Broken(DC)

Freezing in anticipation of each other's actions, we stood motionless. However, his patience seemed to be short-lived. With two quick bursts, he reached me.

I managed to avoid his first strike by dodging to the side, but the next attack came so fast that I had to leap backward. His blows came one after another, erratic yet relentless, and I somehow managed to dodge by sheer luck. Yet I couldn't find an opening to counterattack, and dodging continuously became harder with every passing moment. I was in a tight spot.

I needed to find a way out of this.

Come on, think! If someone called the police, they wouldn't arrive anytime soon. There was no one around who could help. What now? One of his strikes splattered me with blood. Was I injured? No—it wasn't my blood. The wounds on his body were still open, blood gushing freely. If he kept losing that much blood, he would eventually weaken or even pass out. My regeneration would help me recover from injuries—unlike him.

Seizing the moment, I drove my knife into his stomach. However, he countered with a blow to my chest, like being hit by a sledgehammer. I was flung three meters away and barely managed to roll backward in time. His foot came crashing down where my head had just been, obliterating the pavement. A last-moment escape spared me from a strike that could have crushed my skull like a watermelon.

Our fight had turned into a true bloodbath. I slashed at him with my knives, inflicting wound after wound, while he pummeled me relentlessly, shattering bones with each strike. But my regeneration kept mending me over and over again. During one of our clashes, he broke my arm, but this time the bone refused to heal—I felt a gnawing hunger instead. I didn't have time to eat one of my energy bars; I was barely dodging his attacks, my strength fading. How long could he keep this up? His body was riddled with wounds, yet he moved as if untouched.

A moment of distraction proved costly.

He landed a strike to my head, sending me flying into a wall. I struggled to prop myself up on my elbows. My vision darkened, and part of it disappeared entirely. I felt something trickling down my head. Watching through my dimmed sight, I saw him slowly walking toward me, his bloodied body closing the distance with each step.

Only a few steps away from me, he suddenly froze, as if someone had pressed pause on him. His eyes began to swell, and he clutched his head, pounding it as if trying to smash it open. With one final blow, he crushed his own skull, and his blood splattered over me.

I stared at the corpse lying on the ground in disbelief.

What just happened?

Did he kill himself? Damn it, I don't understand a thing. Maybe the drug he injected himself with caused this? My hands trembled, but I managed to reach into my pocket for an energy bar. Slowly, I bit into it and chewed. There was a metallic taste in my mouth, but I kept eating. Gradually, I began to feel better. The haze in my vision cleared, though one eye remained dark. Touching it, I realized it was covered in blood. Wiping it away, I managed to get to my feet with great effort.

Surveying the battlefield, I struggled to recognize how it had once looked. Everything was broken—walls were cracked, asphalt was torn apart. In the distance, the wail of police sirens reached my ears.

I started sifting through my options for escape; dealing with the police was the last thing I wanted. It would raise too many questions—questions from both the authorities and my family. How could I explain fighting that man, who now lay dead in a pool of blood, both his and mine?

They could track me through the blood trail. However, it seemed most of the blood on me was limited to my head. Scanning the area, I realized all the blood spattered here belonged to the madman—none of it appeared to be mine. But the knives I had used to wound him were still here. If they were found, they'd serve as damning evidence. Wasting no time, I gathered up the knives and hurried away.

But just as I was about to leave, I remembered the bag with the drug.

Quickly spotting it, I grabbed the bag and took off at a sprint.

The police sirens grew louder, echoing through the streets. I was a mess—covered in blood and looking like trouble, sure to attract the wrong kind of attention. To avoid being noticed, I stuck to the back alleys. The plan worked, as I didn't hear any signs of pursuit.

As I walked, I devoured energy bars, barely bothering to chew. The gnawing hunger began to subside, though I still felt ravenous. Along the way, I pulled out the bag with the drug and discovered two more vials inside. I wasn't entirely sure why I took them—throwing them away seemed like a waste. Despite the horrifying side effects, the drug clearly granted immense strength and resilience. My knives had barely penetrated his skin—just like mine. Before using the drug, he must have been an ordinary human. The transformation was both fascinating and terrifying.

I never imagined a simple walk could escalate into a fight for my life.

I just wanted a burger, and instead, I got my ass handed to me. The pain from his blows still lingered—though it was likely more mental than physical, as my injuries had nearly healed.

Reflecting on the fight, I could see where I might've dodged better or exploited openings to land damage without taking hits myself. But in the heat of battle, I hadn't been able to analyze everything. My regeneration had saved my life but exposed a critical weakness: I couldn't sustain long battles while taking damage. The energy bars were effective, but eating them mid-fight wasn't feasible. I'd need to figure out a solution to that problem.

