Injustice: The Path To Hell (DC Comics)

Thursday, October 23rd, 18:25.

New Jersey,

Gotham City,

East End.

John's hand rested on Esau's back as he led him through the lavishly decorated hallway toward his personal VIP box, the older man's signature grin ever-present. The scent of expensive cigars and perfume hung thick in the air, mixing with the deep bass of music that throbbed from the main arena below. As they passed through the entrance, Esau took in the decadence of the private lounge—a space that felt more like an exclusive club than the VIP section of an underground fighting ring.

"Ah, my boy, my boy!" John exclaimed, patting Esau's shoulder with just a little too much enthusiasm. "You have no idea how good it is to see you back in Gotham, back where you belong! You've been gone far too long, but I suppose even the prodigal son has to return eventually, eh?"

Esau forced a polite smirk, letting John ramble as he took in the surroundings. The private box was an ostentatious display of wealth, far beyond what most would expect from an underground fight club. Plush leather seating lined the walls, golden light from extravagant chandeliers overhead casting an artificial warmth over the space.

Tall, polished poles gleamed under the low glow, women with sculpted bodies and suggestive smiles moving with effortless grace as they danced in nothing but lace and silken straps. Others, barely clad in lingerie that left nothing to the imagination, sauntered through the room, laughing as they leaned into well-dressed men, whispering sweet nothings in exchange for thick wads of cash.

John led him toward two large, throne-like chairs positioned at the very front of the private box, offering the best view of the ring below. The arena itself was a pit of brutality, surrounded by steel barriers and a roaring crowd of gamblers, fighters, and Gotham's most depraved thrill-seekers. The overhead lights were dim, save for the spotlight beaming down on the current fight—two men, both bloodied and battered, locked in a vicious brawl as the crowd screamed for more.

"Go on, sit, sit!" John gestured, throwing himself into his own chair with a satisfied sigh, his legs spreading wide as if he owned everything in sight—which, in a way, he did.

Esau eased into his seat, leaning back as his sharp eyes flickered over the spectacle. The place had changed—grown, flourished, become something far bigger than what it once was. "You've been doing well for yourself," Esau remarked, his voice even as he continued to survey the excess around him. "Seems a bit too above ground for an underground fighting ring though, doesn't it?"

John let out a hearty laugh, slapping the armrest of his chair. "Ah, my boy, that's the way of things! You know how it is—when Gotham gives you an inch, you take a damn mile! The city's quiet these days, quieter than it's been in decades. No Bat breathing down my neck, no major crime wars tearing up the streets. It's a golden age for men like me, Esau! Only a fool wouldn't capitalize on it." He grinned, showing his teeth. "And you know me—I'm no fool."

Esau exhaled sharply through his nose, nodding. John always knew how to sniff out an opportunity and milk it for all it was worth.

A sultry voice interrupted them. "Drinks, gentlemen?"

Esau glanced up as a near-naked waitress approached, her curves accentuated by the sheer fabric of her barely-there outfit. The way she moved—practiced, fluid, meant to entice—reminded him just how far removed this place was from what it had once been.

"I'll take a whiskey," Esau said, deciding to embrace the familiarity of old habits. "Bring the bottle."

John's grin widened. "Ahh, now that's the sign of a real man! Strong tastes, strong choices—I love it! You've grown up nicely, my boy." He turned to the waitress, snapping his fingers. "Get us a bottle of The Macallan 72-Year-Old in Lalique. None of that cheap garbage." John leaned in with a conspiratorial smirk. "Can't have my old champion drinking anything but the best, now can I?"

The waitress nodded, flashing Esau a flirtatious smile before swaying away.

John clapped his hands together, eyes gleaming as he shifted in his seat. "Now, now—drinks are one thing, but tell me, my boy, would you like a little extra entertainment?" He gestured toward the women in the room, his tone laced with indulgence. "You're a man now, Esau. I can set you up real nice—a private room, some company, all on the house. My gift to you for all those years of service, for putting on one hell of a show for my customers."

Esau forced a small, detached smile, masking his genuine disinterest behind a facade of amusement. John had always been like this—flamboyant, extravagant, always looking to impress, always eager to surround himself with decadence. To him, success wasn't just about power, it was about displaying it, flaunting it like a peacock with its feathers spread wide.

