Starting With Batman

Haig, after taking the punch, lay there; he felt a loud ringing in his ears. His vision blurred, and as he spat blood onto the cold tarmac, a swirl of disbelief and confusion filled his mind. How could this happen? How could he, a trained killer, get hit like that?

Meanwhile, Frank stood frozen, utterly dumbfounded by the sight before him.

He had watched the entire exchange, his trained eyes following every move. Haig's footwork, his timing—it was all perfect. Even the punch was textbook, aimed to disarm and overpower. By all logic, it should have been enough to knock out any opponent, let alone a girl who looked more like she was playing dress-up than an actual fighter. And yet, she had barely moved, hadn't even bothered with a proper stance. Instead, she had just stood there, arms relaxed, head tilted slightly, like she was... bored.

Frank's mind couldn't process what his eyes had just seen. Haig had thrown a punch, and the girl had answered with a simple, straight jab—no finesse, no preparation, no technique. It was the kind of punch you might see in a bar fight, crude and unrefined. But the results spoke for themselves.

Haig was hit.

And not just hit—he had been devastated.

Haig, still reeling from the blow, forced himself to stand. His eyes locked onto the girl, burning with rage and disbelief. He refused to believe that such a simple move had bested him. Gritting his teeth, he adjusted his stance, preparing to strike again, this time determined to overpower her. His muscles tensed, and he swung his arm forward in a feint, a move designed to trick her into dodging. It was a setup—a fake punch meant to force her into a mistake.

But the girl didn't flinch. She didn't even blink. Instead, she took a single step forward, closing the distance between them in a heartbeat. Her body moved with the casual ease of someone who wasn't in a fight but simply walking down a street.

Then, she punched again. A simple, direct punch—straight to Haig's throat.

It was so fast, so precise, that Haig's reflexes couldn't catch up. The blow landed perfectly in the soft spot of his neck, cutting off his air and sending shockwaves through his entire body. His legs gave out beneath him, his strength draining like water down a drain. His hand, which had been mid-swing, stopped halfway, powerless.

Coughing, eyes wide with shock, Haig staggered back. His mind screamed at him to fight, to retaliate, but his body refused to respond. Before he could recover, the girl spun with a swift motion, her leg arcing through the air like a whip. Her foot connected with the side of Haig's head in a blur, and the sheer force of the kick sent him sprawling onto the ground. He collapsed in a heap, motionless.

Frank's heart pounded in his chest as he watched Haig fall. The towering giant, who had once broken bones and crushed skulls with his bare hands, was now lying unconscious on the ground. All of it had happened in less than five seconds.

This can't be real, Frank thought, his breath shallow.

The girl—no, the bat—turned her attention to him. She stepped forward with the same unhurried, confident stride, her eyes locked onto Frank. She was daring him, beckoning him to make a move.

Her small hand emerged from the folds of her cape, and with a subtle flick of her fingers, she made a beckoning gesture. The silent challenge was clear: Your turn.

Frank's hands trembled as he took a slow step forward. "Haig? Get up!" he barked, his voice trembling more than he intended. But there was no response from the man on the ground. Haig was down for the count.

"Damn it…" Frank muttered under his breath, his mind racing. He had faced all kinds of threats in his line of work—mercenaries, trained soldiers, and even the occasional infected freaks. But this… this was something else.

He took a breath, feigning nonchalance. "You think I'll go down as easily as that big oaf?" he sneered, trying to keep his voice steady. He took two steps toward her, slowly drawing a throwing knife from his sleeve. "Think again…"

Mid-sentence, Frank's arm snapped forward, and with a flick of his wrist, he let the blade fly. It was a classic move—mid-sentence, mid-step—designed to catch any opponent off guard. He was fast, faster than most could track, and this blade was aimed directly for her throat.

But Batgirl was faster.

Without hesitation, her hand shot up and caught the knife out of the air. The movement was so fluid, so effortless, that it seemed almost rehearsed. And before Frank could even blink, she flung the knife back at him. It flew in a perfect arc, hurtling straight toward his face.

Frank ducked just in time, the knife whizzing past his head, so close he could feel the rush of air as it passed. He fell back, landing hard on his side as the knife embedded itself in the wall behind him with a loud thunk.

Breathing heavily, Frank scrambled to his feet, panic now gripping him tightly. This wasn't a fight. This wasn't even a contest. She wasn't just playing with him—she was dismantling him.

He pulled another knife from his belt and made a desperate lunge toward her. His dagger flashed in the dim light as he stabbed toward her chest, hoping to drive the blade deep. But her movements were too quick. She sidestepped, her arm snaking around his, locking it in place with a move so swift it was almost invisible.

A loud crack echoed through the air as his arm dislocated from his shoulder. Pain surged through Frank's body, and the dagger clattered uselessly to the ground.

Frank's breath hitched in his throat as he stumbled back, clutching his limp arm. His vision swam, and the pain made him nauseous. But it wasn't just the physical pain that overwhelmed him—it was the sheer hopelessness of it all. He had been outclassed in every possible way.

It wasn't just that she was fast. It wasn't just that she was strong. She had anticipated his every move, like she had seen this fight unfold a thousand times before. His tricks, his techniques—they were nothing to her. It was as if she knew exactly where he would strike before he even moved.

His moves, once his pride and joy, felt clumsy and amateurish in comparison.

She knew. She knew exactly how to take him apart.

Frank staggered away, throwing two more knives in desperation. But they missed, clattering harmlessly to the ground as Batgirl closed the distance between them once again.

With his arm dangling uselessly at his side, Frank turned and made a run for the helicopter. If he could just get to the chopper, maybe he could escape. Maybe he could still get out of this alive.

But before he could even take two steps, a bat-shaped dart sailed past him, embedding itself into the helicopter's hull.

For a moment, Frank thought she had missed. He stopped, panting, and let out a bitter laugh. "You missed!" he shouted, his voice shrill with desperation.

But then the dart blinked red twice.

The explosion was deafening. The helicopter erupted into a fiery inferno, its metal frame twisting and buckling under the force of the blast. The shockwave hit Frank like a freight train, sending him sprawling to the ground. His vision swam as the heat of the explosion seared his skin.

Dazed and battered, Frank groaned and lifted his head. The helicopter was now a smoldering wreck, burning fiercely in the middle of the tarmac.

He turned his head and saw Batgirl, still approaching, her expression unchanged, her steps unhurried.

Fear gripped Frank's heart as he crawled backward, his voice barely a whisper. "What... what the hell are you?"

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Posted up to chapter 162

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