Lost in thought, I found myself back home. Slipping through the back yard, I avoided drawing attention and entered through the rear door. I made my way straight to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. Dried blood streaked my face and clothes, but there were hardly any visible injuries left.

Peeling off my blood-soaked clothes, I tossed them into the washer to erase all traces of the encounter. Turning on the bathtub faucet, I let it fill with hot water. The warmth would help wash away the tension that had built up over this insane day.

While waiting for the tub to fill, I inspected my body. There were no visible signs of the fight, just minor bruises that would likely fade soon. Once I finished my bath, I planned to eat to my heart's content.

Lying in the filled tub, I found myself staring at the vial of green liquid.

What if I drank it? Would I turn into a crazed maniac like that guy, or could I harness the strength it provided while maintaining control? My body might be able to handle the drug, but I wasn't eager to test that theory right now. I decided it would be a last resort—my final option, if ever necessary.

The tension that had gripped my body finally eased after the battle, and even the phantom pain from wounds and fractures faded away. The comfort of the warm water was interrupted by the growling of my stomach.

"Alright, time to raid the fridge and finally eat something," I thought, already looking forward to gorging myself before collapsing into a much-needed sleep.

POV: Detective James Gordon

It was another grim day in Gotham, with chaos erupting across the city. Mafia turf wars were nothing new, but this time, a new threat had emerged on the streets—a drug known as "Viper."

New drugs in Gotham weren't uncommon, but this one was different. People who started using it couldn't stop, taking dose after dose until it killed them. What made it worse was the drug's horrifying effects. For a brief period, users gained superhuman strength, became completely numb to pain, and utterly lost their sanity. They turned into feral beasts, attacking indiscriminately, regardless of who was in front of them.

This week alone had set a grim record for incidents involving the drug. In drug dens across the city, these addicts would go on literal rampages, tearing apart everyone present before eventually killing themselves.

The progression of the drug was devastating. The first stage resembled a typical stimulant: heightened nervous system activity, increased sensitivity to pleasure receptors, and enhanced physical strength. The second stage brought disturbing changes—users developed greenish hues in their irises and veins, coupled with signs of severe psychological instability. By the third stage, which set in a day later, users experienced massive muscle growth and gained immense strength, but at the cost of their minds. They became walking weapons, capable of smashing through walls and lifting hundreds of pounds.

The longer they used the drug, the more of their humanity they lost. On average, death occurred two to three days after reaching the third stage, often at the hands of their own madness. More than once, these individuals had ended their own lives in grisly fashion.

The GCPD was struggling to cope with the chaos this drug caused. Many officers were injured, and some even killed in encounters with these "maniacs." Bullets often seemed useless—they didn't even slow them down. These addicts charged forward, oblivious to danger, even with their bodies riddled with gunshots.

The department had resorted to using nets to restrict their movement. While this strategy made them easier to handle and reduced the risk to officers, it was only a temporary fix. It didn't address the root problem—it merely contained it, leaving the city no safer than before.

Viper wasn't just a drug—it was a disaster in the making.

It was critical to locate the distributor of "Viper," cut off the supply, and save the citizens of Gotham. Heroic as it sounded, it was my duty.

Now we had a chance to track the supplier down, thanks to a recent incident. Something unusual had happened at Joe's Burgers. One of the cameras had captured the face of someone selling "Viper." Normally, these dealers were cautious and avoided exposure, but this time, he lingered just long enough to reveal his face. After rewinding and reviewing the footage several times in search of clues, I saved it to a flash drive. I planned to pass it to the tech department to extract a detailed photo and identify the individual.

"Are you saying there's no footage from the back alley?" I asked the owner of the establishment. It was odd that recordings from all the other cameras were intact, but the ones capturing the incident were missing.

"That's right. When I came to, I saw the police already here. I told them everything I remembered and was about to show them the footage to confirm my story, but it was gone," he explained with a serious expression, though it seemed like he was deliberately leaving out details.

"All right, let's go over what happened again," I said, employing a standard detective tactic. Repetition often uncovered inconsistencies in testimonies and helped reveal the truth.

"Okay, okay, here's how it went. I was doing what I do best—working the grill and flipping patties. And let me tell you, my burgers are the best in Gotham! Everyone says so. They're juicy, cooked to perfection—"

I interrupted him, not wanting to endure more of his boasting.

"Can we stick to the point?"