Still, Esau had no intention of indulging. "I'm good, John," he said smoothly, giving a polite shake of his head. "Just the whiskey and the fights."

John studied him for a moment before throwing his head back with a boisterous laugh. "Ahh, my boy, still as disciplined as ever! That's why you were my best fighter—you always knew what mattered." He snapped his fingers, signaling to the women lounging nearby. "Go on, girls, make your rounds. Earn yourselves some money tonight."

The women giggled and dispersed, their presence quickly swallowed by the haze of smoke and flashing lights.

Esau exhaled slowly, settling into his seat as the announcer's voice boomed through the arena, introducing the next fight. The crowd erupted into cheers and jeers, the energy in the room pulsating like a living thing. Despite everything—the extravagance, the excess, the near-palpable corruption of it all—Esau couldn't deny one simple truth.

He had missed this.

The sultry waitress returned with the prized bottle of The Macallan 72-Year-Old in Lalique, a crystal decanter of deep amber liquid nestled carefully in her hands. She set it down with deliberate grace, her manicured fingers lingering just a little too long on the bottle's neck as she flashed Esau and John an inviting smile. Esau barely spared her a glance, his focus shifting to the whiskey itself.

John, on the other hand, was all charm, grinning up at the woman as he plucked the bottle from the table with an exaggerated flourish. "Ahh, now this is the good stuff! You boys in Scotland truly outdo yourselves," he mused, admiring the expensive drink as if it were a rare jewel. He poured a generous amount into two crystal tumblers, the whiskey cascading smoothly over ice with a faint clinking sound.

Esau took his glass without a word, raising it as John mirrored the gesture. "To your return, my boy!" John proclaimed, clinking their glasses together with a light tink!

Esau simply nodded before bringing the rim to his lips. Where John savored the drink, rolling the aged whiskey over his tongue like a connoisseur, Esau simply tilted his head back and downed it in one smooth gulp. The liquid burned pleasantly down his throat, rich and smoky with hints of oak and dried fruit.

John let out a deep, satisfied sigh, sinking back into his chair, glass swirling in his hand as he basked in the experience. "Mmm, now that is smooth—damn smooth." He chuckled, licking his lips. "Good whiskey should be like a beautiful woman—strong, aged just right, and leaving a man wanting more."

Esau poured himself another glass, keeping his expression neutral. He had never been much for whiskey, but he knew one thing—it was one of the few things strong enough to actually get him drunk. With a bottle of this magnitude, he might just be able to enjoy that rare sensation. Besides, as long as it was on John's tab, Esau intended to milk every last drop out of the man.

That meant keeping him talking.

Fortunately for Esau, John was always a hub for information.

"Earlier," Esau began, swirling the amber liquid idly in his glass, "you mentioned Gotham's been quiet lately." He looked up from his drink, sharp blue eyes meeting John's. "What did you mean by that? I remember a time when the city couldn't go a week without some supervillain going on a rampage or a gang war breaking out."

John let out a low, wistful chuckle, shaking his head. "Ahh, yes, the good old days." He exhaled dramatically, running a hand through his slicked-back hair. "Back then, I had gangs knocking on my door every damn night, trying to hire my top fighters. The demand was ridiculous. Bare-knuckle brawlers, knife specialists, guys who could take a bullet and still be standing—they all had a price, and the gangs were more than happy to pay." John's smile turned almost nostalgic as he gestured toward Esau with his glass. "Course, the only fighter who never got bought was you, my boy."

Esau took another sip, his grip on the tumbler tightening slightly.

John laughed, pointing at him. "Not that the offers didn't come! Plenty of people wanted a piece of you, Esau—wanted to put your talents to use. But," his grin widened knowingly, "you belonged to Black Mask."

A flicker of displeasure crossed Esau's face, though he quickly buried it behind another deep swig of whiskey.

John, oblivious or uncaring, continued. "Even when he stopped showing up to watch your fights—stopped coming to see you get your ass handed to you in those early days—you were still his." He chuckled, swirling the remaining whiskey in his glass. "Didn't matter that he wasn't there for your losses. When you started winning—hell, when you became the champion—he still owned you. Gotham owned you."

