Neon signs buzzed. Rain misted. Steamed buns and diesel fumes mixed in the air.
And in the shadowed grid of alleys and market streets, the predators arrived.
They didn't sneak in, they flooded in.
Lao-Sing's convoy rolled into the district with near-military precision.
Black sedans and tinted vans slid between lantern-lit arches.
Enforcers fanned out, moving with the brutal calm of men convinced they owned the streets.
The Jade Leopard safehouses were their first targets.
A pawnshop window shattered as a Triad gunman kicked it inward and tossed a flashbang.
BOOM—!
Screams tore through the cluttered aisles as the Triad stormed inside, red sashes whipping behind them.
Shots cracked. Shelves splintered. Tin charms and cheap jade scattered across the floor like shrapnel.
"FIND THE REBELS!" a captain shouted. "KILL EVERY—"
A pipe bomb rolled under a counter.
He had enough time to gasp.
KROOOOM—!
The entire storefront erupted outward, glass and dust spraying into the street. Bodies hit the pavement smoking.
But the Triad didn't retreat.
If anything, it made them angry.
Lao-Sing stepped out from the lead car, ring glinting.
"Burn it down," he murmured.
And his men obeyed.
Molotovs soared.
Liquor flared into pillars of fire.
A noodle shop went up like paper.
The cleansing had begun.
Three blocks away, El Muro's convoy roared in like a battering ram.
Pickup trucks reinforced with steel plates.
Gunmen with skull bandanas.
Shotguns, AR-15s, grenade launchers.
"¡Dale! ¡Dale! ¡DALE!" El Muro bellowed as they barreled down Canal Street.
They hit the Triad's laundering front — the Jade River Teahouse — like a meteor.
A cartel truck smashed straight through the front doors, splintering tables and sending teapots flying.
Cartel sicarios flooded in after it, firing wildly.
"LIGHT IT UP!"
A sicario fired a grenade launcher into the second floor.
THOOMP—KRAKOOM!
The balcony collapsed, raining burning wood and shredded paper screens.
Triad defenders spilled out into the street coughing blood, only to be gunned down as they fled.
El Muro spotted a surviving enforcer crawling away and stomped down on his spine.
"You picked the wrong night," he snarled.
Falcone's men slipped into the chaos like wolves among dogs — quieter, more disciplined, cutting corners while the larger beasts tore at each other.
From the rooftops above Bayard Street, two of Falcone's sharpshooters fired into both sides.
Pop.
Pop.
Pop.
Triad officers dropped.
Cartel lieutenants spun and fell.
No one knew who was killing who — only that Chinatown was turning into a blender.
Falcone's ground troops hit a Triad warehouse from the flank, automatic fire chewing up crates and walls.
"MOVE! MOVE! NOW!" a Falcone soldier barked.
Inside, Triad defenders panicked under the crossfire.
Explosions from both factions rocked the back wall.
And Falcone's men carved a path toward the safe full of cash and guns.
Falcone might have hesitated earlier.
But tonight?
Tonight he smelled blood.
Soon Chinatown wasn't a battleground —it was a warzone.
Triads firing from sedan windows.
Cartel trucks drifting through intersections like armored bulls.
Falcone soldiers laying precision traps and ambushes.
A Triad RPG hit a Cartel pickup.
FWOOOSH—BOOM!
The truck flipped end over end, crashing into a dumpling cart and exploding again.
Cartel gunmen retaliated with pipe bombs, blowing open a herbal medicine shop packed with Triad fighters.
Falcone's crew pushed deeper through the chaos, firing into both crowds, taking what territory they could.
Sirens wailed far off —but GCPD wasn't here yet.
They were still miles away.
And Chinatown was dying by inches.
Above it all…
Dre Matthews crouched on the metal rooftop of a tenement building, the wind whipping his jacket.
Beside him stood a tall figure in a dark coat.
A mask hung over his face — smooth, emotionless, monstrous only in the stillness it held.
Vey.
Below them the Triad, the Cartel, and Falcone's soldiers tore each other apart.
Dre adjusted the heavy-duty automatic rifle he'd modified with rooftop stabilizers.
"Targets locked," he muttered. "You got the call, boss."
Vey's mask tilted as he surveyed the carnage below. Fire rising, screams echoing, bullets streaking through lantern smoke.
