Chapter 64: Ivon Petrov
Death certificate?
Charlie couldn't believe what he was seeing. His eyes locked onto the screen, disbelief twisting his expression as he double-checked the image before him. It was a clear, unmistakable photo of Ivan Petrov—the same stern, battle-hardened agent he'd worked alongside, the one who'd guided him through some of the darkest, most treacherous assignments he'd ever faced, albeit it was the only assignment he's ever faced at that point in time. Yet, the document beside the photo was a death certificate, and it looked disturbingly genuine.
He scrutinized the details, his mind struggling to process the information. If Ivan was supposed to be dead, then who was the man who had been leading him through those perilous missions? Who was the person who had fought by his side, trading wry banter and grim resolve? Could it be possible that the man was some kind of walking corpse? The thought alone was enough to send a shiver crawling down Charlie's spine.
But then, something else caught his attention. The name on the death certificate wasn't Ivan Petrov; it was Ivon Petrov.
His first thought was that Ivan might have had a twin brother, a long-lost sibling with a hidden history. But when Charlie dug deeper into the records, that theory quickly dissolved. The files revealed the truth—this was indeed the same Ivan Petrov, or rather, this had been his identity in a previous life. Back when he served as an FBI operative, he was known as Ivon Petrov. But that identity had been declared dead. From the ashes of Ivon Petrov, Ivan Petrov rose, was reborn, and was remade into a special agent of the elite and secretive organization known as Special Service Ninth Division.
The transformation from Ivon Petrov to Ivan Petrov had been meticulously documented, every detail sealed away in the most classified files, accessible only to those with the highest levels of security clearance.
But for Batman, those restrictions were barely an inconvenience.
Charlie's decryption tools made quick work of the encryption that protected these secrets. The files opened up like a treasure chest of hidden truths, revealing the story of a man who had walked through the fires of hell and emerged with a new identity, a new purpose.
…
This is the story of a man who had once gone by a different name, a man who had begun his career as an agent, filled with dreams as bright as the morning sun.
When Ivon Petrov was first transferred to Riverton City, he was full of ambition. He saw himself as a hero in his own epic tale, a modern-day knight who would bring justice to a city teetering on the edge of chaos. In his mind, he envisioned himself standing shoulder to shoulder with his fellow agents, battling the forces of darkness, dismantling powerful drug cartels, and rescuing the innocent—just like in the movies.
But the reality of Riverton City was far from the romanticized vision that had driven him.
Ivan's first partner in this gritty, unforgiving city was a veteran officer named Brooke. Brooke was the kind of man who had seen it all, a grizzled survivor who had spent twenty long years in the trenches of law enforcement. He was the epitome of cynicism, a man who had been worn down by the relentless grind of the job. From the moment they met, Brooke made it clear that he had no interest in Ivan's high-minded ideals. His motto was simple, and he repeated it often: "Mind your own business."
To Ivan, Brooke was a relic of a bygone era, a man who had let the harsh realities of life crush his spirit. Brooke didn't chase criminals with the fervor of a crusader; he didn't seek promotions, accolades, or even the respect of his peers. His only goal was to make it through each day without incident, to reach his retirement in peace, and to never again set foot in the world of crime and punishment.
This attitude was anathema to everything Ivan believed. To him, an agent should be a symbol of hope, a warrior for justice, someone who would risk everything to protect the innocent and bring the guilty to justice. Brooke, in Ivan's eyes, was a man who had given up, who had allowed the darkness of the world to extinguish whatever fire he once had.
Their partnership was strained from the very start. Ivan, eager to prove himself and show that he was different and that he had the courage and conviction to make a real difference, constantly clashed with Brooke's jaded pragmatism. Brooke, on the other hand, saw Ivan as nothing more than a naive idealist, a young man who had yet to learn the harsh lessons that life in Riverton City would inevitably teach him.
