The tarmac reeked of airplane gas mixed with leftover snow. I moved my fingers around in my gloves, pointless move, honestly, because the chill wasn't what got to me. Cold never did. Nope, it was something else, crawling under my ribs like an icy snake coated in soot. Bruce peeked at me sideways, just slightly, yet it was noticeable. He'd noticed me twitching again.
"Jet lag?" he said, tone flat, like a guy who'd seen it all. That Woolrich jacket cost way too much, the sort that begs you not to stare. My throat tightened.
"Nah," I lied. "Just hungry."
Bruce breathed out slow, almost smiling but not quite, just enough to keep up the act. He fixed his cuffs, platinum, no joke, typical rich-guy move, and looked around the terminal like he was counting marks instead of people.
"We'll grab something after the investor meeting," he mumbled, lips hardly shifting. Meant for my ears only, yet his body stayed loose, like it didn't care. To any observer? Just Bruce Wayne, rich, careless party guy, not the tension hidden under that pricey suit. A quiet buzz came from his leg. Likely Nikita's signal, nothing loud.
A bunch of troops trudged past, coats stiff with frozen slush, laughing way louder than needed, their breath thick in the cold. A big guy, one shoulder higher than the other, a jagged line cutting through his brow stared at Bruce's jacket like he could feel its price in his bones. His eyes shifted to me after, stuck just an instant longer than normal. Not because he knew my face. More like he was weighing what I was worth. He then grumbled some rough words to the others, voice barely rising above a growl.
"Krovavyy zver'," he growled. Blood Beast. The rest froze, their laughs cutting off fast. Bruce stayed still. So did I, but I noticed how the soldier's hand jerked toward his gun, as if just hearing it stung.
Bruce's phone vibrated, three quick taps. That was Nikita's signal, definitely. The troops shuffled off, feet cracking ice on the road. Only when they turned the block did I finally breathe. "Real smooth," I said under my breath. He swiped into an app that looked like market news. Her words lit up: Lenin Stadium. Midnight. Just two people still marked.
Bruce clenched his teeth. No words needed, things were spiraling quicker than we thought. The NKVDemon wasn't just chasing targets; he tore through them like someone running on pure fury. If we waited any longer, Arianna's uncle would end up in the crosshairs. I balled my hands tight, fire crawling beneath my arms like bugs. Blood on white flakes flashed in my head, that smirk on KGBeast's face when he--
"Stay with me," Bruce said, slipping his phone away. His voice was too low for the airport cameras, even though I could feel my heart racing hard. "We're not here for rumors."
Unfortunately for Bruce, rumors stuck around like gum on pavement. I wasn't guessing; I'd listened close. Talk of a killer, quiet as breath, slicing up big shots so neatly they could pack themselves into suitcases.
Those tales had tough guys at Lubyanka uneasy whenever his name came up. Not a phantom from the KGB, no, this was different: the successor. Worse than a spirit, one carrying rage, holding a ledger soaked in red.
In the old timeline, Bruce would've hunted him solo. That fact sat deep in my gut. Felt familiar, like spotting how his back locked up right before swinging, tiny signs you'd miss unless you had watched him forever. In the first version of things, he prowled beneath Moscow's streets on his own, no team, no radios, just some old coat and patchy updates from Nikita. Not even a sidekick around. Nobody at his six. Only a lone Bat lost in a town that spat on strangers, each narrow lane thick with fumes and broken deals.
This time? It was unlike before. Bruce wasn't stuck memorizing train routes in a dim shelter where most lights were dead. He didn't need to piece together broken cop talk in a tongue he barely knew, just enough to spot words like blood, fugitive, flesh.
This time around, I kept an eye on his back as he faked scrolling through Instagram, following NKVDemon's moves via Nikita's coded updates mixed into dumb online rants.
***
Red Square after dark felt split in two, visitors took photos near Lenin's glowing mausoleum, yet cops in casual gear stood watch by GUM's shiny storefronts, watching close from under furry hat brims.