"This war," he whispered, voice as empty as the void behind his mask, "Needs to end."
He raised one gloved hand.
Dre's pulse ticked up.
Underpass snipers and shooters waited silently on adjacent rooftops — Marcy's backups, Dre's rooftop crews, Naima's long-range fighters.
All waiting.
Vey let the moment hang…
Then his fingers curled inward.
A single command.
"Open fire."
It was like the sky itself turned hostile.
Dozens of muzzle flashes erupted along the rooflines.
TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT!
Triad gunmen dropped mid-charge.
Cartel sicarios spun, blood spraying arcs across neon signs.
Falcone soldiers dove for cover as the air filled with lead and thunder.
Dre exhaled calmly, firing in controlled bursts.
"Down goes Triad— and that's a Cartel asshole—and that's Falcone's guy—damn, they're clustering."
Vey didn't answer.
He simply watched the battlefield burn under the rain of bullets he commanded,
unmoving,
unshaken by the deaths he was causing.
Tonight was the beginning of the end.
And from the rooftops of Chinatown…
The Underpass rained death from above.
***
The rooftop barrage ripped holes in every faction below, and as bodies hit the asphalt, Dre slung his rifle across his back.
"Ground teams are waiting on your word," he said.
Vey didn't move at first. He simply watched the Triad and Cartel fall back behind burning vehicles, Falcone's men scrambling to regroup. A symphony of panic.
"Send them."
Dre clicked his comm twice.
From the alleys, sewer lids, and service doors, Underpass soldiers surged upward like the city itself was spitting them out.
Naima Rez led the front line, her voice sharp over comms, "Push them into the choke point! No survivors from Falcone's side!"
Behind her, Jade Leopards poured in with discipline no street gang should have — Marcy's influence clear even in her absence.
Terrell "Stitch" Gaines and his Narrows crew worked the flanks, firing from behind overturned market stalls. Dre's rooftop traps triggered one after another — caltrops, remote explosives, trip mines — funneling enemies exactly where Naima wanted them.
Marcy's unit rolled up in a stolen armored van, opening the side door to unleash suppressive fire.
The Triad fell back in disarray, outflanked.
The Cartel scattered, blowing their own trucks to prevent capture. Falcone's men vanished into alleys, hunted every step.
Underpass had turned the chaos into a coordinated slaughter.
This wasn't a gang.
This was a machine, optimized for this war.
And at its center stood Vey — a still silhouette above the carnage.
His presence alone kept his troops ruthless.
Kept them moving.
Kept them killing.
A shadow passed across the rooftop.
Dre's head jerked up.
"Uh… boss?"
The comms went dead-silent.
Batman dropped from the sky, grappling line retracting as he landed on the far end of the rooftop, cape billowing in the rising heat of Chinatown's burning streets.
His eyes locked onto Vey.
Behind him, more silhouettes appeared:
Young Justice.
They lined up behind the Bat like a second shadow.
Batman spoke first — calm, steady, terrifying, "Drop your weapons."
Vey didn't respond.
Dre did.
"…Oh hell."
Vey lifted two fingers and curled the index.
A tiny gesture.
Dre recognized it instantly.
Disengage.
Across the surrounding rooftops, Underpass snipers broke positions in unison-rifles folded or abandoned, ammo scooped up, ropes clipped to harnesses.
In five seconds, every rooftop was evacuating on Vey's silent command.
Batman noticed.
"You're running?" he asked Vey.
"No," Vey said softly, stepping forward.
"I'm directing the retreat."
He removed his coat, letting it fall behind him, mask gleaming in the neon haze.
"You're staying."
Batman's voice hardened.
"You're done."
Vey rolled his neck once, vertebrae popping.
"I'm just doing your job Batman," he said, stepping toward the edge of the rooftop, "Stopping the war, you should thank me."
Aqualad's eyes narrowed. "Surrender."
Robin twirled his staff. "You're surrounded."
Vey's voice dropped into a cold whisper that didn't sound human anymore:
"You have no idea what surrounds you."
Dre swallowed hard, backing up toward the escape rope.
"You better not die, man…"
Vey didn't answer.
He just lifted his hands —a fighter's stance, deceptively relaxed — and stared down Batman with the kind of stillness only a monster could manage.
