Drink This Cup

Outside the window, people were thrown into chaos, with gunfire and screams everywhere. Inside, however, it was another scene entirely—quiet and peaceful.

The old desk lamp cast a soft, warm yellow glow. It was not especially bright, but it illuminated the entire table just enough.

Lord Falcone, his hair already gray at the temples, sat behind the desk with a glass of aged tequila half-raised in his hand. Amid the haze of smoke, a dim gray-red ember glowed as the old man savored a top-grade cigar.

"This is the last one. Mm... it doesn't taste quite as good anymore."

Though he said that, Falcone had no intention of putting down the cigar. He raised his hand and drained the liquor, setting the glass on the desk. Ice cubes clinked crisply as one hand reached into the open drawer and took out a brass revolver.

"Really brings back memories."

A name was engraved on the revolver's grip, but under the dim light, it could no longer be seen clearly.

With a sweep of his hand, brass bullets scattered across the desktop, rolling everywhere. When they struck the glass, they made a pleasant sound.

His eyes slightly narrowed, the aged Falcone loaded the revolver one bullet at a time. He flicked his wrist to set the cylinder back in place, cocked the hammer, leaned against the velvet-backed wooden chair behind him, sighed softly, and raised his gun, quietly aiming it at the door.

The ember flickered, casting shifting shadows across old Falcone's face.

"Sir!"

The door was pushed open, and Falcone's butler entered. "We need to evacuate—"

Bang!

The bullet struck the doorframe beside the butler's ear. Wood splinters flew, stinging his face.

"Sir..."

"Leave, Munro."

"But—"

"Munro."

"...Yes, sir. Your will is everything."

The butler gave a half-bow, then backed away. He grasped the doorknob and slowly pulled the door shut.

Through the narrowing gap, the butler realized for the first time that the master he had served for thirty years had become so old.

He could not even sit up straight anymore.

Click. The door closed again.

Falcone shifted into a more comfortable position against the backrest, still holding his gun quietly toward the door as he waited for something.

The sounds and flashes of fire no longer appeared.

When had that happened? A minute ago? Ten?

Falcone was somewhat dazed.

His finger twitched, and ash from the burned-out cigar fell onto the carpet like a tiny chimney.

"What a shame. I haven't seen cigar ash with such a nice shape in a long time."

The old man muttered to himself.

At that moment, the overly quiet room suddenly made Falcone feel that perhaps a house being too large was not a good thing.

Like now—when there was no sound at all, the emptiness was a little unnerving.

"Heh. Better to have some noise."

A faint song suddenly rose from the hallway outside the door, airy and terrifying.

"OH my darling oh my darling~"

"oh my darling clementine~"

"you were lost and gone forever~"

"dreadful sorry clementine~~"

Then the singing abruptly stopped.

Clang, clang, clang.

Someone knocked on the door.

Falcone's temples throbbed violently. His nostrils flared, his pupils dilated, and a layer of fine cold sweat formed in his palms.

Trembling, he poured himself another drink, grabbed the glass, and gulped it down.

Perhaps it was the alcohol, or perhaps Falcone had figured something out. He calmed down again and said as imposingly as possible, "P-please, come in."

With a creak, the door was slowly pushed open.

Bang bang bang bang bang!

The instant he saw a pitch-black human silhouette in the doorway, Falcone frantically pulled the trigger, firing every remaining bullet in the gun.

"Ah, you old bastard. Just as expected."

The unlucky squad captain Lynn was dragging had gained five more holes from Falcone's shots—holes that would not bleed.

Casually tossing the squad captain, who had died once again, onto the floor, Falcone finally saw exactly who his enemy was and what he looked like.

"Hello. Hey, don't be like that."

Panicked people always found it hard to control the trembling of their fingers. Falcone now discovered that he simply could not get the bullets into the gun.

His vision suddenly went black. For one brief instant, Falcone felt the wind.

Then Lynn rushed forward and swung a chained hammer, knocking him to the ground.

"Oh, old man, the floor's nice and cool, isn't it?"

Gripping Falcone by both arms, Lynn piled the bloodied old man back into his chair and kindly straightened his bow tie for him.

See? This was how important people were. No matter when, their clothes stayed neat. That was the proper bearing of a nobleman.

"Gotham..."

"What did you say?"

Lynn had originally intended to act immediately, but now he was curious about what this dying old man wanted to say.

"Well now, that's a long piece of ash. This stuff's great for stopping bleeding."

Tearing off the gold-thread-embroidered silk pocket square from Falcone's suit jacket, Lynn slapped a handful of ash onto the old man's forehead, then tied it up with the handkerchief. First aid complete.

"Good liquor. Now, talk."

Holding another wineglass that had not been splashed with blood, Lynn leaned against the sturdy solid-wood desk and calmly raised his glass toward the old man.

"..."

"What? Can't hear you."

"..."

"Huh?"

"..."

Slap!

"Did you leave your fucking vocal cords at home? Oh, sorry, this is your home. I forgot. See, that shouldn't be happening..."

Once again lifting the old man from the floor and piling him into the chair, Lynn had no cigar ash left this time.

Fortunately, Falcone's bed curtains were pretty good.

"So, um, you... continue?"

"Hah... hah... You... you can't end Gotham's evil. You and I are the same. In this Gotham, there is even deeper evil. They will tempt you, pull the rope around your neck, and drag you into deep water. You..."

"Can you speak Chinese? No, at least explain it clearly. You're about to die, and you're still pulling this routine? There's no need, old man."

Lynn showed no reaction. If anything, he wanted another drink.

And he really did turn around without hesitation to pour himself another glass. That utterly unconcerned attitude made Falcone, whose head was still bleeding, feel pain even worse than his physical injuries.

"You... you know nothing!"

"Enough. I know. I really, truly know."

Lynn suddenly pulled a chair over and sat beside the old man with a blank expression, leaning back in it just as Falcone had.

"Nothing more than power-and-money deals, superpowered people, secret ancient families...

Honestly, people like you have no idea what real danger is.

That guy farming next door might suddenly decide to acknowledge his family at any time. Or he might suddenly put on black briefs.

Further away, there's one who restarts the world at the drop of a hat. What a pain...

Even the allies are like this—the ones in the sea, the godlike ones, the ones jumping around the timeline...

And farther away? The enemies? You don't know. That thing nearly wrecked Earth when it was only eight years old. Tell me, how could I not be scared?

I just want to stay alive. It hasn't been easy...

Old man, do you think I have it easy? You...

Old man?

Fuck, he's dead.

You sure died easily.

Sigh..."

In the quiet study, Lynn leaned back in his chair beside a dead old man, sighing as he drank alone.

"Tsk... this stuff's pretty good. One more glass.

Oh? This one's good too. One more glass.

Oh, this one too...

Oh...!"