Night turned chaotic over the outskirts of Gotham. The air was thick with smoke and muzzle flash from the warring gangs, the glow of the nightclub burning against the swamp's black silhouette. Sirens wailed from miles out — distant and delayed. In the middle of it all stood Solomon Grundy, roaring like something torn from a grave too soon.

The gangs had already been at each other's throats — Russian crews, the remnants of Odessa, local muscle trying to carve their claim. Then Grundy had come staggering from the marshes. Now none of them knew who they were fighting anymore.

"Batman!" Robin's voice cut through the noise as he vaulted from a shattered truck, staff snapping open midair. "He's heading for the west exit—"

"I see him." Batman's voice was a low growl in the comms. He was already moving, slipping between bullets, throwing a smoke pellet that blanketed the street. His silhouette burst through the haze, cape flaring. A line gun fired — the cable wrapped around Grundy's massive wrist. Batman anchored the other end on a steel beam and hit the switch.

The winch screamed. Grundy stumbled, half-toppled — but then he pulled, wrenching the reinforced line apart like string.

"Anchor cables aren't going to hold," Batman said grimly.

A red streak zipped past him — Kid Flash, his speed back but slower than usual, skidding over broken glass. He landed a dozen punches across Grundy's torso in a blink, each one landing like the crack of gunfire. "He's not budging! It's like hitting a mountain!"

"Distract him." Batman barked. "Robin, flank right!"

Robin threw a trio of explosive discs. They hit Grundy's chest — bursts of light and concussive sound. The undead giant howled, clawing at his chest. Miss Martian swooped overhead, telekinetically slamming a fallen car into his legs. Superboy followed, punching him across the jaw hard enough to send a shockwave through the ground. Grundy went to one knee — only for a stray gang truck to careen out of control, catching fire, spinning toward them.

Batman's grapnel fired. He yanked Robin up and out of the way as Superboy planted himself and shoved the flaming wreck aside.

Behind them, gangs scrambled to escape the crossfire. Some fled for the alleyways; others, desperate, fired at both Grundy and the heroes alike. Artemis fired back, disarming them with pin-point accuracy, while Aqualad erected a water barrier from a broken hydrant, shielding civilians and fallen thugs alike.

Grundy's roar split the air again — his hand came down like a wrecking ball, smashing pavement and sending chunks of asphalt flying. Robin was tossed backward, rolling hard, coughing dust. Batman landed beside him and flicked a capsule — an aerosolized compound filled the air. Blue arcs danced through the haze as Batman's gauntlet computer synced with it.

"What is that?" Robin asked, getting to his feet.

"Experimental nerve inhibitor — supposed to slow cellular regeneration," Batman said

He hurled another batarang, this one embedded with a high-voltage charge. It hit Grundy square in the spine. The giant convulsed, staggering again as the inhibitor gas worked into his skin.

Superboy didn't wait — he charged, shoulder-first, slamming Grundy through a half-collapsed wall. The impact shook the block. Grundy bellowed, tried to rise, but Miss Martian's telekinetic pressure held him just long enough for Batman to move in.

He fired two concussive grenades under Grundy's ribs, jumped back, and shouted, "Now!"

Aqualad's whips cracked — arcs of condensed water struck the grenades, triggering them mid-surge. The twin blasts went off, engulfing Grundy in blue-white light.

For a moment, everything went silent but for the rain of dust and debris. Then Grundy's voice rolled out again — low, broken, furious:

"Grundy mad…"

He rose, smoke curling from his flesh. The heroes regrouped — grim, bruised, but standing.

"He's adapting," Batman said under his breath. "He's learning how to resist the shock inhibitors."

Miss Martian's eyes glowed. "I can't risk entering his mind it feels unavailable."

They surged as one, Superboy tackling him from the front, Aqualad anchoring his legs, Robin leaping onto his back with his staff crackling with voltage. Batman moved in last — precise, controlled, striking pressure points in rhythm with the others' attacks. The coordination was beautiful— human and metahuman power working in seamless tandem.

Finally, as Grundy stumbled into the ruins of the nightclub's back wall, Batman tossed a final cryo-charge. The detonation burst in a flash of blue ice, freezing Grundy's torso mid-motion. His final growl faded into silence.

For a long moment, only the sound of sirens filled the air again.

Robin wiped blood from his lip. "That's… one way to stop him."

Batman said nothing. He stared at the frozen corpse — if it could even be called that — and keyed his comm. "Secure the perimeter. Get GCPD on containment before he thaws. Grundy won't stay down forever."

The battlefield was chaos—sirens wailing, the acrid sting of smoke heavy in the air. Grundy's roars had finally quieted as the ice sealed around him, layer upon layer of condensed frost locking his hulking frame in place.

Batman stood before the frozen giant, chest rising and falling, frost steaming off his armor. Robin and the rest of Young Justice fanned out behind him, bruised, tired, but alive.

"Is he down?" Miss Martian asked, clutching her side.

Batman studied the massive figure, his visor scanning. "Core temperature dropping. Movement—" he paused, narrowing his eyes, "—minimal. For now."

They didn't notice the faint sound beneath the wind—the low, echoing creak of strained ice.