Below, Chinatown burned.
Above, Underpass fled into the night.
And on one rooftop…
One masked personality prepared to hold the Bat long enough for his army to escape.
Young justice split up instantly chasing the runners. The rooftop teams dropped down to the ground and were immediately drawn to fire by the other factions.
Chaos spread as young justice split up and joined the battlefield.
Vey launched across the rooftop like a fired round, boots hammering the slick metal as he closed the distance.
Batman didn't blink.
He stepped forward to meet the charge, shoulders squared, cape flaring behind him like a black wall.
They collided.
HARD.
Vey hit Batman with a shoulder strike that would've folded a lesser man. Batman braced, absorbed, redirected—hooking Vey's arm and twisting to slam him toward the gravel.
Vey rolled with it, flipping to his feet again, mask gleaming.
Batman was already on him.
A palm strike cracked against Vey's jaw.
A knee hammered into his ribs.
An elbow crushed down toward his temple, Vey blocked the elbow, caught the wrist, and yanked Batman in close enough for Batman to see his reflection in the smooth, monstrous mask.
Then Vey headbutted him.
The impact rang like metal meeting stone.
Batman staggered back a step.
Vey didn't even sway.
"You're slower tonight," Vey whispered.
Batman surged forward again, aggression spiking. He threw a low kick—Vey checked it. A left cross—Vey slipped it. A grapnel line shot toward Vey's ankle—Vey stamped it flat, snapping the wire.
But Batman was adapting.
He always adapted.
He switched angles, worked Vey's flank, pressed him toward the rooftop edge with a series of blows that would've broken bones on anyone else.
Vey absorbed them.
Letting them thud into him.
Letting Batman think he was gaining ground.
Then Vey struck back.
A sweeping kick took Batman's legs out from under him.
Batman rolled, came up, threw three batarangs in a blink—
Vey batted one aside.
Sidestepped the second.
Caught the third and flung it right back.
It clipped Batman's gauntlet with a shower of sparks.
Vey's voice was ice, "You can't stop me."
His stance shifted.
Lower.
Meaner.
More like The Beast's raw instinct but controlled—deadly.
Batman didn't rise to the taunt. He simply palmed a flash charge and slammed it into the rooftop.
WHITE LIGHT detonated.
Vey staggered—but didn't fall.
When the flare cleared, Batman was already in his face, fist crashing into Vey's ribs, then ribs again, then temple, then solar plexus.
Vey took the hits.
He let them land.
Then he caught Batman's fist mid-swing.
The rooftop groaned as Vey slammed him backward through an old metal ventilation unit.
The whole structure dented inward around Batman's body.
Batman coughed once, pulled himself free—
Vey kicked him in the chest.
Batman slid across the rooftop, boots scraping sparks until he caught himself on the ledge.
Vey stalked forward, each step heavy enough to shake loose gravel.
"I didn't come here to kill you," he said.
"But I will if you don't fuck off."
Batman straightened, drawing two shock batons from his belt.
"You'll try."
They charged again— and the rooftop exploded into motion.
Kid Flash zipped through a spray of bullets, grabbing two Underpass runners by their jackets.
"Move, move, MOVE—!"
He dragged them out of the line of fire even as a Triad gunner unloaded at him, bullets chasing his heels.
Miss Martian swooped down through the smoke, yanking a Cartel sicario off an alley rooftop with a telekinetic blast—hurling him into a dumpster as he screamed.
Artemis perched on a fire escape, arrows flying into the mess—disarming a Falcone soldier, pinning a Triad shooter to a burning car door.
Aqualad blocked a full-auto burst with twin water-hardened shields, then slammed the gunman back through a fruit stand.
Superboy hit the asphalt like a meteor, cracking the pavement, clotheslining two Underpass fighters before they could vanish around a corner.
"NO ONE ESCAPES!" Robin shouted as he leapt after a trio of rooftop snipers rappelling toward street level.
Young Justice scattered into the maze of Chinatown—and suddenly found themselves fighting everyone.
Triads panicked and shot at them.
Cartel sicarios lobbed grenades their way.
Falcone's men tried to push past them and got slammed back.
The battlefield, already a blender, got worse.
Much worse.
Vey and Batman crashed together again in a brutal exchange— fists cracking against armor, boots scraping for traction, each blow loud enough to rise above the chaos below.