"Right, right, my bad. So, I'm cooking, and then some commotion starts in the dining area. People are running out of my restaurant. I thought maybe my cooking had finally gone wrong, but—"

I cut him off again. "The point, please."

"Yeah, okay. So, I look at the cameras and see some lunatic smashing up my tables. I grabbed a bat and headed out back. When I got there, two guys were about to rip each other apart. I figured I'd teach them a lesson for messing with my place, but one of them came at me full force. He broke my bat—barehanded! Can you believe that?" His animated recounting was accompanied by exaggerated hand gestures. "Then the guy smacked me, and next thing I know, I'm waking up after it was all over, and you folks were already here."

"Got it. Now, remind me—what did the second man look like?" I asked. If someone managed to stand up to a "Viper"-enhanced individual, they had to have some serious skills or strength.

"Well, I've told you already—he was a guy, middle-aged, wearing a black hoodie and jeans. Oh, and he had red sneakers."

"Earlier, you said he was wearing black boots." His description of the second man kept changing, raising suspicions that he knew more than he let on.

"Uh, yeah, well, maybe I didn't get a good look. Everything happened so fast, and that guy knocked the memory right out of me." He began to fidget, nervously adjusting his clothing and avoiding eye contact.

"But you seem to remember the events leading up to the incident quite clearly," I pressed, adding a bit of pressure.

"Well, uh, it's not my fault! My head's spinning, and my thoughts are all jumbled," he stammered, his nervous demeanor growing more apparent.

His behavior was suspicious, but I had to tread carefully. He might not have been directly involved, but he definitely knew more than he was saying. Time was ticking, and I couldn't afford to waste it.

"Mr. William, providing false testimony is a crime," I pressed harder, my voice firm. "If you're withholding information or not being entirely truthful, it could end very badly for you." He was close to breaking. Just a little more pressure.

"I'm telling the truth! I'm an honest man, I swear, I.....I....." he stammered, desperately searching for an excuse.

Before he could finish, we were interrupted. My partner, Harvey Bullock, entered the room.

"Leave him alone, Gordon," Harvey said with his usual weary tone. "Come on, I found something." He gestured for me to follow.

Though I wanted to keep pushing William, Harvey was right—this lead could wait. The bigger priority was finding the supplier.

We walked into the back alley, which looked like a battlefield. The asphalt was cracked and cratered, the furniture reduced to splinters, and blood was smeared everywhere.

"Take a look at this," Harvey said, pointing to a cluster of shoe prints in the blood. "Either our suspect is a dwarf, or this was a kid."

"You're saying some kid fought a superhuman and managed to walk away on his own two feet?" I asked, skeptical.

"I'm not saying anything. What's the owner been telling you?" Harvey asked, referring to the interrogation he'd interrupted.

"He claims it was a middle-aged man," I replied, frustrated. "But the evidence tells a different story. If he's lying, he's either protecting someone he knows or afraid for his life. The missing footage suggests the second man either erased it himself or the owner helped cover for him."

"Either way, we're short on time," Harvey said bluntly. "We need to focus on finding the courier. This can wait."

I nodded reluctantly. "You're right. Let's head back to the precinct, track down that supplier, and put an end to this drug. The longer we wait, the higher the body count."

We wrapped up at the scene and quickly made our way back to the precinct. The "mystery kid" case would have to take a backseat for now—and might even fizzle out entirely. There wasn't much point in chasing him down; technically, he hadn't broken any laws, aside from inflicting multiple injuries on the addict, who'd ended up dying from his own actions.

Whoever this kid was, I had a feeling he'd surface again eventually.

End POV

POV Brian Foreman

Late in the evening, as I lounged in front of the TV, the news caught my attention. They were discussing the same drug I'd seen someone inject right before my eyes. I'd witnessed its effects firsthand.

"At last, the spread of the drug terrorizing our city has been halted. Detectives James Gordon and Harvey Bullock have tracked down the supplier of this dangerous substance. Key suspects are already being interrogated, and verdicts will soon be announced. Now, onto other news. Tonight, there will be..."

I stopped paying attention. Coincidence or not, today of all days I had to get mixed up in something like that. I really should've gone out tomorrow instead.

As I flipped through the channels absentmindedly, the sound of the house phone ringing broke my focus. My mom picked it up, and after a brief exchange, she called out to me.

"Brian, it's for you," she said, holding the phone out expectantly.

I sighed, got up from the couch, and walked over. Taking the phone from her, I pressed it to my ear.

"Hello?" I said.

"Hey, Brian. It's Bruce," came the voice on the other end. A voice I hadn't heard in a long time.