On a cloudy, grim night in Gotham…
The air hung heavy with industrial pollution, the scent of chemical waste mingling with the perpetual dankness that clung to Gotham's forgotten districts. A half-moon struggled to pierce the smog, casting eerie shadows across the dilapidated factories that lined the toxic Gotham River.
BOOM—!
A sudden series of explosions rocked the chemical plants by the river. The thunderous blasts jolted nearby residents from their sleep, windows rattling in their frames, car alarms wailing in chaotic chorus.
Flames shot into the sky, drawing people toward the scene like moths to deadly light. These weren't thrill-seekers or rubberneckers—these were workers whose livelihoods depended on those very factories. Men and women who'd spent decades inhaling the same toxic fumes that now billowed black against the night sky. Any sign of disaster had them on edge.
Fire and thick smoke raged through the plant. Alarms screamed through the night, their mechanical wail mixing with all-too-human cries of pain and terror.
"Cough—Cough! Quick! Get everyone out! Hurry!" shouted Marcus, the night shift supervisor, his throat already raw from the caustic air.
"Damn it! The side entrance! Use the side! Cough!" Elena from accounting had rushed over from her apartment three blocks away, still in her pajamas, her face illuminated by the hellish glow.
"God, the fire's spreading! RUN!" Another voice, panicked and strained, barely recognizable as belonging to old man Jenkins who'd worked maintenance for twenty years.
People trapped inside scrambled to escape, silhouettes visible through flame-licked windows. Meanwhile, factory workers who'd rushed to the scene jumped into rescue mode—grabbing fire extinguishers, dragging industrial hoses, wielding fire axes—busting down doors and saving anyone not caught in the initial blast.
But not everyone made it out.
The smoke was so thick you couldn't see your own hand, and even with gas masks hastily distributed from emergency stations, it felt like fire was filling your lungs. Everyone coughed uncontrollably, eyes watering, skin burning from the intense heat and chemical irritants.
Cries for help… coughing… shouting… the crackle of flames devouring decades-old wood and plastic…
It was chaos, and those who came to help had to risk their lives just to search the unburned areas. The factory's aging infrastructure was already compromised—support beams groaned under the stress, threatening to collapse at any moment.
But the fire was too wild. Going in now would be suicide, even for Gotham's bravest.
So they focused on putting out the flames—if they didn't, there'd be no way to save anyone. They formed a bucket brigade, an ancient solution to a modern nightmare, passing water from hand to hand while waiting for fire crews to arrive from downtown.
"Dammit! Cough—COUGH! I hear them! It's Horn and Jimmy! They're still inside! Over here!" Reggie, a forklift operator known for his sharp ears, pressed himself against a concrete wall, listening intently despite the chaos.
One of the workers pointed at a solid wall, yelling for help. A group quickly gathered, faces streaked with soot and desperation.
"Son of a—how the hell are they back there?! That's a load-bearing wall! We won't break through in time—they'll be dead before we're halfway through!" Mike, the plant engineer, assessed the situation with professional despair.
They cursed, but that didn't stop them. They grabbed hammers from nearby toolboxes and got to work, muscles straining, hearts pounding.
The fire grew even more intense, licking out the windows and doors with red-hot fury. The heat was becoming unbearable, forcing rescuers to back away periodically to avoid passing out.
They worked faster, sweat pouring down their faces, mixing with tears of exertion and fear.
But the wall was thick, dense concrete. Just like that worker said—by the time they cracked it open, the people inside might be long gone, either burned alive or choked out by smoke. The horrible math of disaster was inescapable.
Then one worker got an idea. "Hey! Up there—three meters up! That skylight! Maybe we can break it open, see if any smoke's escaping. It'll buy them time!" Carla, the newest hire, pointed to a small window near the ceiling that everyone else had overlooked.
The others didn't wait—grabbed stones and chunks of debris and started smashing the window, their desperate throws fueled by adrenaline and hope.
CRASH!
Thick white smoke poured out the moment the glass shattered, confirming their worst fears—the room was filling with deadly fumes.
Still, no one knew what was really behind that wall. Were Horn and Jimmy still alive? Were they clinging to consciousness, praying for rescue?