As time passed, the tension between them only grew. Brooke frequently assigned Ivan to the most mundane, thankless tasks—the kind of drudgery that seasoned agents avoided at all costs. And Ivan, in turn, grew increasingly frustrated with what he perceived as his partner's lack of ambition, his refusal to take risks, and his apparent indifference to the suffering that surrounded them.
But everything changed in the final month of Brooke's long career.
The case that would alter the course of Ivan's life was one that shook the city to its core. An eight-year-old girl had gone missing, and her desperate parents had turned to the FBI Department for help. The case was initially assigned to an officer named Tengu, a man whose reputation for laziness and lack of initiative was well-known. Weeks passed, and Tengu's investigation went nowhere, leaving the girl's fate in limbo.
Ivan couldn't stand it. He saw Tengu as a disgrace to the badge, a man whose incompetence was putting an innocent child's life at risk. He was furious, and he knew he couldn't just sit back and watch as the clock ticked down on the girl's life.
So, he decided to take matters into his own hands.
Determined to find the girl and bring her home safely, Ivan approached Brooke, urging him to intervene. At first, Brooke refused. With only one month left before his retirement, he had no interest in getting involved in a case that wasn't even his. But Ivan was relentless.
"That child is only eight years old," Ivan had said, his voice heavy with the weight of the situation. "Imagine if that were your daughter. Would you still stand by and do nothing?"
Those words struck a nerve in Brooke. He has a daughter; a cute lovable child, an anchor that he had buried deep within himself, keeping it tucked away in a part of his heart that he rarely visited, afraid of tainting her with his foul, blood soaked presence. But Ivan's words brought those memories rushing back to the surface.
Against his better judgment, Brooke agreed to help.
The two of them threw themselves into the case with a fervor that surprised even Ivan. They worked tirelessly, following every lead, chasing down every clue, and finally, they managed to locate the girl and her captors. For a brief moment, it seemed as though everything would turn out alright.
But fate had other plans.
Somehow, the kidnappers had gotten wind of their approach. They were ready for Ivan and Brooke, and what should have been a straightforward rescue mission quickly turned into a deadly ambush.
In the end, reinforcements arrived just in time, and the criminals were subdued. The girl was rescued, but the victory came at a devastating cost.
Brooke, the old officer who had only one month left before his long-awaited retirement, had given his life to save hers.
Ivan was devastated. But his reaction wasn't what anyone expected.
When they brought Brooke's body back to the station, Ivan didn't cry. He didn't rage or break down. Instead, he was eerily calm, his expression blank, his eyes empty of emotion. His colleagues, unsure of how to comfort him, watched in silence as he quietly requested a private session with the kidnapper.
The chief, out of respect for Ivan's loss, granted him that request.
No one could have predicted what would happen next.
In the small, dimly lit interrogation room, Ivan sat across from the kidnapper, his gaze unyielding as he stared the man down. For a long moment, the room was silent, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. Then, without warning, Ivan reached across the table and, with a single, brutal motion, twisted the man's neck, snapping it with the cold efficiency of someone who had nothing left to lose.
The sound of bones cracking echoed through the room like a death knell.
That single act of vengeance cost Ivan his badge, his job, and nearly his freedom. The only reason he wasn't charged with murder was the chief's intervention. The official story was that the criminal had attacked Ivan first, that it was a clear case of self-defense. But everyone knew the truth.
Ivan didn't care.
A few days later, he walked into a bar—a speakeasy tucked away in one of the darkest corners of Riverton City. It was a place where the line between law and crime was razor-thin, where the city's most notorious figures gathered in the shadows, and where whispers of illicit deals and shady alliances filled the smoke-laden air.
Ivan found Officer Tengu there, sitting at a table with two women draped over him, a drink in one hand and a smug grin plastered across his face. When Tengu saw Ivan, his surprise was evident, but he quickly masked it with a wide, welcoming smile.
"Hey, what brings you here?"
But Ivan wasn't there for pleasantries. His eyes were cold, his voice as sharp as a blade.
