Black Mask stirred as he slowly regained consciousness—his mind foggy, his body numb. The sterile white ceiling above him blurred into shapes, and all he could hear was the mechanical hiss and steady hum of medical machines.
He couldn't speak. He couldn't move. Tubes ran down his throat and across his chest; a ventilator rhythmically pumped air into his damaged lungs. His neck ached—badly. Everything hurt.
'What... happened to me?', the thought struggled through his dazed consciousness. Then it all came rushing back.
The attack. The IRS agent. No—not the IRS. The killer. That lunatic with the suit and dead eyes. One second, Black Mask had been sitting at his desk arguing, and the next… glass through his throat.
'So that's why there's a tube down my neck,' he realized grimly.
On the hospital TV mounted across from the bed, the news was playing nonstop coverage. Headlines scrolled across the screen:
"GOTHAM UNDERWORLD ICON ASSASSINATED IN PUBLIC!"
"ZSAZS TAKES CREDIT FOR EXECUTION OF BLACK MASK!"
Just hearing the name filled Black Mask with rage. He couldn't yell—but his heart rate spiked. He knew the bastard who did this was still out there. And now everyone in the city thought he was dead.
'No... not yet. I'll recover. I'll come back stronger... and then I'll kill him.'
But as he forced himself to think, a wave of dizziness hit him. His body shut down again—pain burning through his chest like fire. Every breath felt like a knife being twisted inside his lungs.
Then he heard voices outside the room.
"…I don't get why we're guarding a mobster in a hospital," someone muttered. "Should've let the guy rot in Blackgate."
"You serious?" another voice replied. "You were happy enough taking his bribe money a month ago. Just 'cause he's out of cash now you change your tune?"
"You're acting like he was some big shot. He paid worse than a third-rate gang and acted like we should worship him. If you ask me, good riddance. That assassin did Gotham a favor."
"Still can't believe it was Zsasz. The psycho didn't even deny it—he's shouting it on TV! Keeps bragging that the thickest scar on his chest is for Black Mask."
At that, Black Mask's heart sank.
'They really think I'm dead... they've all moved on already.'
More than the pain, it was the humiliation that hit hardest. His name—once feared and respected—was now nothing but a footnote in someone else's victory speech.
On the hospital TV, Zsasz was on camera, arms wide, shirtless, screaming like a maniac.
"Citizens of Gotham! Look!" he said, pointing to the deep scar carved across his chest. "This is for Black Mask! He's dead because of me! I'm the greatest!"
Lying in the hospital bed, barely conscious, Black Mask could only gurgle weakly—a spray of blood bubbling in his throat. Rage gripped him.
'How did it come to this? I ran this city. I owned half its streets. I fought Bruce Wayne. I fought Penguin. And that lunatic... that nobody... gets the kill?!'
To lose was one thing. But to be turned into someone else's trophy was worse than death.
In that moment, a small surge of strength returned to his broken body. Slowly, his hand trembled upward—one shaky movement at a time—until his fingers brushed against the ventilator power cord.
'No more pity. No more humiliation.'
He gave one final tug, weak but determined, and the machine shut down with a soft mechanical click.
The relentless whirring stopped. The lungs that had once kept him alive now stopped inflating. Oxygen disappeared.
The black mask, bloodied and broken, gave one final, bitter smile.
"No one... tells me how to die," he whispered, voice barely audible through the damaged flesh.
The burning in his chest grew heavier. The world dimmed. In his fading vision, he imagined two figures standing over him—his parents, hand in hand, gazing with that same cold, disappointed expression from his childhood.
"…Mom… I'm cold."
That was his final word.
And just like that, Roman Sionis, the man once known as Black Mask—the boss of Gotham's underworld—slipped away.
Across town, as darkness settled onto Gotham's streets, a classic black Dodge pulled into the rear entrance of the Gotham Police Department. From inside stepped Cobblepot—the Penguin. His short, round frame waddled forward with his ever-present umbrella in hand.
He walked past everyone without speaking, heading straight for Police Chief Loeb's office. The moment the chief saw him walk in, he let out a dry chuckle.
"Well, well," Loeb said with a smirk. "Last I saw you, you were just a weasel with an umbrella and a stammer. Now everyone's saying you took down Black Mask and you're next in line to run Gotham. That true?"
Penguin smiled thinly. "Funny how rumors start, isn't it?"
Loeb turned toward the window and asked, "You're saying you didn't order the hit?"
Penguin shook his head, voice polite but distant. "We had our disagreements, yes. But no—I didn't hire Zsasz. If I wanted Black Mask gone, believe me—he'd have disappeared quietly, and no one would've pinned the crime on me. Now? Everyone's watching."
There was a hint of truth to what he said. Penguin was smart and cunning. He would never leave a messy trail. But Black Mask's death—public, chaotic, and theatrical—had made a statement. And whether or not Penguin had anything to do with it, Gotham was already drawing its own conclusions.