He drinks. He doesn’t swallow. He breathes .
" Buenas noches, buitres, " he growls, a voice like grinding gravel and rosary beads.
A cloud of vaporized mescal and adrenaline ignites from his gauntlet’s flint striker. A wall of blue flame erupts, separating Los Espectros. In the chaos, the látigo sings. It wraps the jaguar-claw, twists, cracks the cybernetic wrist. The acid-spitter gets his own throat plugged with a Batarang shaped like a calavera —a sugar skull.
"Mercy," Diego repeats, his voice quiet now. "My father asked for mercy. You gave him a bullet."
A child, peeking from a doorway, whispers to her mother: " Mira, mamá. El Caballero de la Noche. "