Inside the frost, Grundy's fingers twitched. Then flexed. His veins pulsed faintly blue under his dead flesh as a dull glow—unnatural energy, ancient and swamp-born—moved through his body. The ice cracked, small fissures spiderwebbing across his chest and arms.

Robin caught it first. "Uh, Batman?"

CRACK!

The first break was thunderous. The second shattered the silence. Grundy's arm burst free, ice flying like shrapnel. His roar split the night—raw, guttural, defiant. The ground trembled as he wrenched himself loose, shards of frozen vapor cascading off his massive shoulders.

"Grundy not done yet!" he bellowed.

Batman barely had time to throw down smoke bombs before Grundy swung, sending the Bat crashing through a parked van. Wonder Girl and Aqualad lunged, trying to hold him, but Grundy tore through the remains of the dockyard fencing, trampling debris beneath his boots.

The others moved to pursue, but Batman held up a hand, rising from the wreckage, breathing hard. "No. He's heading back to the swamp it's too dangerous to follow for now, contain the gang members."

He didn't want to elevate the collateral damage a prolonged battle with Grundy would bring especially with the sirens getting closer.

They watched as Grundy, half-frozen and dripping with mud and ice, lumbered toward the dark horizon. The city lights faded behind him, replaced by the eerie, pale shimmer of Slaughter Swamp in the distance.

Each step splashed through stagnant pools, his breaths turning into heavy, rhythmic grunts. The smell of decay greeted him like an old friend.

He slowed only once, staring at the faint reflection of the moon across the water.

Then Solomon Grundy disappeared into the fog of Slaughter Swamp, leaving behind shattered ice, crushed metal, and the uneasy silence of victory.

Batman watched him go before looking at his forearm where a mini display showed a tracking signal.

It was going deeper into slaughter swamp.

***

The first fingers of dawn crept across the Gotham skyline, painting the docks in bruised shades of orange and blue. The air still smelled of salt, gunpowder, and wet iron. Naima stood near the mouth of a gutted warehouse, the once-proud emblem of the Odessa family still half-hanging over the door, riddled with bullet holes.

Her people were moving with quiet precision — securing supply crates, dragging bodies to a corner for disposal, patching what they could. The warehouse floor was slick with oil and blood, but the hum of activity carried a kind of rhythm — the rhythm of survival.

They'd pushed hard through the night, taking two, maybe three warehouses closer to the shops that lined the edge of the docks — where the docks began bleeding into the city proper. It was thin ground, a transitional zone between water and asphalt, rich with opportunity and risk alike.

Naima rubbed at her temple, fatigue creeping in, and called out to one of her lieutenants. "Keep our people grouped. We can't afford to spread too thin. Rotate guards every hour — we hold this line until the boss says otherwise."

Her comm crackled. "Marcy's trucks just crossed Pier 12. Should be here in ten," came a voice.

"Good," Naima replied. "We'll get some sleep when the city forgets we exist."

***

In the penthouse above the continental, sunlight spilled through tall windows, catching dust motes that danced lazily in the air. Nolan sat shirtless at his workbench. A sewing machine hummed quietly as he threaded a seam along the edge of his suit's sleeve. Beside him, a soldering tool hissed softly while he prepared to work on a new addition to his outfit.

A nice pair of gloves.

The faint sound of jazz played low through the speakers — soothing, deliberate. His mind was clear, methodical.

The phone buzzed. He didn't look up immediately — just reached for it, pressing the earpiece to his shoulder while his hands kept working.

"Yeah?"

"Boss," Dre's voice came through, rough and tired. "We did what you wanted. Shot up some storefronts down by the waterfront. I still don't see the reason. You want us to keep going? Sun's already up."

Nolan paused the sewing machine, pinching the thread between his fingers. He gave a faint, approving nod no one could see.

"Good job," he said evenly. "They'll open for business today — I know they will. Now here's what you're gonna do next…"

***

Dre was already moving. The morning light painted long shadows across the cracked pavement as he and three men approached a small electronics shop tucked between a dry cleaner and an old bar — one of Odessa's former collection stops.

"Our first stop boys," Dre muttered, pushing open the door.

A bell jingled overhead as they entered. The shopkeeper, a wiry man with sweat beading down his temple, froze behind the counter.

"W-what's this about?" he stammered. "I-I've got protection, alright? I don't want trouble."

Dre smiled faintly, looking around at the half-shattered glass cases, the bullet hole in the front window. "Protection, huh? Looks like they didn't do a great job of it."

He picked up a cracked radio off the counter, turned it in his hand, and set it back down.

"See, part of me feels like this might be… somehow our fault," Dre said smoothly. "We just moved into the docks last night, you know? And that family you've been paying for protection…" He leaned on the counter, his tone dropping into a friendly whisper. "I don't know if you've seen the news, but the old boat's been wiped out."

The shopkeeper swallowed, eyes darting between Dre's men.

"So maybe," Dre continued, flashing that calm, easy smile, "you're paying no one for protection. Maybe it's time you got yourself some new friends."

Outside, the early morning wind rolled in off the bay — carrying the scent of salt, blood, and fresh opportunity.