Killing Batman: The Silver Mask Chapter 5.

Chapter 5: Masks Without Faces.

-Gotham High — Two Weeks After Arrival-

-Acheron Byrne-Sionis, Age 17- (The Sionis is absent in his new identity. Obviously.)

(Ash's P.O.V)

Teenagers are easy to read.

They broadcast everything: status, insecurity, desire, threat. You don’t need powers to be dangerous in a place like this. You just need to listen.

I’ve been quiet. Low profile. Good grades. Polite nods.

The faculty love the polite foreign kid. They don’t notice I’m mapping the school—who talks to who, which lockers are unmonitored, which janitors smoke behind the gym.

I know which student is dealing pills under the bleachers, and who’s running encrypted betting pools through school Wi-Fi.

The only people I don’t have pinned down yet... are Barbara Gordon and Helena Wayne.

I knew something was up with those two.

-History Class – Monday

Helena walks in two minutes late. Doesn’t apologize. Doesn’t care. Black jacket, scratched phone screen, steel-ringed eyes that scan without blinking.

She sits two rows ahead of me. Feet up. Doesn’t take notes.

The teacher says something about the Cold War.

Helena mutters, “Still going,” loud enough for everyone to hear. A few snicker. She doesn't look at anyone.

She’s not trying to be liked. She’s warning the room: stay small or get bitten.

I make a note. Useful personality. Isolated but proud. Doesn’t take orders easily. Could be manipulated—never controlled.

(Lunch – Same Day)

Barbara’s reading alone in the library. It’s a military strategy text—'On Killing' by Lt. Col. Grossman. Not assigned reading.

I walk past slowly. Her eyes flick up just long enough to register me.

Calculated. Measured. She’s not ignoring me—she’s clocking me.

She closes the book and pretends to scroll her phone.

She's watching me without watching me.

She's a spy. Or close enough.

-Gym Class – Midweek

We’re doing basic track drills. Helena and I get paired for baton relays.

She tosses the baton at me without looking. “Try not to embarrass yourself, new guy.”

I catch it easily. Run. Fast enough to surprise her.

After the finish line, she eyes me with mild suspicion.

“You run like you’ve been chased before,” she says.

I shrug. “Maybe I have.”

She smirks. “Welcome to Gotham. I'm Helena. But you can call me Hel- like the land of the dead. That's how I feel inside. Dead.”

I stare at her fist then bump it.

"Ash. Just Ash."

-Library – Friday Morning-

Barbara corners me between shelves.

“You’re not from Ireland,” she says. No preamble.

I tilt my head. “Says who?”

“Accent’s clean but doesn’t match the grammar. You move like someone who’s had combat training. Your story’s full of gaps. Want to explain that?”

I study her face.

She’s not bluffing. She knows I’m dangerous, but not how dangerous. She’s testing the perimeter. That's a police commissioner's daughter for you.

“You ever think maybe I just had a rough childhood?” I offer, soft, disarming.

Barbara doesn’t smile. “You’re not here to finish school.”

“Neither are you,” I reply. Her perfect grades and academic knowledge place her at college level. She should have already graduated.

Barbara raises her brow and walks away without answering.

But her pulse was faster than it should’ve been. Interesting.

-Late Night – Apartment Surveillance Wall.

I sit on the floor, hoodie up, laptop on my lap, scrolling through encrypted feeds from my Narrows servers.

Business is going well. With Padraig running logistics, we have expanded to 100 lightly trained members- a number just half of the False Facers when Father was running the Black Mask gang.

There's been a few skirmishes with some of the Narrow's other gangs but Padraig made sure to crush all opposition and absorb the dregs. All without my intervention.

I approve what needs to be approved and close the window for a different tab.

A facial-recognition window flickers open.

Barbara Gordon — confirmed hit from GCPD database. Daughter of the late Commissioner. Ties to vigilante movement suspected. No confirmed evidence. Friends with Dick Grayson, who also attends Gotham Academy, a class behind me.

The name Grayson sounds familiar. A brief research gives me a decade old tabloid on the Flying Grayson's tragic death during a circus performance. Richard Grayson, their son was then adopted by Bruce Wayne.

Mmh. Moving on.