I sorted through them without focus, linking names to Bruce's files. The officer hooked on Turkish smokes, the GRU man who flipped sides twice yet still drew a state paycheck, the chess grifters swapping secrets if the price matched. Under those round church tops, no grin came free.
Bruce stopped near a stall where someone was pouring hot sbiten into cups, steam curling up through the cold air. He held it tight, gloves damp from the warmth, muttering something about tourists liking quirky stuff, but his eyes stayed on three Siberian sellers arguing over smuggled caviar across the way; our third potential NKVDemon sighting in forty minutes.
I edged nearer, pretending to grab his drink; my lips grazing the edge while I mumbled, "The one on the far left has knife marks from the KGBeast hidden under that scarf." His little finger jerked slightly on the cup. That was it, proof.
Soon the sirens kicked in. Not the regular noise from city police, it was more like sharp screams from arena guards on edge. The lights at Lenin Stadium sliced dark skies, harsh as steel falling fast; right then our group changed, no longer rowdy sports watchers but people flailing under fear.
A woman's furry hat dropped into the muck while she sprinted, her yell drowned out by heavy footsteps crashing close behind. Those Siberian sellers ditched their fish eggs, hands diving into jackets for cold steel, suddenly it made sense where their cash really came from.
Bruce's mug smashed down, red drink soaking into white flakes like a bad theater trick. His grip locked onto my arm. Stay back," he warned me, though I'd started scanning escape routes by then, sizing up narrow spots where people might pile up in panic.
One guy came tumbling down from the top seats. Not just falling, plummeting. Wore a Dynamo shirt, limbs flung out like he'd snapped apart mid-air. Landed on the snack bar roof with a thick thud you felt more than heard. The Zamboni got splattered in streaks that looked almost painted.
The NKVDemon moved, no leap, just stepping from the rail like weight didn't matter. His boots tore through the canopy as if it were tissue, touching down in the debris with a loose sway of his body.
The stadium lights sparkled on his bright orange mask, yet everyone noticed how his fingers, sturdy like steel ropes, jammed into the corpse's head, twisting it up at the roaring crowd. A message. Always a fucking message.
He lunged forward, heavy but quick on his feet. As officers pushed into the screaming crowd, shields up, he stood firm. Instead of stepping back, he grabbed the front shield mid-charge. With one sharp twist, the officer's arm cracked, sound clear, and then slammed him face-down onto the pavement.
The second officer shot three times at the chest yet NKVDemon only smiled beneath his mask, rushing forward as if the bullets were nothing but falling drops. His arm punched straight into the guy's ribs, tearing through like soggy paper, then burst out backside gripping shattered bone and torn armor.
He left the blood running down into his leg pocket, where a faded hammer-and-sickle mark from KGBeast showed under the red smears.
A weird jolt ran through me when I saw it , no panic, no rush, just this heavy twist under my chest loosening slow, thick, like burnt rope unwinding. Darkseid wasn't merely looking. He was starved.
The NKVDemon's cruelty felt like something he'd known before, a sour taste left over from broken worlds, when armored vehicles crushed wailing kids while tyrants wore godhood like cheap suits.
I bit down till it hurt, and the sound still crept through, crawling up my back in words that felt scorched and sharp, like air after lightning: *You see? This is what kingship looks like.*
Bruce left no room to fight the voice inside me. His grip on my wrist turned firm, right then, and we pushed into the rush of panicked people, slipping behind a flipped food stand while he tossed aside the heavy wool coat.
The cash-loving Bruce Wayne act vanished, showing the hunter underneath. As his hands hit the secret edge on his jacket, he ripped it, revealing dull black armor stitched inside.
I copied his moves, my fake look falling away like old clothes, the tough Robin outfit tight underneath. Chilly air stung my bare neck, and the thing that sat deep in my chest hummed with relief from breaking loose.
A seller's radio burst with panicked Russian, cops trying to lock down the stadium attack but under the noise, Nikita cut in on our secure line: "He's headed for the subway. Third rail access near Ploschad Revolyutsii.*"
Bruce skipped the nod, just took off, his steps light on icy stones even with everything falling apart. Behind him I went, heart matching the far-off rattle of rails under us.