Esau said nothing as he simply tipped his glass back, finishing the whiskey in one long gulp before pouring himself another.

John didn't seem to notice Esau's growing tension, instead reclining further into his chair. "But yeah, things changed." He waved a hand dismissively. "The gangs stopped hiring, stopped looking for fighters to do their dirty work. At first, I thought it was bad for business. No more quick cash from selling muscle, no more under-the-table deals. But then?" He grinned, gesturing toward the packed arena below. "I realized it was the best thing that could've happened to me."

Esau raised an eyebrow, intrigued despite himself.

John leaned forward, tapping the side of his glass. "See, back when the gangs were constantly poaching my best guys, it was hard to build up real fights. The kind of matchups that get people talking, that get them betting. But now?" He smirked. "I get to keep my best fighters, pair them up properly, build actual rivalries. None of this drugged-up, last-minute cannon fodder bullshit I used to throw together just to keep the blood flowing. Now, every fight is an event."

Esau exhaled slowly, tapping a finger against his glass. "So the gangs just…stopped? Just like that?"

John nodded. "Like I said, Gotham's quiet. Someone—or something—has got them in check." He smirked. "Not that I mind. Business has never been better."

Esau remained silent, filing the information away.

John leaned back, a self-satisfied smirk playing on his lips. "Still," he mused, "if I'm being honest? I do miss the glory days." He sighed dramatically, shaking his head. "Back then, there was that thrill of avoiding the Bats gaze that got people coming to watch. The question as to whether this event was going to be the one that was crashed by the Dark Knight. Whether the audience would get to see my fighters against the Batman. And you, my boy?" He pointed at Esau with his tumbler. "You were the best of them."

Esau scoffed lightly. "I don't remember it that way." He had never fought against the Batman, not until the Court of Owls, he'd been quite lucky in that regard. Whether by good luck or not, Esau had been able to avoid Batman's gate crashes. Conveniently though, the Bat Family did crash the Underground Fighting Rings after his fights, especially when he got seriously injured. 'Looking back on it, that was definitely Barbara's doing.'

John grinned. "That's because you were too busy beating the ever-loving shit out of people to notice!" He let out a booming laugh, shaking his head fondly. "You were an exciting fighter, Esau. Young, skilled, fearless. You didn't just win—you put on a show. And people paid good money to see you fight. Hell, I had women—rich women—willing to pay a damn fortune just to spend some private time with you afterward."

Esau's grip on his glass tightened, his jaw clenching slightly.

John chuckled. "Course, I couldn't let that happen." He spread his hands dramatically. "Like I said—you weren't mine to give away. You were Black Mask's."

Esau said nothing in response, hiding his dissatisfaction behind the glass.

John leaned back into his plush, leather chair, swirling the whiskey in his glass with an air of self-satisfaction. His sharp eyes flicked over Esau, appraising him, as if taking in every shift in muscle, every subtle change in posture. Then, with a broad grin, he set his drink down and leaned forward, clasping his hands together.

"You know, my boy," John began smoothly, his voice rich with syrupy charisma, "I'd love nothing more than to have you step back into my ring. It's been too damn long."

Esau arched a brow, remaining silent.

John smirked, unbothered by the lack of response. "Don't think I don't see it. You've gotten stronger—much stronger. Not that I ever doubted you." He gestured toward Esau with two fingers, his smirk widening. "Fighting—it's in your blood. It's not just something you do, it's something you are. I knew it the second I laid eyes on you."

He chuckled, shaking his head. "Eleven years old, scrawny as all hell, stepping into the ring against a drug-addled wreck desperate for his next fix. Didn't matter that you were outmatched. Didn't matter that you had no business being in that ring. You fought anyway. You fought hard, even though we both knew you were going to lose."

John let out a nostalgic sigh, swirling his whiskey again. "And when you hit the mat, bloodied and bruised, you got up. And when you got knocked down again? You still got up. Over and over. I watched you take a beating that would've made grown men quit, and you just kept standing back up."

He leaned forward, pointing at Esau, his grin widening. "That's when I knew. That kid's gonna be great, I told myself. And look at you now." He sat back with a self-satisfied smirk, lifting his drink in a mock toast.