Helena Wayne — private records sealed. Connected to Selina Kyle. Father unknown. Multiple hits linked to minor thefts, sealed by Wayne Foundation lawyers.

Both, including Dick Grayson are connected to him.

Bruce Wayne.

I lean back, smiling.

The board is set. The pieces are coming together.

Now I start playing.

-Downtown Gotham — Saturday Evening.

-Gotham Academy Field Trip – Wayne Memorial Museum-

It’s supposed to be a routine field trip. A curated tour of Gotham’s history, funded by the Wayne Foundation. A few teachers. A hired bus. Students pretending to care.

I stay at the back of the pack. Watching Barbara and Helena.

Barbara doesn’t talk much. She keeps scanning the exits, counting heads. She’s not playing the part of a student—she’s surveilling the room like someone trained to anticipate a breach. I feel her gaze on me multiple times when she thinks I'm distracted.

Helena’s bored. She rolls her eyes at every speech, every painting, and openly mocks to me at every attempt to glamorize Gotham’s bloodstained past.

I don’t blame her.

-6:12 PM – After the Tour-

The bus is late. We’re told to wait out front.

Barbara says she wants air. Walks down the block, into an alley beside the museum. I already know she’s not here to breathe.

She’s trailing someone.

"Need to use the bathroom."

I tell Helena and follow after Barbara. Quiet.

That’s when I hear the voice.

Joker’s men.

Not clowns. Not colorful. Still stupid. Strays and psychos that call themselves a part of his family. Four of them.

One with a rusted switchblade. One recording on a cracked phone. Two more blocking the alley’s end. They look like scruffy junkies- juiced up with a manic energy.

The sickly green veins covering their skin and bloodshot eyes lead to one probability- VenomLite, a diluted version of the Super Steroid Venom used by Bane. Padraig wanted us to get some for our army...but I had refused. The side effects are not worth it.

Barbara doesn’t scream. She moves—elbows the closest one and knees another—but she’s overwhelmed quickly.

Wrong time. No backup. And the Venom-Lite give them raw power in exchange for mental stability and emotional control.

They don’t know who she is. Just that she’s a redhead, alone, and unlucky.

Then they see me.

“Keep walking foo,” the tall one growls, knife low.

I do. Toward them.

He steps forward, confused. “Hey foo—”

I grab his wrist, twist it until it snaps. It's not a matter of strength but leverage. The knife clatters. He screams but it comes out as wheezy laughter.

Before the others react, I drive my elbow into the side of his skull. He drops. Fast. Unconscious or worse.

The one with the phone runs. I throw a brick. It hits his knee. He falls.

Barbara gets to her feet, bleeding from her lip. She stares at me—then dives toward the last guy, knocks him into a pile of trash bins. She moves like someone trained.

So do I.

By the end, it’s quiet. Four bodies. No police yet.

Barbara wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. “You followed me.”

I nod. “Didn’t want to see someone die today.”

“You moved like it’s not the first time.”

“It’s not.”

She studies me. No fear. Just calculation. She’s putting pieces together.

“You’re not just some Irish transfer student.”

“And you’re not just the late commissioner’s daughter.”

Silence reins as hurt flashes across her face.

Then I hear heels on pavement. A car door.

"Barbara!"

Bruce Wayne. Dressed down but unmistakable. Followed by his company's number 2, Lucius Fox, a few steps behind.

They must have been driving by given that Wayne Enterprises is close to the museum.

They see the mess. Barbara. Me.

Bruce’s eyes lock onto mine.

He hides the reaction well.

But not well enough.

He doesn’t recognize me. Not yet.

But he remembers

Good.

-6:52 PM – Wayne Manor-

Back at the mansion, Bruce watches the hallway security feed again. Over and over.

Barbara, standing near the unconscious thugs.

Me, expression unreadable.

Alfred enters the study. “You want me to run facial recognition?”

Bruce hesitates.

“Not yet.” Acheron Byrne...was by all accounts normal albeit impressive. But that was not a reason to invade his privacy.

(Ash's Apartment)

I sit on my bed, running through encrypted messages.

Padraig:

> "You made the papers. Hero student saves classmate. GCPD wants to question you."

I reply:

> "Let them."

Underneath the mask, people look for heroes. That’s how you earn their trust.

And once they trust you?

You burn everything down.