Tonight, the rain over Gotham continued, with no sign of stopping.
The icy rain struck Wilson Morgan's face and body like countless fine needles, mingling with the cold sweat at his temples and dripping steadily from his chin.
He limped frantically through the narrow, damp alley, his heavy soles splashing through the water pooled on the flagstones. Dirty water soaked his trouser cuffs, leaving them clinging clamminess to his calves.
Every step tugged at his aching muscles, and the dull pain from his wounds made even keeping his balance a struggle.
His eyes were bloodshot and wide, his face etched with utter terror. His lips trembled, but he dared not make a single unnecessary sound.
It was as though he feared his cries for help would draw that fiend in the red mask straight to him.
The middle-aged man's chest heaved violently. His lungs felt ready to burst, and even his breath was beginning to carry the taste of dried rust.
Fortunately, stray drops of rain kept sliding down his fat face to his lips, and Wilson deliberately stuck out his tongue to lick them into his mouth.
After once again soothing his burning throat a little with rainwater, the middle-aged man could not resist looking back. The alley was pitch-black, with only the faint glow of a distant streetlamp casting long, hazy shadows through the rain. He could not tell whether that terrifying figure was behind him.
But he did not recklessly stop. After a brief hesitation, he crouched a little lower, clutched his leg, and continued dragging himself forward.
After fleeing for who knew how long, he finally burst out of the maze of narrow alleys onto a broad but deathly silent street.
During the earlier virus incident, two formidable fighters-the infected Superman and Batman-had fought a no-holds-barred