"Is this a fucking slaughterhouse?!"
Dave's voice shot up behind his mask. He quickly clapped a hand over the eyes of the little mute girl beside him. Children were better off not seeing this.
Bruce Wayne stopped in his tracks, his towering frame going rigid. His black cape seemed to freeze in the night breeze.
Outside the 22 Lake Street Clinic.
Blood. The ground was covered in glaring pools of blood and chunks of entrails.
More than thirty burly gang thugs lay sprawled every which way in the mud and broken glass.
Some had limbs twisted backward at grotesque angles. Others had completely caved-in breastbones. One had half his head jammed into a nearby trash can, his fate unknown.
The thick stench of blood mixed with the foul odor of charred flesh, assaulting their senses.
And at the very center of this horrifying killing field.
Yang Ming sat with his legs spread on a battered wooden chair, wearing a spotless white coat. He crossed one leg over the other, the gold-rimmed glasses on his nose reflecting the cold glow of the streetlights.
"Phew..."
Yang Ming exhaled a thick cloud of smoke, took the half-smoked Marlboro from his lips, and held it between his fingers. He cast a sidelong glance at Batman and the cluster of trembling brats standing at the end of the street.
"Well, well, big bat. Taking all these little chicks on a spring outing in the middle of the night?"
Yang Ming's voice was utterly flat, as though the carnage beneath his feet were nothing more than a pile of rotten cabbages.
Draped over Batman's shoulder armor, Jason Todd stared fixedly at the man sitting in the armchair, his pupils trembling violently.
He knew this man! He was a doctor at the clinic.
A few months ago,