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"What do you mean?"
On the other end of the phone, Gotham City Police Commissioner Loeb froze after hearing Falcone's words.
"Your subordinate came to my place and caused trouble!"
"Gordon?" Loeb blurted out the name without thinking.
"No. Gordon doesn't have that kind of ability," Falcone said. His tone eased slightly after hearing Loeb's reaction and realizing Loeb didn't know about it either.
"That person took down dozens of my subordinates!"
"...Didn't you use guns? Or is he Russian? But you're not British, are you?"
Loeb imagined what it meant for one person to defeat dozens of people and immediately said something absurd.
"Don't tell me you were afraid to do anything because he was a police officer. Your men are desperate criminals. Couldn't you just have one of them kill that officer and take the blame?
You can always get a psychiatric evaluation from Crane at Arkham and walk away clean."
It had to be said-Loeb was very familiar with criminal procedures.
Unfortunately, that familiarity wasn't for catching criminals, but for working with them.
Falcone was the head of Gotham City's largest gang and controlled a huge portion of its drug trade.
Sometimes, to save appearances, the police would consult Falcone, arrest one or two of his men, and send them to court.
Falcone's people would then contact Jonathan Crane, the director of Arkham Asylum, and have him issue a psychiatric evaluation so the person would be sent to the asylum instead of prison.
In truth, Crane was also the supervillain Scarecrow and worked for Henri Ducard of the League of Assassins.
Ducard had been Bruce's mentor during his travels and martial arts training. He was also the League's true leader, using the alias Ra's al Ghul.
Bruce, however, had been misled the entire time.
And after finishing his training, Bruce had gone straight back and destroyed the League of Assassins' headquarters.
Ruthless.
And impressively effective.
"My subordinates did use guns," Falcone said, his expression darkening. "But they had no effect. And since it's my territory, I don't want to suffer too many losses. You owe me an explanation."
"Who is he?" Loeb asked, confused. "He didn't kill anyone? Then what does he want?"
When did one of my people become this strong?
One person, dozens of armed men.
Loeb was genuinely shaken.
"..."
Falcone fell silent.
Come to think of it...
Hadn't he shot the subordinate who reported the incident before even asking for a name, just because the man had wet himself?
"I don't know his name yet, but he had police identification," Falcone said. "He wants me to go there."
"So what are you planning to do?" Loeb asked.
"He's your man, and you're asking me what I'm going to do?" Falcone laughed angrily.
"Do whatever you want. Just don't make a big scene," Loeb said. "Didn't I tell you to deal with Flass? Call him. Don't keep calling me. If we're caught with evidence, neither of us will enjoy it."
"Fine."
Falcone ended the call, furious but helpless. He immediately contacted Flass, explained the situation, picked him up, and drove toward the bar where Morin was waiting.
Flass had once been Gordon's partner. Corruption had split them apart long ago.
Now, Flass was Loeb's mouthpiece-and the gangs'.
This time, however, the situation had escalated too suddenly, forcing Falcone to contact Loeb directly.
Inside the bar.
Dozens more gang members lay unconscious on the floor.
There was barely any room to stand.
Morin had already let all irrelevant people leave.
He knew some of them were gang members, but he didn't care. He wanted them to spread the word.
As for those who remained...
Morin looked at Hugh Haas, whose face was pale. Morin smiled.
In Hugh Haas's eyes, that smile belonged to a demon.
Then Morin hypnotized him.
The earlier public questioning had been intentional. Now that his goal was achieved and only Hugh Haas remained, hypnosis was more efficient.
Morin asked.
Hugh Haas answered.
Before long, Morin had all the information he wanted-the distribution of gang forces throughout Gotham City.
Hugh Haas was no small fry. Managing a bar of this level required status. Knowing this information was only natural.
"Hm. Starting with the biggest gang really is fast and convenient," Morin thought.
"I planned to understand the situation first, but causing trouble works too."
As the thought settled, noise came from the door.
Morin looked up, waiting calmly.
From the footsteps alone, he knew the main characters had arrived.
The door opened.
Several gunmen entered first, weapons raised and aimed at him.
Morin ignored them completely.
He walked to the bar counter and casually selected a bottle from the few remaining. His movements were unhurried, his attention nowhere near the guns pointed at him.
Putting on a show mattered.
And it was cool.
He was already handsome. Showing off a bit more didn't hurt.
The thugs exchanged glances.
At least react a little, okay?
But when they saw their bleeding, unconscious companions on the floor, none of them dared to act.
Their boss was still behind them.
And Morin's actions had already spread through those who escaped.
They were wary.
One person exaggerating could be lying.
But dozens-nearly a hundred-people from different positions, all saying the same thing?
"Devil."
"Terrifying."
"Guns don't work."
That wasn't a joke.
With bodies on the ground as proof, the pressure was overwhelming.
And for some reason, just seeing Morin made them want to retreat.
Like darkness meeting light.
If it didn't retreat, it would be erased.
Finally, Falcone entered, surrounded by his men.
The moment he saw Morin, he frowned.
Handsome.
Elegant.
And yet-
Why was he so unpleasant to look at?
"Carmine Falcone?" Morin finally chose a bottle, opened it, and poured himself a drink.
"Not easy to meet you."
"True. And now that you've seen me, it won't be easy for you to leave," Falcone said, signaling Flass to step forward.
"What's his name?"
"I don't know," Flass said, stunned. "I've never seen him."
"So you're a fake cop?" Falcone's gaze turned cold.
"I started today," Morin said. "Transferred from... another city."
He took a sip and nodded in satisfaction.
"I wanted to get a feel for Gotham. Didn't expect such a generous welcome."
Falcone immediately understood.
Transferred. First day. Feeling things out.
A newcomer trying to establish authority.
Someone used to being important elsewhere, ignorant of how Gotham really worked.
"That means I'll tell you the first rule you need to learn," Falcone said, straightening his collar.
"The first person you don't mess with is me."
"Uh-huh. Very imposing," Morin said, sipping his wine and gesturing casually.
"But you're standing too far away. And your voice is too quiet. I can't hear you clearly."
They were at least ten meters apart.
Normally, those words would terrify a powerless man standing within arm's reach.
But delivering threats from ten meters away, shielded by underlings...
It felt like Kakuzu from Naruto throwing a shuriken at the First Hokage from eight hundred miles away, then bragging about failing the assassination but escaping unharmed.
Falcone let out a cold laugh. "Do you think I'm stupid? Should I just walk over and let you take me hostage?"
"Aren't you?" Morin looked genuinely puzzled.
"You dared to show up in front of me."
"...I'm killing him," Falcone said, breathing deeply as he turned to Flass.
"Anything to add?"
"Yes," Flass said quietly, his expression serious.
Flass was corrupt.
But he wasn't stupid.
"His strength, his transfer, starting today-what does that remind you of?" Flass whispered.
"...You're saying his background isn't simple?" Falcone muttered, glancing at Morin.
"I may not have eaten pork, but I've seen pigs run," Flass replied softly.
"His attitude. His demeanor. He's still relaxed in this situation."
He paused.
"Either he's insane."
"Or he's absolutely confident."