"The world may celebrate peace with medals and speeches but peace itself prefers silence."
---
Ink and Irony
The day in Gotham was slow, almost too slow.
For once, the city's heartbeat wasn't chaos — it was… quiet.
At Quinn & Ink, sunlight filtered through the stained windows, landing across sketchbooks, coffee cups and the faint hum of the tattoo machine.
Ace sat hunched over her client — a burly biker, of all people — focused and calm, the tattoo gun humming with a rhythm that mirrored her breathing. Every movement was fluid, precise. Her psychic field pulsed faintly around her, perfectly controlled — a testament to how far she'd come.
King sat nearby, newspaper open, reading with the same quiet intensity he used to dismantle demons and monsters. A cup of black coffee steamed beside him, untouched.
The front door's bell jingled as Harley Quinn strolled back in, blowing a pink bubble of gum. Her lab coat-style apron was splattered with streaks of ink and faint traces of color — chaos, but organized chaos.
She leaned on the counter, watching King over her shoulder.
"Y'know, puddin'," She said, popping the gum, "you didn't even twitch when they said your name on TV last night."
King didn't look up. "They say my name often enough. Usually before or after they start panicking."
Harley chuckled, shaking her head. "You serious, right? You ain't even a little salty that ya didn't get a Nobel freakin' Peace Prize? The League, Lex, even the fish king got one! You? Nothin'."
King turned the page with a slow, deliberate flick.
"If peace can be given an award," He said, "then it was never peace. Just good publicity."
Harley blinked, tapping her chin. "Huh. That's… actually deep. I was expectin' somethin' like 'I don't care about shiny trinkets.' "
King folded the newspaper neatly. "That, too."
Ace snorted softly without looking up, her focus unbroken. "He doesn't care, Mom. He already knows half the people who got it won't deserve it a year from now."
The biker she was tattooing shifted nervously at her casual telepathic mutter.
"Uh… are we done yet?"
Ace smiled faintly. "Almost. Don't move. You'll ruin the symmetry."
The Unseen Gaze
For a while, the only sounds were the buzz of the tattoo machine and the occasional turn of King's newspaper.
Then something changed.
It wasn't loud.
It wasn't obvious.
But he noticed.
And so did Ace.
Her hand paused mid-line. The needle lifted just above the client's skin. Her eyes flickered faintly, psychic senses expanding outward like ripples in a pond.
"You feel that?" She whispered.
King didn't answer. He just set the newspaper down and stared toward the shop's front window. The air outside shimmered faintly — movement without motion. An invisible shadow in daylight.
Then he sighed.
"Assassin. Watching. Female. Early teen. 16 at best. Observant but hesitant."
"How do you know all that without even looking?" Harley asked, tilting her head.
"Because she's been there for fifteen minutes," King said dryly, "and her shadow breathes faster when Ace talks."
Ace blinked. "You mean she's nervous?"
"No," King said. "She's curious. That's more dangerous."
He stood slowly, his motion deliberate — the old, controlled menace of someone who knows every move they make changes the room's gravity. The newspaper slipped from his hand and landed softly on the counter.
Through the shop's front glass, a faint distorted silhouette shifted. The shape of a girl with short, dark hair, wearing tactical invisible gear under a six eyed mask.
Maya Ducard.
Daughter of Henri Ducard, known to the League of Shadows as Nobody.
The same man Damian Wayne had killed years ago.
King exhaled quietly. "Ah. The daughter of consequence."
Harley frowned. "You know her?"
"I know of her," King said, walking toward the door. "Which means the threads of fate are getting… messy again."
Ace tilted her head, intrigued. "You sound like you're expecting this."
King stopped at the door, his hand resting on the frame. "At this point, Ace… I expect continuity itself to start throwing darts at me. Perhaps that might make things more interesting."
Harley burst out laughing. "Hah! Ain't that the truth, sugar. Multiverse's got no chill."
King's lips twitched — almost but not quite — into a smile.
He opened the door, the small bell jingling softly, and looked out into the street. The air was heavy with the scent of rain and asphalt. The city was watching — just as she was.
"Well," He murmured, eyes narrowing slightly, "if the stories insist on colliding… I'll just have to keep turning the pages."
The wind rustled the newspaper he'd left behind, the headline still visible:
"A New Era of Peace — The Man Who Refused the Spotlight."
Read 64 chapters ahead on P.A.T.R.E.O.N
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