from the ground around Grundy's legs, thick and ancient, wrapping and binding, forcing him to a halt. The Green surged—not corrupted, not violent, but firm.
Grundy howled, thrashing. "GRUNDY… DOESN'T… BEND!"
"Then break the cycle," Eli said, voice low. "Or stay buried in it."
From the edge of the street, unseen by civilians, a towering figure of bark and moss watched in silence.
Swamp Thing had arrived.
He felt the truth settle deep within the Green as he observed the two beings locked together—one born of rot, the other of life touched by something older still.
"The balance shifts," Swamp Thing murmured. "And the city will feel it."
Above them, a shadow passed overhead.
Batman watched from a nearby rooftop, lenses zooming in on the impossible scene: Solomon Grundy restrained by living roots—and a gray-skinned man standing calmly in front of him, not killing, not fleeing.
Choosing.
Batman's jaw tightened.
"Who are you?" he muttered.
Below, Eli met Grundy's furious gaze and held it.
For the first time in Solomon Grundy's endless existence, the cycle hesitated.
And Gotham stood at the edge of something new.