Batman feinted high—then swept low, hooking Vey's ankle.
Vey dropped, caught himself on one hand, spun with a breakdancer's sweep that clipped Batman's shin—
Batman grunted and stumbled,
Vey was on him instantly, fists raining down like hammers.
BAT-BAM-BAM—
Batman blocked the third, parried the fourth, trapped Vey's wrist under his arm and drove an electrified gauntlet into Vey's chest.
ZZZRAKKK—
Vey convulsed—but stayed standing.
Batman's eyes narrowed.
Vey's mask turned toward him slowly.
And threw a wide, brutal hook meant to take Batman's head clean off.
Batman slipped it.
Not dodged — slipped.
A precise, effortless tilt of the chin.
Vey blinked behind the mask.
Then Batman's counter hit him like a truck.
A straight right to the jaw.
A liver shot.
A knee to the sternum.
A knife-hand to the neck.
A shin kick that buckled Vey instantly.
The rhythm was surgical.
Clinical.
Cruel.
Vey stumbled, swinging wild to regain space, but Batman pressed in tight — too tight for Vey to use raw strength, too tight for momentum.
This was Batman's world.
Close quarters.
Inside the guard.
Where monsters couldn't stretch their claws.
Batman smashed an elbow across Vey's mask.
CRACK—
A fracture zig-zagged across its smooth surface.
Vey reeled back.
Batman didn't let him breathe.
He grabbed Vey by the front of the coat and hammer-threw him across the rooftop.
Vey skidded, bounced, tumbled over a ventilation unit and slammed into the far railing.
Dre would've screamed if he were still there to see it.
Vey rose, shaky, chest heaving, the crack in his mask dripping a thin line of blood.
But Batman was already on him again.
He launched forward with a low, sliding take-down, sweeping Vey's legs and flipping him over the rooftop edge—
Vey's hands shot out, catching the ledge.
Batman landed beside him.
Vey glared up, mask split, breath ragged.
Vey fell.
The fall wasn't graceful.
He smashed through a wooden balcony.
Bounced off a metal fire escape.
Crashed through a hanging laundry line—
And hit the floor of a cheap apartment like a meteor.
Dre saw it from a distance but was too preoccupied to help
By the time Vey staggered to his knees, blood was pouring down from beneath the cracked mask.
A shadow dropped through the hole above him.
Batman landed silently, cape falling around him like a guillotine curtain.
Vey threw the first punch — desperate, sloppy.
Batman parried it with one hand.
Then he beat Vey like he was forging metal.
A gauntleted fist hammered Vey's jaw.
A forearm smashed his ribs.
A palm strike crushed into his throat.
A rising knee shattered his chin.
A spinning elbow whipped across his already-cracked mask—
The mask finally split in half.
It clattered to the floor beside him.
Vey crawled forward, hand shaking, vision swimming. Batman stalked toward him with purpose — no hesitation, no fear, no space.
Vey swung again, weak, instinctive—
Batman stepped inside the arc and drove him to the floor with a brutal choke-slam.
He pinned him there.
Forearm across Vey's throat.
Vey's arms shaking under the weight.
Batman leaned in close, voice like stone "You're finished."
Vey's breath rasped.
Blood pooled under him.
And then—
Something inside him shifted.
Not mentally.
Not emotionally.
Physically.
A metallic CLINK echoed inside his chest.
Then—
SNAP.
A chain broke.
Deep. Internal.
Like something that had been anchored finally tearing loose.
Vey froze.
His fingers curled into the floorboards.
A low sound escaped his throat.
Not a word.
Not speech.
Not human.
A guttural, monstrous rumble that vibrated through the ruined apartment:
"RrrrRRRRRAAAAAAHHHHHH—"
The beastial roar ripped out of his throat.
Batman's eyes widened just slightly — the first hint of surprise all night.
Vey's back arched.
Muscles swelled beneath torn fabric.
His pupils dilated.
Something feral was waking up inside him and promptly took over.
"Finally." The man said
"I'm free."
—
A/N: I think this is an important place to put this authors note because the next chapter shows the beast obviously and he shows quite a bit of strength. He is BASED on the one from split but he works differently which I will have Batman explain in a couple chapters. But if you have questions after next chapter please ask or this one.