"What now?" someone asked, voice cracking.
The ones with hammers went back to it. THUD! THUD! THUD! Each impact seemed to make barely a dent in the unforgiving concrete.
Others kept fighting the fire, directing hoses toward the hottest points of flame. Three stayed behind to assist once the wall gave way, oxygen masks at the ready.
Then—
From the rooftop nearby… a child's voice rang out, clear and confident despite the chaos.
"MOVE!"
It sounded… young. Like an eleven or twelve-year-old kid. Out of place in this industrial nightmare.
They looked up—and their eyes went wide. Cold sweat poured down their backs, a new fear replacing the old.
"Holy SH*T—It's a wolf! A freaking wolf! What the hell?! This is an industrial zone! Ain't no food here, how's there a damn wolf?!" Reggie backed away, his hammer clutched to his chest like a talisman.
There it was—on the rooftop, under the half-moon. A massive wolf with glowing blue eyes, easily twice the size of any natural predator. Its white fur fluttered in the wind, gleaming silver against the night, its gaze cold and sharp as Gotham's highest skyscrapers.
It tensed its powerful paws—muscles rippling beneath that pristine coat—then leapt.
"SH*T, it's jumping—MOVE, JEFF!" someone screamed, and the group scattered like frightened birds.
Everyone scattered, even the guys with hammers dove behind support beams, gripping their tools like they'd help against several hundred pounds of apex predator.
The wolf landed like a gymnast—flipping mid-air with impossible grace and planting all four paws on the concrete with a THUD that sounded more like a sonic boom than an animal landing.
The ground cracked under its weight—light paw prints etched into the pavement, the concrete spider-webbing outward from each perfect impression.
"Ten outta ten!" it said, voice dripping with childish satisfaction.
Yeah. It spoke.
The wolf's voice sounded like a cocky little kid, but its golden eyes gleamed with deadly intelligence. One glance and everyone froze, caught between fight-or-flight and sheer disbelief.
No one wanted to be the idiot who ticked off the talking wolf. Not after escaping a fire. Not in Gotham, where stranger things happened every Tuesday.
The wolf ignored them and walked to the wall, its movements liquid and purposeful. Its nose twitched, taking in information no human could detect.
"Sniff... sniff... whew, nasty smell… Hmm? Smells like… roasted meat. Yep, someone's back here." It wrinkled its muzzle, displaying impressively sharp teeth that gleamed in the firelight.
It sniffed once—just once—and pinpointed the trapped workers with uncanny precision, pacing along the wall until it found the exact spot.
Then it opened its mouth… and unleashed its secret weapon:
"Foxfire Flame!"
A high-temperature blue flame blasted from its mouth—smashing through the load-bearing wall like a cannon. A huge, uneven hole opened up, edges glowing molten from the incredible heat. Dust and fragments scattered outward, forcing nearby workers to shield their faces.
Too small for the wolf, but big enough for the others.
The kid voice came again: "Hey! What're you all waiting for? Go save them! They've got maybe two minutes of air left!"
The stunned workers snapped out of it, survival instinct finally overriding their shock.
"Oh! Right! MOVE!"
"LET'S GO!"
"Holy crap, that's a real wolf!"
Some were still shaking, too scared to move. Their eyes remained fixed on the creature, brains unable to process what they were seeing.
But the wolf watched with satisfaction as five workers rushed through the hole and pulled out the trapped guys—Horn and Jimmy, unconscious but breathing, their faces blackened with soot.
Satisfied, it nodded. Then crouched, bent its legs—and jumped seven meters straight up with the power of a rocket launch.
It landed on the second-floor balcony, the metal railing bending under its weight, then bounced again and soared onto the rooftop, silhouetted dramatically against the smoke-filled sky.
Under the stunned gaze of the workers, it bolted across the roof, fast as silver lightning—gone in a blink, only the sound of distant paw steps echoing before fading entirely.
The guys with shaky knees were still frozen, their minds struggling to reconcile what they'd just witnessed with what was possible in their world.
"George... am I dreaming? I swear I just saw a TALKING wolf... saving people." Luke's voice trembled, his cigarette forgotten between his fingers.
