The television screen flickered in every corner of Gotham.
"We interrupt this broadcast with breaking news. Last night, the vigilante known as 'Darkwing' was seen brutally killing the notorious villain known as Scarecrow during an altercation at Gotham Square. This comes as a shock to many, as Darkwing has been seen as a rising symbol of justice in Gotham following the disappearance of Nightwing. Now, the question everyone is asking—has the new hero gone too far?"
Clips of the bloodied scene played across the screen—the broken body of Scarecrow, lifeless and surrounded by his own fear gas.
News anchors chimed in with opinions:
"He did what Gotham's law couldn't. Maybe that's what we need now."
"No matter the villain, murder isn't justice. This… this is dangerous."
"He's not Nightwing. He's something else. Something darker."
—
Somewhere across the city, a group of teens sat around an old radio.
"Dude, he straight-up killed Scarecrow," one said with a wide-eyed grin. "That's metal."
Another shook her head. "That's not what heroes do. He's no better than the people he fights."
In a fancy bar uptown, corporate execs clinked glasses. "Finally, someone cleaning up the filth properly."
At a quiet church shelter, a priest switched off the broadcast. "Lord help his soul. He's lost in the shadows now."
—
Wayne Manor - Batcave
The room was silent, the air thick. The Batcomputer had paused on the same image—Darkwing standing over Scarecrow's broken form.
Jason Todd, leaning against the console, shook his head. "He really did it… he killed him."
Barbara was pale, her fists clenched. "He promised me—he promised—that he was different. That he wouldn't lose control."
Bruce stood still, face shadowed by the glow of the screen. His voice was low and brittle. "He made a choice."
Jason turned to him, defensive. "You think you haven't come close to that line, Bruce? You think I haven't crossed it myself? We know what it's like when the rage takes over."
"But we pulled ourselves back," Barbara snapped. "We fought it. What if Rex—what if he doesn't want to?"
"He didn't just make a mistake," Bruce muttered. "He declared war."
The room fell into heavy silence.
—
Midnight, Gotham Streets
Rex—Darkwing—walked the alleys alone, his hood up, the glow of neon signs casting fractured light across his mask.
He walked past sleeping bags under bridges, past half-frozen children huddled for warmth beside burning trash bins. He passed broken windows, graffiti, syringes in gutters. A woman screamed from inside a building. No one came to help.
He clenched his fists.
He turned into another alley—four gang members cornering a man and his son. He didn't hesitate. With brutal, calculated precision, he took them down. One tried to crawl away—he broke his arm. Another pulled a knife—he drove it into the man's leg and twisted.
The father stared in horror. "You… you didn't have to—"
"They'd do it again," Rex muttered, standing over them. "They always do."
The man backed away, pulling his son. "You're not a hero…"
Darkwing didn't answer. His eyes fell to the bloodied man at his feet.
He kept walking.
His mind spun. The memories of Scarecrow's lifeless face, of Joker's grin, of the endless bodies in morgues from men like them.
He looked up at the moon, breath misting in the cold.
"If we let them live… they always come back. They kill more. Hurt more. The system doesn't stop them. But I can."
He touched the insignia on his chest—the modified Nightwing logo, reshaped into wings darker and sharper.
"From now on… no more second chances."