El Sacerdote laughs, revealing teeth filed into fangs. "You think a disfraz frightens us, murciélago ? This is not your precious Gotham. Here, the night belongs to us."
He snaps his fingers. From the shadows of the colonnade, they emerge: —five masked luchadors, their bodies augmented with smuggled cybernetics. One has a jaguar’s claw for a hand. Another spits acid from a tube grafted to his throat. They are the Junta ’s answer to the Bat’s myth.
"Mercy," Diego repeats, his voice quiet now. "My father asked for mercy. You gave him a bullet."
Finally, only El Sacerdote remains, backed against the mission’s altar, his jade idol of the Vulture clutched to his chest.
El Sacerdote laughs, revealing teeth filed into fangs. "You think a disfraz frightens us, murciélago ? This is not your precious Gotham. Here, the night belongs to us."
He snaps his fingers. From the shadows of the colonnade, they emerge: —five masked luchadors, their bodies augmented with smuggled cybernetics. One has a jaguar’s claw for a hand. Another spits acid from a tube grafted to his throat. They are the Junta ’s answer to the Bat’s myth.
"Mercy," Diego repeats, his voice quiet now. "My father asked for mercy. You gave him a bullet."
Finally, only El Sacerdote remains, backed against the mission’s altar, his jade idol of the Vulture clutched to his chest.
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