Down the stairs they went—two heavily armed figures in matching combat armor, swaggering through Wayne Enterprises as if they owned the pce. The security cameras lining the halls? Completely ignored.

  Su Ming had started out on the rooftop, unsure what was going on down here, but seeing how unbothered Cindy was, he figured this was all part of the pn. Probably bait to lure out Batwoman.

  When they reached Bliss Wayne’s office, Cindy casually smashed open the liquor cabinet and helped herself to two expensive-looking bottles, completely unfazed by the bring arms echoing through the halls.

  She twisted one open, took a sip, smacked her lips thoughtfully, and nodded.

  Without a word, she tossed the other bottle to Su Ming. Then, the two of them stepped into the elevator like they were headed to a lunch meeting.

  Normally, Deathstroke wouldn’t be caught dead in an elevator—way too easy to trap someone inside, cut the power, and turn it into a steel coffin. But Cindy stepped in like it was no big deal, so he followed without comment.

  If she wasn’t worried, it probably meant she’d already cleaned house downstairs.

  His mind jumped to that conclusion instantly—quicker and sharper than his old self could’ve managed. Honestly, with a brain like this back in his original world, he probably could’ve coasted through any college on a full ride.

  Ding!

  The elevator doors slid open on the ground floor.

  They stepped out to chaos.

  Dozens of guards—most of them stunningly attractive women, because of course this was Wayne Enterprises—were sprawled across the marble floor, either unconscious or faking it real well. Furniture y in pieces, artwork smashed, the whole lobby looking like it had hosted a small war. Clearly Cindy's handiwork.

  Su Ming took a look around. Even the security staff here were cover-model material. No wonder—this was a world where women ran the show, and aesthetics were apparently part of the job description.

  He still wasn’t used to this matriarchal dystopia. His instincts kept assessing women based on looks first, just like in the world he came from.

  “Let’s go. They’re alive,” Cindy said, not even turning her head.

  She’d deliberately let the guards live—probably so they could report the incident to Bliss. The chances of that actually drawing out Batwoman were slim, but it was worth a shot. Besides, knocking them out hadn’t taken much effort.

  “You drive? Do you even know where Harley is?”

  “Of course. She’s probably still hanging around with the Jester’s circus crew.”

  They stepped through the shattered gss doors into the downpour. Across the street, a few shadowy figures lurked in the alley, watching—until they spotted Deathstroke walking out of the building. Then they bolted like roaches under a kitchen light.

  They’d just been looking to loot something during the security breach. But if he was involved? Yeah, not worth it.

  Cindy’s ride was parked across the road—a beat-up American Jeep, utterly unassuming from the outside, but the inside was a walking armory. No trash, just an ungodly number of weapons. The backseat alone held a stack of RPGs and two massive ammo crates.

  Su Ming climbed into the passenger seat—and immediately sat on a grenade.

  He fished it out from under him and held it up. “Your grenade.”

  “Nope,” Cindy replied without missing a beat. “That one’s yours.” Her voice buzzed with amusement under her mask as she started the engine. “And FYI, seducing me won’t work. I only work for money.”

  Su Ming blinked, baffled. Seducing?! He was just giving her back a damn grenade!

  “Oh, right,” he muttered. “In this world, everything’s flipped. Guys are the delicate ones, the ones being courted, given flowers, treated like prizes. It’s the women doing the chasing…”

  He shuddered. The thought of accidentally flirting with her by handing her something shaped like… that was deeply disturbing.

  Back home, if a woman had pulled a cylindrical object from under her ass and handed it to him, he would've definitely gotten the wrong idea.

  “No, seriously. That wasn’t a come-on. I’m just… not used to this world yet.”

  “Ohhhh, suuure,” Cindy said, with absolutely zero sincerity, gunning the engine.

  The Jeep tore through the rain-slicked streets, headlights casting flickering shadows across the cabin. Cindy clearly knew the roads well; Su Ming kept himself busy prepping his gear.

  Because if they were going after Harley Quinn, things were about to get real messy.

  The Clown Princess of Crime meant the Joker Gang was involved. And those psychos weren’t just cospy nutcases—they were full-on cultists. Fanatics. The kind of people who’d strap explosives to themselves just for a ugh. Literally.

  Worse, some of them carried ughing gas, that twisted Joker toxin that made you die with a smile on your face.

  He checked the two guns strapped to his legs but decided not to use them—not yet. He wasn’t ready to start killing. His modified bo staff, with its built-in taser, would be enough.

  Funny, he thought, even mall cops use stun batons. Maybe that’s why I ended up in Deathstroke’s body.

  Still, prepping the bo staff didn’t take long, and the silence crept in again.

  “I don’t like Gotham,” he muttered, half to break the tension, half because it was true. “This city’s… too crazy.”

  Cindy gnced over. “Why? I always got along great here.”

  “Oh, me too,” he added quickly. “But don’t you feel like… our whole style doesn’t fit here? People in Gotham think differently. Their brains are wired all wrong.”

  He wasn’t sure she’d get the joke. The quiet was starting to feel awkward, and he just needed to say something.

  Right then, they ran a red light and spshed a man with filthy rainwater. The guy—an armed local—immediately pulled out a gun and opened fire.

  Cindy just winked her taillights at him, giggling.

  “See?” she said. “Everyone here’s insane. Honestly, if business wasn’t so good, I’d be living in Star City.”

  Green Arrow’s town. The vilins there were tough, sure, but at least they weren’t Gotham crazy.

