Killing Batman: The Silver Mask Chapter 4.

Chapter 4: Back To the Nest.

-3 weeks later-

-Gotham City — Present Day-

-Acheron Byrne-Sionis, Age 17-

(Ash's P.O.V)

The plane lands in Gotham just before dawn.

The air smells the same—smog, oil, desperation.

I’m dressed in uniform for Gotham High. Fake transcripts. IRA front already built in the Narrows, disguised as a Catholic youth center. Weapons already shipped.

I check my burner phone. One message.

(Wayne Foundation gala. Tomorrow. Attend. Observe.)

I delete it and walk toward the terminal exit.

I’m back. Older. Sharper. Ready.

Batman’s still out there, somewhere behind a mask.

So am I.

I watch the skyline through the taxi window as we pass mile after mile of cracked pavement and blinking neon.

The city never changes. It rots, heals, and rots again—like a scar someone keeps picking.

I’ve changed. And that’s the problem.

-7:02 AM –

-Byrne Family Apartment, Park Row-

The apartment’s small, but expensive-looking. Paid in full by a shell charity registered in Ireland—“The Byrne Cultural Exchange Fund.”

Fronting IRA cash through a fake cultural outreach NGO was almost too easy.

Photos line the walls. Staged. Fake grandparents. A dead dog named Guinness.

I unpack slowly. The Silver Mask stays in its case under the bed.

That identity sleeps... for now.

I catch my reflection on the full length mirror beside the closet. Sharp jaw, gray eyes, red hair and a smattering of freckles across my nose.

My body is littered with scars, some from knives, two on the shoulder from a bullet graze and patch of sewn skin caused by a grenade going off close to me.

But the scars don't detract from my slim, tightly packed muscles. I look like a killer. I HAD trained like one. Honed my physique at the death tournaments hosted in the highlands of the Sperrin Mountains.

Honed my combat skills against Krav Maga instructors, IRA special forces and Mercenaries. Learned the art of ambushes and Guerilla warfare from the Flying Columns.

It would be arrogant to consider myself the ultimate weapon. But I am damn near.

-11:32 AM – Gotham High School, First Day-

Gotham High smells like bleach and old gum. The hallway chatter is the same in every country—too loud, too full of people who think today matters.

I wear the uniform. Neat. Perfectly ironed.

I walk into AP History five minutes early and take the back corner seat. Some of them look at me—curious, bored, maybe a little cautious. I make sure I look harmless.

A rich kid across the room—Elliot Kane—whispers something to a girl in lacrosse gear.

They stare at me laugh. I smile back.

Let them think I’m soft.

-Lunch – Outdoor Courtyard-

I sit alone. Not because I have to, but because observation requires distance.

Two people draw my attention.

Barbara Gordon. Red hair tied back. Athletic jacket over a tank top. Eyes that scan more than they rest. She doesn’t move like a student. She moves like someone looking for trouble.

Gordon's dead face flash in my mind. And I wonder if Barbara knows how close her father's killer is. I also wonder if she knows Batman's identity. Might be worth investigating her.

Then there’s Helena Wayne. Some possible relation to Bruce Wayne maybe. Black leather jacket, boots that scrape the concrete like she owns it. She steals food from the kid next to her and laughs when he protests.

No mask. But she’s definitely has my interest.

I file both away.

-3:45 PM – Youth Center, The Narrows-

My IRA contacts have already set up shop inside a decommissioned Catholic church.

The community thinks it’s a rehab program for troubled kids. In reality, it’s a weapons depot, crypto laundering server hub, and recruiting funnel. Funded through micro-loans, church donations, and laundered European wire transfers.

Cormac’s man Padraig is already there, going through a shipment.

“You really think this’ll work?” he mutters, inspecting an unassembled rifle.

“It’s already working,” I reply. “No one’s watching the Narrows. They’re watching Arkham. Watching Iceberg Lounge. The past.”

Padraig chuckles. “And what’re you?”

“The future,” I say.

Before leaving, I instruct him to expand the property. The church alone is not enough.

-8:01 PM – Rooftop opposite Wayne Tower-

I sit on the ledge, hoodie pulled up, scope pressed to my eye. Watching the penthouse windows across the street.

The Wayne Foundation Gala is in full swing. Filled with Gotham elite. But even through the sea of old money and corrupt politicians, he sticks out like a sore thumb.

Bruce Wayne.

He’s pacing. Alone. No Alfred.

