Chapter 109: 109

Words : 1108 Updated : Oct 5th, 2025

| Dream State - August 22 Dent knelt alone in an endless expanse of white. The ground shimmered faintly beneath him, just reflective enough to catch his attention. His reflection made him pause. It was his old face—intact, unscarred. The man he was before the acid, before Two-Face. He even wore a clean, full gray suit. Beside him knelt another version of himself—disheveled, ruined. The Two-Face the world knew. Half his face a horror show, white hair stringy and scorched. His suit split in color: gray on one side, off-white on the other. Between them pulsed a silver cord. Dent looked up. Bullseye stood nearby, flanked by a humanoid figure made of shifting, voxel-like shapes. The thing moved with surreal fluidity as it approached. "Dent? How? What is this?" rasped Two-Face, glancing around, confused. "Where the hell are we?" Dent remained silent. He didn't know either. The voxel being reached out and, in one sudden motion, lifted Two-Face by the throat. Two-Face thrashed and wheezed, legs kicking. "Help!" he choked, his voice thin with panic. But Dent didn't move. He watched, wide-eyed, as the creature began to absorb him. Two-Face's form grew more translucent by the second. The silver cord linking them frayed—then unraveled. And then he was gone. So was the cord. Dent felt... weaker. A little emptier. The voxel figure turned to him and placed a hand on his shoulder. Dent tensed, terror creeping in—but instead of fading, he felt energy surge through him. Strength. Clarity. Wholeness. He blinked— And they were back. Reality slammed into him like a wave. He gasped. "What the fuck was that?" Bullseye stood calmly, arms folded. "My power, aside from enhanced physicality. Undetectable. Lethal. Especially effective against split personalities. Satisfied now?" Dent took a shaky breath, collecting himself. Bullseye hadn't been bluffing when he told that guard he could end him. "Yeah," he said finally. "I haven't even seen you in a real fight yet, but I'm convinced. You did me a favor getting rid of that parasite. I'm in." He stood and extended a hand. Bullseye took it. "Then let's begin. I want intel on every gang in the East End. I'll eliminate them one by one. You loot them. Use the cash to expand and entrench your control. East End first. Then one day all of Gotham." ** | Gotham City - August 23 Joseph crouched on a rooftop across from a gang hideout, moonlight at his back. The street below was dim and quiet. Dent had misunderstood an expression as his name, but it worked. He needed a name anyway. So Bullseye it was. His new suit was courtesy of Harvey Dent—still operating under his old alias. Dark blue tactical suit hugged Joseph's frame. A balaclava concealed his face. His black gloves bore silver target symbols on the back of the hands. Holsters lined his belt and thighs, bristling with knives, a pistol, and gas grenades. The pistol—a blued Arminius HW-9 ST revolver—had once belonged to Two-Face. A gesture of trust. He hadn't needed to use it. Joseph still found it surreal. The power at his disposal—he could level whole city blocks if he wanted. Fly. Burn through almost anyone on Earth. But playing Bullseye? This was restraint. A chance to fight with finesse. His martial arts, usually pointless in real combat due to the sheer overkill of his powers, got actual use now. With his enhanced physique and uncanny aim, fights were still quick—but they were satisfying. A bit like smurfing in a game. Too easy, but still fun. This would be the 16th gang he'd cleared. Dent gave him intel. Bullseye acted. The process was simple: infiltrate, neutralize everyone, and Dent's crew would sweep in to loot and recruit. Depending on the gang's record, members would either join Dent's growing army, end up in Blackgate, or die—especially those guilty of the worst crimes. These weren't the major players yet. Just small and mid-tier crews, 15 to 30 strong, involved in petty rackets—drugs, extortion, illegal gambling, fencing, drug trafficking, loan sharking, and the like. The big gangs? Whole different beast—hundreds, sometimes thousands strong. Political corruption. Large-scale smuggling operations. Front businesses. Human trafficking. Contract killings. Real syndicates. They weren't ready for that yet. But they would be. Dent's original crew of 52 had ballooned to over 250. Loyalty in Gotham's underworld meant little. Power, protection, profit—that's what mattered. And Two-Face delivered. Joseph stood. His Nova sense swept the building. 21 targets. He leapt from the rooftop, landing silently two stories down. Two intoxicated lookouts stumbled at the noise, trying to raise their weapons. Too slow. Two flicks of his wrist—knives buried in their hands, knocking pistols loose. Joseph grabbed their heads and smashed them into the door, bursting inside. Eighteen men inside drew guns. Before the first shot was fired, Bullseye was already moving. He flung three more knives mid-sprint—each hitting a wrist, a shoulder, a gun barrel. Screams followed. He dove behind a table as bullets shredded it, then slid low, grabbing one of the fallen thugs before hurling his body into a pair of shooters like a bowling ball. Another rushed him with a bat. Joseph caught the swing mid-air and dislocated the guy's arm with a single twist, then swept his legs and sent him crashing headfirst into a chair. He sent a grenade bouncing across the floor. Smoke filled the room. Perfect. In the chaos, Joseph moved like a ghost. Disarming, disabling, breaking bones and noses with surgical precision. He willingly took two shots to the vest—it didn't even leave a bruise. His gloves cracked a jaw here, a rib there. He flipped one man into a vending machine, knocked another out cold with a thrown pistol he'd picked off the floor. Less than two minutes later, the room was quiet. Groans. Blood. Knives in walls. Disarmed weapons everywhere. Bullseye's suit was barely scratched. He walked down a hallway, his Nova sense pinging another presence—in the bathroom. He opened the door. The stench hit him instantly. "Jesus Christ," he muttered, staggering back. Someone was in the last stall. Diarrhea. Violent, from the sound—and smell—of it. The man hadn't moved through the whole commotion. Even now, silent. Probably praying Bullseye didn't notice. "I know you're in there," Joseph called, annoyed. "I wiped out your entire crew. So after you wipe, surrender." A pause. Then: "...Fuck it. Thanks, man." Joseph shook his head in mild amusement and disgust, then tapped his comm. "Another one down, Dent. Bring your guys."

Chapter 109: 109

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