The scent of blood thickened as Adam climbed higher through the skeletal remains of the building. The iron beams groaned with the wind. Dust danced in shafts of dull, dying light. When he finally reached the top floor, the first thing he saw was the wall of bodyguards—hulking men in black suits and darker intentions.
One of them stepped forward, took one look at him, and without a word, disarmed him with cold efficiency. His revolver vanished into his coat, but no one tried to stop him. They knew his face. They let him pass.
Adam stepped into the slaughterhouse.
That's what it was. Not a meeting room. Not a negotiation floor. This place—this place was a temple to suffering. The smell of iron filled the air. Screams—real, panicked screams—ripped through the silence, raw enough to shred the nerves of any sane man.
"Give me the money! GIVE ME THE FUCKING MONEY!"
The voice was a roar—thick with rage, hunger, and something else… joy. A sick joy. Fists collided with flesh, dull and wet. A man sobbed under the blows. Somewhere beneath the bruises, there might have been a real estate developer, once hailed as Gotham's golden boy, splashed across every finance magazine as a rising star.
Now, he was a ruin. One shoe missing. Suit shredded. Face barely recognizable. He lay on the floor, groveling through cracked teeth and blood-soaked lips.
"I… I swear I don't have the money… not now… but the property—next year—once it hits auction, I can pay you back… I'll even give you fifty percent—hell, seventy-five if you want… please… just give me a little more time…"
The thugs hesitated, looking toward their master for permission.
A man dressed like royalty at a funeral—sleek white Italian suit, tie tight as a noose, shoes polished to the point of vanity. He looked like he walked out of a fashion magazine… if the magazine was edited in hell. Because beneath all that elegance sat a face carved from nightmares—a coffin-black skull, molded perfectly to his head, as if grown from the bone itself. His presence wasn't loud. It didn't need to be.
He radiated power. Power that didn't flinch. Power that didn't reason.
He turned slowly, and those bloodshot eyes locked on the pleading man at his feet. Cold. Reptilian. They didn't blink.
"He's lying," Black Mask said, voice barely above a whisper.
The words were soft, almost intimate—like the kind of voice you'd use to tell a lover a secret over candlelight. But coming through that carved wood mask, it was like hearing Satan mutter through a coffin lid.
And then the dogs were unleashed.
Fists pounded again. More screams. Blood sprayed the walls like careless graffiti. They weren't just beating a man anymore—they were obliterating him. Adam watched it all from the shadows, his jaw clenched. He knew what this was. A message. A ritual. This was how Black Mask reminded the world that mercy didn't exist here.
Adam wasn't even in a position to pity the man. Thɪs chapter is updated by ɴoᴠel Fɪre.nᴇt
Because if he failed here—if he slipped once—this would be his body on the floor.
Suddenly, the businessman surged. Driven by desperation or stupidity—maybe both—he shoved through the fists, crawling across the filthy floor, and grabbed the cuff of Black Mask's pristine pants.
"Please! Just one more chance! This property—when it sells—it'll pull two hundred million. I swear to you, I'll repay every cent and more! Please, I have nothing now… even if you kill me, there's nothing left to take… Please…"
The silence was worse than the screams.
Black Mask looked down at the man like he'd stepped in something foul. And slowly—deliberately—his bloodshot eyes widened until the whites disappeared entirely, overtaken by red. He didn't just look furious. He looked possessed.
"You touched my suit," he said, voice low and tight.
The man blinked. Confused. Then looked at his hand. Blood and grime smeared across the white fabric.
"No, wait, I didn't mean—"
The kick came fast—faster than it had any right to.
Black Mask's polished shoe crashed into the man's face, and he went flying backwards like a rag doll. But Sionis didn't stop. He lunged. The beast behind the skull was finally unchained.
"You dare dirty my suit?! THIS suit?!"
The blows that followed weren't random. They were vicious. The mask's fists moved like scalpels, aiming for nerves, organs, soft tissue. Nose, eyes, kidneys, groin. Each hit is calculated for maximum pain and permanent damage. The sound the shoes made when they struck flesh was unforgettable.
"You know what this suit cost?! There's not a second like it in all of Sicily! You worthless, spineless little pig—you couldn't afford the button on this jacket!"
He beat the man like he was trying to erase him from existence. All that noble elegance, the sharp suit and refined posture—gone. In its place was something primal. Foaming at the mouth. A monster who'd dressed up like a man and finally stopped pretending.
And Adam watched it all.
Eyes wide. Muscles tensed. Not from fear—but caution.
Because this was the real Black Mask.
The one you didn't see in police files or tabloids.
The one the underworld feared even more than the Bat.
And deep down, he knew he was going to have to deal with this man. Work with him. Negotiate with him.
And one day, maybe fight him.
So Adam studied him. Every twitch. Every pause. Every weak spot in the performance.
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