DC: Rise Of The Kryptonian Tyrant

The sea breeze howled through the dark night, carrying the sound of crashing waves as they slammed against the shore.

Bardi stepped onto the harbor, his body shuddering briefly. With a subtle movement, the water droplets clinging to his skin were shaken off in an instant. He ran his hands through his wet hair, slicking it back, revealing a chiseled, resolute face.

The mist that formed from the water droplets dispersed into the sea breeze, drifting toward Hank and his men. The sensation brought Hank back to his senses, snapping him out of his stunned stupor.

And stunned he was. Just moments after completing a transaction with the Falcone family, a man had suddenly emerged from the sea—completely naked.

No clothes, no shoes, not even underwear.

What stood before them was a figure straight out of a sculptor's dream—a tall, lean, and muscular man whose body seemed carved from stone. The scars etched across his skin were like battle-worn decorations, as if he were a living relic from a battlefield. He exuded an undeniable presence, a mixture of strength and mystery.

Hank wiped his face with the back of his hand, clearing away the mist blown his way. Then he glanced across to the middle-aged butler standing behind Mario Falcone.

Hank was no fool. He knew that Mario, for all his confidence, wasn't the one truly in charge here. The kid had been brought out tonight for experience, likely to test his mettle in the criminal world. While Mario's youthful boldness had some charm, it would've gotten him killed long ago if not for his family name and the reputation of the Sopranos like Falcone.

But the butler? That man had the air of someone who truly called the shots. And when Hank turned to look at him, he noticed the butler wore the same confused expression.

For a moment, Hank felt relieved. Whatever this was, it wasn't some double-cross orchestrated by the Falcones. If it had been, it wouldn't have involved a naked man crawling out of the sea. If things were that simple, they'd just pull a gun and start shooting.

The two groups—Hank's rough crew and the well-dressed men behind Mario—stared silently at Bardi.

Bardi, for his part, stood completely unbothered by the attention. His posture was straight, his spine perfectly aligned, giving off an air of absolute composure despite his exposed state.

To him, there was no shame in this situation. Clothing was irrelevant. What was the big deal?

His gaze swept over Hank and his men, then moved to Mario and his entourage. His eyes lingered on the butler for a moment before finally settling on the greasy oil drum and the two cases sitting atop it.

His attention fixated on the case containing the money.

Bardi's expression remained unreadable, but inwardly he noted that the cash would be useful to him. Whether it was for establishing his own foothold or funding the early stages of his plans, having money was a necessity.

His vision sharpened as he examined the contents of the case. He could see through it clearly, calculating that it held roughly one million dollars. It wasn't an astronomical amount, but it would suffice for now as a foundation.

Hank noticed Bardi's gaze lingering on the money and felt a flare of irritation. The audacity of this stranger—a naked man, no less—eyeing his money as if it already belonged to him was infuriating.

With a scowl, Hank reached for the Colt Python revolver holstered at his waist. He pulled it out, pointing the barrel directly at Bardi. A sneer spread across his face.

"What the hell are you staring at, you freak?" Hank growled.

The atmosphere shifted immediately. Hank's men reacted almost instinctively, drawing their weapons—pistols, AK rifles, whatever they had on hand. All were aimed squarely at Bardi.

Mario's group tensed as well. Guns were drawn, with some aimed at Bardi and others at Hank and his men.

The butler, standing close to Mario, was alarmed but not visibly shaken. He quickly assessed the situation. The fact that Hank's group had brought rifles was concerning, but he knew the Falcones weren't without their own firepower. After all, they had rocket launchers and grenades waiting nearby if things escalated.

But his priority wasn't the potential for an all-out firefight, it was protecting his young master. Even a stray bullet grazing Mario's skin would be considered a disaster.

Stepping forward calmly, the butler addressed Hank in a measured tone before Bardi could speak.

"Hank," he said, his voice carrying a subtle weight of authority, "our transaction has already concluded. Let's not complicate things further."

The deal was done. As far as the butler was concerned, anything that happened after, whether Hank robbed someone, got robbed himself, or started killing people was no longer their business. All he cared about was ensuring nothing happened to his young master.

After addressing Hank, the butler turned to Mario and stooped slightly, speaking in a calm, respectful tone. "Master, it's time to head home."

Mario Falcone, clearly inexperienced in situations like this, froze for a moment. His gaze lingered on the naked figure of Bardi, conflicted and hesitant. Still, he trusted the butler's judgment, took the case containing the money, and retreated to the butler's side without protest.

Hank didn't stop them. The butler was right, the transaction was over, and what came next was none of their concern.

Spitting onto the ground, Hank sneered disdainfully. "When did Gotham's Falcone family get so soft?"

The butler responded with a composed, gentlemanly smile. "There's a troublesome officer in the Gotham Police Department lately. The master believes it's best to avoid unnecessary entanglements for now. If it can be avoided, it will be."

Hank snorted, unimpressed, and cocked the hammer of his Colt Python revolver with his thumb. A grin spread across his face as he raised the gun toward Bardi. "Well then, before you go, stick around and witness a murder."

The butler blinked, momentarily stunned. He had hoped to leave quickly, sparing Mario the sight of any unnecessary violence. He hadn't expected Hank to act so decisively, let alone resort to shooting right away.

Still, murder was hardly a shocking event for the Falcone family. Hank's impulsiveness wasn't enough to provoke any outrage from them, it was just an annoyance.

Bang!

The gunshot shattered the tense quiet of the harbor, the sound cutting through the howling wind and crashing waves.

Bardi, who had been silently watching the unfolding events, remained as composed as ever. He wasn't one to meddle in the affairs of others, nor did he appreciate others meddling in his.

From their brief conversation, he'd gleaned enough to realize where he was: Gotham. He had swum here, likely veering off course from his original destination.

His indifferent eyes tracked the bullet as it tore through the air, spinning with deadly precision. The glowing red-hot round streaked toward his chest.

In one smooth motion, Bardi lifted his right hand, extending his middle finger slightly. The bullet grazed the edge of his fingernail.

The impact caused sparks to fly as the bullet's trajectory was disrupted. The round veered off course, scraping against his fingernail before being deflected entirely. It spun away from Bardi, narrowly missing his left side, before falling into the sea with a faint splash.

The nail itself, which had been slightly too long for Bardi's liking, was shaved down by the bullet's rotation. Though the edge was a bit rough, it could easily be smoothed out later. With a few more strikes, it might even look well-manicured.

Bardi nodded to himself, satisfied. He had once considered using a chainsaw to trim his nails, but it hadn't occurred to him that bullets could be an equally effective tool.

The harbor fell into stunned silence.

Hank, Mario, the butler, and all their men stared at Bardi, their faces frozen in disbelief.

Scraping a bullet with his fingernail?

They had all seen Hank fire the shot. The sound of the revolver's discharge had been deafening, loud enough to cut through the sea breeze. But what followed…

Bardi had calmly raised his hand and allowed the bullet to spark against his fingernail, redirecting it as if it were nothing more than a minor inconvenience.

Hank's eyes widened, his mouth hanging open in a mixture of shock and confusion. Slowly, he looked down at his Colt Python revolver. The gun was a masterpiece of craftsmanship—a .357 Magnum with a brushed stainless steel finish, polished to perfection. It was one of the most reliable and powerful revolvers in the world.

And yet, against this man, its deadly force had amounted to nothing.

"What the hell is this…?"

***

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