"Luke… if you're dreaming, I must be too. I'm still holding Horn and Jimmy. This can't be real!" George tightened his grip on the unconscious men, as if they were anchors to reality.
The others just stood there, wide-eyed. Shell-shocked. The fire continued to burn, but somehow it seemed less important now.
In the distance, sirens wailed—Gotham's emergency services, always arriving just after the crisis peaked.
Unseen in the shadows, several owl-masked figures had been watching the entire thing. Their dark robes blended perfectly with the night, high-tech binoculars recording every detail of the wolf's movements. One touched a communication device in their ear and whispered, "The asset performed as expected. Return to base."
Like ghosts, they melted into the darkness without a sound.
1:23 AM – Wayne Manor Basement, Batcave
The most dangerous place in all of Gotham.
Why? Because some crazy rich guy with a bat obsession monitors the whole damn city from here, tracking every criminal, every strange occurrence, every unexplained phenomenon with relentless dedication.
Batman was watching the footage from the chemical plant incident, his cowled face illuminated by the blue glow of multiple monitors. His gauntleted fingers tapped commands on a keyboard, enhancing different aspects of the video.
He paused the footage—zooming in on the wolf's leg, the image clarifying with military-grade precision.
There it was: a round, glowing green hourglass-shaped device. Stuck to its leg like it didn't belong, a technological parasite on this biological marvel.
Batman narrowed his eyes behind the cowl. He knew that symbol. Had been tracking it for months now.
"It's back, Alfred." His voice was gravel and shadow, exhaustion barely hidden beneath professional detachment.
Alfred Pennyworth, Wayne Manor's ever-loyal butler, walked over with measured steps, setting down a tray of milk and cookies—a small, human gesture in this cave of technology and obsession.
"Yes, Master Wayne. And this time, it saved lives." Alfred's voice carried a gentle reminder, his eyes taking in the footage with the calm assessment of a man who had seen too much to be easily shocked.
"Just this once. It's still dangerous." Batman's gloved finger traced the outline of the device on the screen. "Unpredictable. Powerful. Unknown."
He pointed at the screen, bringing up a series of related files with a few keystrokes.
"That symbol's appeared before—on a flaming tiger in the East End, a humanoid hound near the docks, a dinosaur in Robinson Park, a plant creature in the sewers… and now this wolf. Each one powerful. Too powerful. Someone's doing biological experiments, creating these... hybrids. And they're close to perfecting it." His voice darkened with concern.
Alfred frowned, the wrinkles on his face deepening.
"Sir, they're elusive. Every time, they vanish where there's no surveillance. It's draining to keep chasing them. And… sir, you haven't slept in a week." His tone shifted to one of genuine concern. "You need rest. I will not hesitate to slip a sleeping pill in your dinner if I must!"
Batman shot him a look that would have terrified any criminal in Gotham. Alfred remained unmoved.
"No, Alfred. Batman doesn't sleep. Not until I catch the group behind that symbol." He turned back to the screen, pulling up chemical analyses, pattern recognition software, tracking algorithms.
Alfred sighed, the sound of a man who had fought this battle many times before. "But Bruce Wayne does sleep. And if he doesn't, he'll collapse. Again."
Batman turned away from the monitors for a moment, staring at his oldest friend and ally. For a brief instant, the exhaustion showed through the mask.
"Fine. After I finish processing this footage." A small concession to human frailty.
"Please don't stay up till sunrise again, sir." Alfred's voice was gentle but firm.
With a tired smile, Alfred turned and left the cave, his footsteps echoing in the vast underground space.
Batman returned to the screens, to the mystery, to the wolf with the child's voice and impossible powers. Somewhere in Gotham, something was happening. Something big. And he would find it, no matter the cost to himself.
As the computer analyzed the footage, his mind wandered briefly to the people saved tonight. Horn and Jimmy. Names he didn't know, lives that would continue because of a creature that shouldn't exist.
Even in Gotham, sometimes good things happened for inexplicable reasons.
But Batman didn't trust coincidences. And he didn't believe in magic. Behind this wolf, behind its power, was science. And someone was wielding that science with unknown intentions.
The hunt would continue tomorrow night.