"On the night Brooke and I went out, someone leaked our plans. It had to be someone inside the department."
Tengu's smile wavered, but he quickly recovered, trying to maintain his facade.
"So what?"
"It was you, wasn't it?" Ivan's voice was steady, but there was a lethal edge to it, the kind that made even the most hardened criminals think twice.
Tengu hesitated for just a fraction of a second, but in that brief pause, he knew the truth was already written across his face. There was no point in lying, no point in denying what had been done. He let out a low, humorless laugh and leaned back in his chair, feigning nonchalance.
"So what if it was?" Tengu's grin turned into a sneer. "What are you going to do about it? You think you're some kind of hero, Ivan? You're just a fool who doesn't know when to back down. You were lucky the old man took that bullet for you. Next time, you might not be so lucky."
Ivan's stare never wavered. His eyes, once filled with the idealism of a young lawman eager to make his mark, were now dark, filled with something far more dangerous—a cold, calculated resolve. He was no longer the man who believed in the black-and-white simplicity of right and wrong. That man had died alongside Brooke.
"Why did you do it?" Ivan's voice was calm, but beneath the surface, there was a current of fury, barely contained.
Tengu scoffed, taking a slow, deliberate sip of his drink. "Why not? I've got connections, real power. People like you—idealists—you're just pawns in a game you don't even understand. Brooke was a relic, just like you are. The world doesn't need people like you anymore."
"People like me?" Ivan's lips curled into a smile, one that didn't reach his eyes. "What kind of people do you think I am, Tengu?"
"Pathetic," Tengu spat. "Always trying to play the hero. But this city chews up heroes and spits them out. You should have learned that by now."
For a long moment, neither man spoke. The air between them was thick with tension, with unspoken threats and promises of violence. The other patrons in the bar had begun to notice the standoff, the way Ivan's hand hovered just a little too close to his jacket, where they all knew a gun was likely concealed.
Tengu, perhaps sensing that he had pushed too far, tried to diffuse the situation. He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Look, Ivan, we're all just trying to survive here. Brooke's gone, and nothing you do is going to bring him back. So why don't you just let it go? There's no point in getting yourself killed over this."
Ivan's expression hardened. "You think this is about survival, Tengu? You think I'm here because I want revenge? Brooke might be gone, but I'm still here. And as long as I am, people like you—people who think they can do whatever they want and get away with it—you're going to learn that there are consequences."
The last word hung in the air like a death sentence.
Ivan's hand moved in a blur. In one fluid motion, he pulled out his gun and pointed it directly at Tengu's forehead. The room fell silent. The laughter, the chatter, the clinking of glasses—all of it ceased as every eye in the room turned towards the two men at the center of this deadly drama.
Tengu's bravado crumbled. He raised his hands, palms out, in a gesture of surrender. "Hey, Ivan, let's not do anything hasty—"
But Ivan wasn't listening. His finger tightened on the trigger.
"You know," Ivan said quietly, almost to himself, "for a long time, I believed in justice. I believed in the system. I thought that if I just worked hard enough, if I was good enough, I could make a difference. But then I realized something."
Tengu swallowed hard, his eyes locked on the barrel of the gun.
"I realized," Ivan continued, his voice calm, almost serene, "that justice isn't something you wait for. It's something you take."
The gunshot was deafening in the enclosed space. Tengu's head snapped back as the bullet tore through his skull, and he slumped forward onto the table, his blood pooling around the half-empty glass in front of him.
For a moment, no one moved. The bar was silent, the shock of the sudden violence paralyzing everyone in the room. Then, as if on cue, the screams started. People scrambled for the exits, overturning chairs and tables in their haste to get away. The security guards, who had been inching closer, suddenly found themselves in the middle of a stampede.
Ivan stood motionless in the chaos, the gun still smoking in his hand. He didn't flinch as bodies rushed past him, as people screamed and stumbled over each other in their desperation to escape. His eyes were fixed on Tengu's lifeless body, on the blood that now stained the floor.
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