I zoom in as he enters his office.

Empty tumbler. Two phones on the desk. A safe in the floor under the rug. His back's straight, but there's weight in the way he moves.

A man who carries ghosts.

He doesn’t know yet, but he's my most likely candidate to be Batman. I'll need to observe him some more before I can act.

And in the meantime, I'll rebuild my army and prepare for war.

I leave just as a short haired beautiful brunette in a black dress enters his office and the lights dim.

Gotham – The Narrows

-Six Days After Arrival-

The Narrows are a graveyard with street signs.

Rotten wood, cracked windows, power lines hanging like nooses. Gotham's poor always live just close enough to the rich to remember what they’ll never have.

It’s perfect.

The old St. Brigid’s senior retirement home sits on the eastern edge besides our church base- only separated by a graveyard in between the two properties. Boarded windows and a burnt-out steeple mark its silhouette.

Padraig managed to acquire the whole 10 acres of land, using my savings from selling my family's business. Then we extended the youth center and on paper it read—Byrne Family Community Development Program.

Gotham’s zoning board approved it in two days. No one looked twice.

They never do when the poor are involved.

-10:14 AM – Office in the Church Basement-

It's a Saturday, meaning no school.

The basement smells like mildew and dust. We’ve gutted the pews, reinforced the walls, and set up a multi-function space: weapons in crates disguised as food donations, cash hidden behind false walls, an encrypted server bank behind the altar.

Padraig goes over inventory on a scratched-up tablet.

“We’ve got six crates left from Belfast,” he mutters. “Three Aks, one with grenade launchers. Couple of Glock boxes. Homemade pipe bombs, courtesy of the lads in Derry. Drones arrive next week.”

I nod. “Any attention?”

“Not yet. We’re using the same routes Penguin uses for his contraband booze. Greased the port inspectors. It’s clean.”

It better be. Penguin knows better than to cross me. We traded territory once—I gave him docks in Cork, he gave me breathing room in Gotham. I'm still going to kill the little fuck but only after he's outlived his usefulness.

I step toward the front of the basement where Sean, a 16-year-old from the neighborhood, is cleaning rust from a rifle barrel. He doesn’t flinch when I approach. That’s a good sign.

“You ever use one of these?” I ask.

He nods. “My brother taught me before he got locked up.”

I hand him a scope. “Then you’ll teach the next three boys tomorrow. You’re a trainer now.”

He straightens up. “Yes, sir.”

Power doesn’t come from speeches. It comes from repetition. Give them a purpose. Give them a weapon. Call it loyalty.

-2:37 PM – Local Bodega, Two Blocks Away-

I walk the Narrows alone when I can, a porcelain gray mask on my face. Not to be seen. To be remembered.

A girl outside the shop asks for money. I give her twenty and tell her to come to the church. Her mom’s been arrested twice for dealing pills. That means she knows people. She’ll talk.

Inside, I meet with Marcus Doyle, the shop owner and local fix-it guy. He stocks for the whole street, but he owes money to Penguin. I offer to clear it—no interest.

“You serious?” he asks.

I nod. “Just send anyone who needs help our way. Job training. Food. Quiet work.”

“You gonna save the Narrows?” he asks, half-joking.

“No,” I say. “I’m going to own it.”

He blinks. Then nods.

(6:12 PM – Youth Meeting in Main Hall)

We’ve got fifteen kids. Some orphans, some runaways, some gang-affiliated. I don’t sell ideology—I sell opportunity.

Padraig does most of the talking. “This is about unity. This is about building something that lasts. You’ve all been ignored. Cast off. That ends now.”

I watch from the back. Quiet. Calculating.

When it’s over, I walk among them. Shake hands. Say their names back to them. No titles. No weapons. Just intent.

A kid named Denny asks what the group is for.

I smile. “We're builders. Of the future.”

“Future of what?”

'A gotham without Batman.' I inwardly say but externally, I smile and sell them hope.

“Whatever Gotham doesn't see coming.”

-10:23 PM – Rooftop, Looking at the Narrows-

I sit on the edge of the steeple, the city glowing faint in the distance. The Narrows below me are quiet. But not asleep. Never asleep.

This isn’t just a branch of the IRA anymore. That’s the excuse.

This is the beginning of something bigger.

A shadow network.

Money. Arms. Soldiers.

And eventually—vengeance.

'Let Batman patrol the streets. I’ll own the city underneath.'