Esau offered a tight smile, one that lacked warmth. "Nice little story, John," he said dryly. "But I'm not here to fight." He leaned back, stretching his arms behind his head. "I'm just here to watch, maybe place a bet or two. That's all."

John let out a deep belly laugh, his gold rings glinting under the warm lights as he clapped his hands together. "Ahh, my boy, my boy—you always were a tough one to tempt." He wagged a finger at Esau. "It's probably for the best. I've got a killer roster these days, top fighters from all over the country. Wouldn't be fair to throw you in fresh without warming up first."

Esau's jaw tightened ever so slightly, a flicker of irritation creeping in despite himself. He hated to admit it, but John's words needled his pride. Even after all these years, the fighter in him bristled at the implication.

Still, he didn't take the bait. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, feigning mild curiosity. "Is that so?" He mused. "And you think one of them could actually take me down?"

John's grin widened like a wolf who had just cornered its prey. "Not just any of them, Esau. One of them." He leaned forward, his voice dropping slightly, as if he were about to share a well-kept secret. "I've got a champion now—the best fighter I've ever seen."

Esau raised a brow, intrigued despite himself.

John nodded, eyes glinting with amusement. "I'd even wager that my champion could go toe-to-toe with Batman himself."

Esau let out a quiet scoff, setting his glass down. "Now that's a bold claim."

John chuckled. "It is, isn't it? But I stand by it." He spread his arms dramatically. "Tell me, my boy—when was the last time Gotham saw someone worthy of challenging the Bat? Not one of those costumed freaks with gimmicks and gadgets, but a real fighter. A warrior in the truest sense?"

Esau leaned forward slightly. "And this champion of yours…is he the reason you stopped hiding?"

John grinned, pleased to see he had Esau's full attention now. "Bingo." He drummed his fingers against the armrest. "You remember how it used to be—constantly moving, setting up rings in abandoned warehouses, ducking the Bat's gaze. A real pain in the ass even if it was exhilarating and got the fans going."

Esau nodded, recalling the constant relocations, the whispered addresses passed through underground channels.

"But now?" John gestured around him with a grand sweep of his hand. "I got too old for all of that running around. Too old for packing up shop every couple of weeks just to set up somewhere else before Batman or his little sidekicks sniffed me out." He leaned back with a satisfied smirk. "But these past few months? Haven't had to worry about it. No Batman. No Batgirl. No Robin. No reason to keep hiding."

Esau narrowed his eyes. Of course with Barbara and Dick spending more and more time with the team, developing their skills, teamwork and bonds, they had naturally spent less and less time in Gotham. Yet Batman had also been spending less time in Gotham? That was news to him, but what was more shocking was that crime didn't seem to have capitalised on that the way they would have done in the past.

John chuckled. "And let me tell you—business is booming." He flashed a grin. "But enough about that. The champion's fighting tonight. Final bout of the night. Interested in watching?"

Esau leaned back in his chair, taking a slow sip of whiskey before answering. "I'd be lying if I said I wasn't curious."

John's grin turned almost predatory. "Good. Then how about a little wager?"

Esau arched a brow. "I'm listening."

John leaned forward, steepling his fingers. "Here's the deal—there are five fights before the championship match. You and I will each pick a fighter before the bell rings. Whoever guesses the winner gets a point. If you guess correctly, that's a point for you. If you get it wrong, I win the point."

Esau nodded slowly. "What happens if we both choose the winner?"

John flashed his teeth in a smug grin. "Still counts as a point for you."

Esau raised a brow. "And what if you get it wrong? Or if we both get it wrong?"

John waved a hand dismissively. "That won't happen. My eyes have never failed me before, and they won't fail me now."

Esau smirked. 'Cocky bastard.'

"And what do I get if I win?" Esau asked, finishing the last of his drink.

John's grin widened. "If I win? You fight for me again."

Esau exhaled slowly, setting his empty glass down. 'I should have expected that.' After a moment's consideration, Esau nodded. "Fine. But if I win, you owe me a favor."

John chuckled, tilting his head. "A favor?"

Esau nodded. "Nothing dangerous. Nothing that'll risk your business. Just something I can cash in when I need it."

John's grin turned sharp, wolfish. "Now that's interesting." He extended his hand. "You've got yourself a deal."

Esau gripped John's hand firmly, shaking it.

The bet was on.