The Metro's entrance opened up ahead, its old art deco frame coated in years of dirt. Inside, Bruce slipped down a narrow service passage, tighter than it looked, the space heavy with the stink of piss and scorched cables. From the wall, a figure moved loose, a skinny old woman with no teeth, selling hot pies off a beat-up metal cart.
Her aged hand snapped up, grabbing Bruce's arm. "Batman," she offered, jabbing a crooked finger toward a wet staircase below. He slipped a crumpled twenty thousand dollar bill into her grip while walking past. Her joyful laugh rang behind us as we vanished into the shadows.
***
The third rail passage felt like an old Soviet tomb, pipes eaten by rust, lights blinking weakly, also that sharp smell of burnt air hanging around. Bruce shoved a jamming device into an electrical panel while I climbed up a service ladder toward the walkway above.
A gap in the vent gave us a clear view of Platform 5, Mikhailov was due there at 23:17, catching his train.
He came third on the NKVDemon's hit list. The dim light made my lenses shift, sketching heat shapes over cracked posters, four FSB agents in casual gear stood by the Colonel, fingers close to their guns.
Bruce didn't have to signal, already, the jammer was live, spitting pulses that wrecked their radios with noise. Down there, Mikhailov glanced at his Breitling, sharp and nervous, like someone tracking time before it runs out. In came the train, wheels shrieking on rails, braking hard, sounding wounded.
The trap was ready. Through Nikita's ex-MVD links, the Colonel's route got quietly slipped out, muttered in shady bars to listening ears. A play: lure the NKVDemon off the stadium bloodbath, steer him into a tight spot where tile walls magnified each step. The FSB team thought they were real. Mikhailov? Totally clueless.
Bruce stayed low, frozen just over the high ceiling, shape hazy under shaky overhead lights. My hands skimmed the stolen transit controls, not much, only enough to hold the subway doors open a few extra ticks. Months of training boiled down to this. I tracked each inhale till it went sideways: a twitch near the maintenance shaft, darkness that didn't belong.
Then everything fell apart. The Colonel's guards collapsed like cheap toys, one slashed in the throat, no time to shout; the next tossed onto the rails as the killer twisted off his back like an acrobat. Bruce came down headfirst from above, slamming his knee into the attacker's shoulder with a sickening pop. Those blank white eyes on the mask flashed when he wobbled, just for a split second. Then came a brutal punch upward, hurling Bruce backward over the floor, spitting blood as he slid.
I was already lunging forward, the grappling wire slicing through the air and snagging NKVDemon's wrist right as he swung. That razor-thin filament cut hard, oozing dark blood, but he only smirked, tugged sharply, then dragged me from the walkway like fish on a hook. The ground closed in fast, then Bruce slammed into me, arm locking round my gut, flipping us sideways into a rough tumble that lit up my ribs on fire. Up we scrambled, shoulders pressed together, breaths hitching at the same beat. He across from us twisted his ruined wrist; tendons snapped back together with a wet crack.
"Cover left," Bruce growled between tight jaws, red spittle flying from his mouth just as the NKVDemon charged, no clumsy thug move, but cold precision like a winter-war trainer who'd taught killers how to strike blind in blizzards.
I swung fast, my arm shooting out to block the curved knife aimed at Bruce's side, the hit buzzing up my bones like a plucked wire. The killer slowly twisted his masked face my way, each ragged breath puffing through the mask, damp clouds thick with rust and rot.
Bruce used that tiny slip in attention, his heel smashed into the NKVDemon's knee, cracking bone loud like glass breaking, and still the bastard stayed silent. Instead of yelling, he grinned through gurgling chuckles while snatching Bruce's foot and wrenching it hard enough to grind joint against joint.