  If Atntis really was pnning to flood the world, Su Ming knew he’d have to fight. No choice if he wanted to survive. But he still wasn’t ready to kill. Not like the real Deathstroke.

  It wasn’t some moral superiority complex. It was just… hard to go from a stable, peaceful life to cold-blooded murder overnight.

  He knew, though, that it wouldn’t matter. Even if Atntis wasn’t the immediate threat, Deathstroke had more than enough enemies to drag him into hell sooner or ter.

  Right then, a rocket shot out from a rooftop, trailing white smoke.

  Su Ming’s enhanced reflexes kicked in. He could see the absurdly grinning face painted on the warhead, droplets of rain glinting on the metal like shattered gss in the streetlight.

  “Jump!” Cindy shouted, already diving out the door.

  He followed instinctively, enhanced body moving before his brain even processed it. Cindy nded like a pro.

  Su Ming… did not.

  He crashed into a pile of trash bags with a squishy thud.

  The Jeep exploded behind him, fragments soaring through the air like fireworks. In the firelight, he caught Cindy gncing back at him, and—for some reason—it looked like she was in a good mood.

  Then the real fireworks began.

  Gunfire erupted from the rooftops, louder than the storm, echoing down the empty street. The muzzle fshes lit up the rain like a strobe light at a rave.

  Bullets pinged off Deathstroke’s armor. Painful, sure—Nth metal wasn’t exactly shock-absorbent—but nowhere near enough to penetrate.

  They scattered. Cindy ducked behind the corner of a nearby building, her pistol already in hand, returning fire with short, controlled bursts.

  Su Ming ended up behind a dumpster. Somehow, he was already holding a gun. He wasn’t even sure when he’d drawn it.

  Before he knew it, several of the attackers—women with clown makeup smeared across their faces—were down. Dead.

  Their bodies dropped from above like sacks of meat, spshing into puddles or smming against the fming wreckage.

  Some twitched. Others let out one final gasp. Most just hit the ground like discarded mannequins.

  What the hell? he thought. I spent all that time freaking out about killing, mentally preparing myself, and then my body just… did it?

  No revulsion. No guilt. Just that weird, electric rush of adrenaline.

  Guess that answers that. No more pretending. I’ve crossed the line—I might as well keep going.

  Gritting his teeth, he leaned out and opened fire again.

  Call it instinct. Call it resignation. Deathstroke’s combat training was baked into his muscles. And Su Ming? He could either use it—or die.

  This was Gotham. You didn’t get to be "normal" here.

  And if it was a question of who could out-crazy the other, he was damn sure ready to py.

  Together, the two Deathstrokes made quick work of the Joker goons. Within minutes, the gunfire died down. The street fell silent again, the rain washing away the blood and powder like it never happened.

  No sirens. No cops. Nobody came.

  In Gotham, corpses were just background noise.

  If you were lucky, someone would dump your body in a mass grave or incinerate it. If you weren’t…

  Well, let’s just say the city had no shortage of insane cannibal priests, broke anatomy professors, and lunatics who needed corpses for their “art.”

  “This,” Cindy said, swapping out her magazines with a grin, “is why I love Gotham. Warm hospitality, charming locals, and constant live-fire entertainment. Perfect vacation spot.”

  “Yeah,” Su Ming muttered, brushing off a soggy lettuce leaf from his shoulder. “And here I thought all the fun lived in Arkham. Turns out the rest of the neighborhood’s just as lively.”

  The rain picked up, washing off the grime as they regrouped.

  Cindy looked around, squinting into the storm, then pointed down the block. “Come on. Let’s go have a little chat with Harley. Figure out what the hell is wrong with these people.”

  Su Ming exhaled a breath of tension and followed, cracking a dry joke. “I’m no shrink, but I’m pretty sure the technical term is ‘batshit insane.’”

  Cssic Deathstroke—dry humor after the kill. Right on brand.

  The buildings around them loomed like monsters in the dark, windows and doors like hollow eyes and gaping mouths, staring into the void with dead expressions that could eat your soul.

  This was the Joker Gang’s territory now. The abandoned apartment buildings on either side had been decorated with garish murals—Joker faces, pying cards, magic props. Some of the paint was still fresh, dripping in the rain.

  Everything above them was dark—except for one building, glowing with colorful lights through the upstairs windows.

  That had to be Harley’s hideout.

  If the Jester was in prison, then Harley was either pnning his breakout… or having an emotional meltdown.

  But Su Ming didn’t buy the tter.

  No way she hadn’t heard the shootout just now.

  As they got closer, the sound of music—loud, angry rock and screamed lyrics—spilled from the open window above.

  Cindy cocked her head. “Huh. Looks like our little Harley isn’t quite as heartbroken as we thought. She’s working out.”

  Sure enough, beneath the music, they could hear the rhythmic thump of boots on wooden floorboards.

  In the main continuity, Harley Quinn had once been a psychiatrist at Arkham Asylum. But during her work with the Joker, she’d fallen under his spell and helped him escape—then spent years at his side, enabling his chaos. Unfortunately for her, Joker saw her as disposable, a pawn to distract Batman or catch a bullet.

  But in the DC multiverse? Their retionship varied wildly.

  On Earth-37, they were lesbian lovers. In the New 52 timeline, Harley broke free, joined the Birds of Prey, and even had a will-they-won’t-they thing with Batman.

  One thing stayed the same, though—Harley Quinn was brilliant. Genius-level intellect, Olympic-level acrobatics.

  She liked music. She liked books. And when she had time, she liked to dance.

  She was wild. She was chaotic. But she knew, deep down, that she was a good girl.