I spotted the hurt flash deep in Bruce's eyes, that tiny pause right before his Bat-skills shut down reflexes. I'd already started forward, my rod slicing air as a pale streak when I drove it into the killer's underarm nerves. His hold twitched loose, for just an instant, but that did it. Bruce twisted out fast, his cape snapping wide like something wild while he bounced off a pillar.
Darkseid's weight slid into me, slow, heavy a chill seeping through my nerves, creeping like liquid shadow. Each pulse stretched longer, colder, sharper than the last.
The platform's lights blinked, only a second, but then I saw exactly where he'd move, sensed the thick subway breeze shifting ahead of his hit before his body reacted.
His blade swung at Bruce's neck along a path I'd pictured just instants prior.
I darted forward on instinct. My stick hit the sword in full swing, not by strength but with a sharp spin that flung it sliding over the floor - just when Bruce drove his elbow into the killer's covered face.
The ceramic split apart. With a stumble, the NKVDemon staggered, its single white eye smashed open, while through the sharp gap I saw a pale iris dilated, showing fear far too familiar to ignore.
Bruce kept moving, same as always, and this time the killer's evasion lagged, unbalanced, almost drunk. Soon I felt it, sharp and sour: NKVDemon's hesitation matching the squirm beneath my chest. Darkseid wasn't watching now, he was nudging things, rigging odds like someone loading a deck.
The killer gave himself away, his wild swing was obvious almost right after he started. Bruce grabbed his arm halfway through, yanked so sharp the bones in his forearm nearly split apart, then smashed his head straight into the cracked-up mask.
Ceramic pieces dropped on the rails when the NKVDemon fell, gasping through his busted mask. I crouched down, jamming my knee into his back as Bruce fastened his feet with plastic ties, same way he'd wrap up paperwork at a year-end.
"List," Bruce snarled, crimson trickling from his busted mouth down the killer's bare throat. The NKVDemon coughed up slime and shattered enamel. Darkseid writhed within me hissing exactly where to dig my thumb into his neck; firm enough that giving in seemed kinder than fighting.
A wrinkled scrap slipped out of his combat jacket, stained with a mix of grease and dried sweat, sharp, metallic stink hung off it. Six labels already marked through in angry red strokes. Mikhailov would be the seventh.
Bruce grabbed it first, his leather-covered hand squeezing the paper tight like he'd touch something burning. The NKVDemon chuckled, a sloppy sound shifting into a harsh hack, drool and red spots hitting the floor. "You think you won? They always send more."
I shoved my knee deeper into his back till bones cracked and still, he laughed, while Bruce ripped away the final pieces of his mask. Underneath the hard shell lay a face pitted by metal burns, one eye clouded from an ancient injury, the other pitch-black, like it had no pupil at all.
A twitch in Bruce's tight jaw showed what he knew, this wasn't only KGBeast's successor. Nope, this one came out of Red Room dossiers, a name the FSB themselves had stamped dead back in '09.
The NKVDemon gasped with broken lungs, his laugh fading into bubbly coughs while I held down his back. As Bruce's hand shifted to the killer's neck, feeling for a beat, he grabbed a sleep dart from his belt with the other. That tiny stab slipped into the creep's throat with a quiet tap, and finally, his mangled eyes closed, no fight left.
Bruce let air out through his nostrils, just once, steady like he'd planned it. Then he faced me with that stare, the kind needing no words but still saying plenty. His glove came away from his split lip smeared red. Suddenly, I was a kid again, twelve and bruised up, stuck in the Cave with sore ribs from flubbing a move, knowing what came next whether I wanted to or not.
The cops showed up to see a beaten killer, out cold but alive, lying on the subway platform like trash left behind. Me and Bruce had already dippe, slipping into Moscow's underground veins before any FSB agents even reached the steps.
The safehouse felt chillier than outside, an old Eastern Bloc flat where the walls had curling paper and reeked of musty closets and cold brew. Bruce tugged down his cowl with a grunt, one side of his face darkening near the chin. No words came out. Instead, he dabbed at a split lip with a wet rag while eyeing the targets stuck next to Nikita's spy photos on the board.