ã€ŠBatman: Court of Shadowsã€‹


 Chapter 1: The Explosion

    The shockwave knocked out windows for blocks, a blast so loud it seemed to chew through the city itself. Black smoke poured into the sky, curling like a fist ready to drop more punches. The tower stood in ruins now, its top half gone like someone had bitten it off and spat out chunks of steel and concrete onto the streets below. Sirens screamed almost instantly¡ªwhy wouldn¡¯t they? It was Arkham City; alarms here were practically on standby.

    Batman clocked the scene from a rooftop a few blocks away, crouched low but set like someone ready to start punching. He took in the disorder¡ªnot just the smoking carcass of Blackgate Tower, but the panicked people below, scattering like spilled marbles. Cops were already swarming, cordoning off streets, barking orders no one would listen to.

    The air was filled of burning metal and charred rubber. He could see flashes of fire still licking at what was left of the upper floors, bright orange against the deep black shroud of smoke wrapping around them. A hellish beacon for anyone with half a brain to realize: this wasn¡¯t just an accident.

    The Blackgate Tower wasn¡¯t just some office block; this place was a fortress¡ªa guarded sanctuary for lawyers who rubbed elbows with mobsters over drinks while laundering cash through shell companies that didn¡¯t need names or signs. It wasn¡¯t hard to connect dots: whoever blew it up wasn¡¯t just looking for fireworks¡ªthey wanted heads. And judging by the power of that blast? Whoever did this had serious resources and an even bigger grudge.

    Batman didn¡¯t waste time. He launched himself from the rooftop, grappling hook hissing as it latched onto a skeletal fire escape a block closer to the blast.

    The descent was fast, each ledge he cleared brought him closer to the street that was now a mess of screaming civilians, honking horns, and shouts from officers trying to restore order. No one noticed him¡ªgood. The Bat wasn¡¯t there for hand-holding or crowd control.

    Once on the ground, he moved fast. Direct route, no hesitation. The edges of his cape cut through the smoky air like blades as he approached the site. The smell hit him first¡ªa cocktail of burning chemicals, scorched wiring, and something deeper, rawer, that reminded him too much of charred bodies. He ignored it¡ªor buried it somewhere deep enough that it wouldn¡¯t interfere. His focus narrowed to what mattered¡ªSurvivors.

    Cops were already sweating in the fight to retain some kind of perimeter around Blackgate Tower¡¯s shattered skeleton. Yellow tape flapped against barricades pushed back by curious onlookers and panicked rubberneckers with phones out like they were filming a blockbuster instead of a potential massacre site. Batman ignored them all, slipping past a cluster of uniforms who saw his silhouette but didn¡¯t bother trying to stop him.

    ¡°Gordon,¡± he called out when he spotted him just outside the epicenter, barking at some poor patrolman gripping a radio like it owed him rent money.

    Gordon turned, face half-lit by rotating reds and blues slicing through the haze.

    ¡°You¡¯re here,¡± he said, voice raspier than usual either from yelling or that ever-present pack-a-day habit Batman had long since stopped commenting on.

    ¡°What do you have?¡± Batman asked.

    ¡°Not enough,¡± Gordon replied without missing a beat. He waved toward the rubble like there was supposed to be answers hiding there somewhere under all that smoking concrete and dismantled rebar. ¡°Blast took out half the building¡ªupper floors mostly¡ªbut we¡¯ve got no idea who¡¯s behind it yet or if anyone¡¯s still alive up there.¡±

    ¡°They aren¡¯t,¡± Batman said, scanning what little structure remained upright like he was looking for an entry point. ¡°Any survivors?¡±

    ¡°Nothing yet,¡± Gordon admitted. ¡°Rescue teams are on their way, but some of my guys tried to push in already. Didn¡¯t get far. The whole thing¡¯s like a damn maze¡ªunstable, too. One wrong step and it¡¯ll come down on everyone still inside.¡±

    ¡°Do you have any suspects on who did this?¡±

    ¡°No solid leads yet,¡± Gordon said, his voice edged with frustration. ¡°Anonymous tip about a possible explosive device came in twenty minutes before the blast. By the time we scrambled units here, it was too late. Could be Joker, could be Two-Face, could be some lunatic trying to make a name for themselves¡ªwe just don¡¯t know.¡±

    Batman thought Gordon¡¯s suggestion was nonsense. Most of his enemies were locked up tight in Arkham, doped to the gills or buried so deep in solitary they¡¯d forget what daylight looked like.

    Joker? He hadn¡¯t heard so much as a whisper about him for months¡ªnot an unusual trick for the clown, but every intel line from Oracle to his own legwork said the guy was still rotting in his padded cell. Same with Harvey. Hell, even Hush was tucked away, and that freak loved blowing things up just to see his name in headlines.

    The Court of Owls? That paranoid part of his mind wanted to throw them into the mix, but logic beat it back down. He¡¯d dismantled their operations piece by piece. No masks in the shadows anymore¡ªat least not that mattered. They weren¡¯t sloppy enough to leave this kind of calling card anyway. The Court thrived on subtlety¡ªthe long con. This wasn¡¯t their style; this was a megaphone-level shout from someone looking for attention.

    But still¡­ Joker? Some shmuck who slipped through Arkham¡¯s revolving doors without anyone noticing? Maybe Gordon wasn¡¯t completely off-base¡ªmaybe someone had crawled out of the woodwork with a manic grin and a score to settle. It wouldn¡¯t be the first time some lunatic got lucky with TNT and bad intentions.Stolen story; please report.

    What gnawed at Batman more than anything else, though, was how cleanly this had been pulled off. Whoever did it knew exactly where to hit Blackgate Tower to make it fold in on itself like a crushed soda can while leaving behind enough mayhem to keep law enforcement spinning their wheels for days¡ªweeks if they were lucky not to miss something critical.

    This wasn¡¯t amateur hour. Joker loved chaos too much to pull off something this polished; he thrived on theatrical messiness, not analytic destruction. And if it wasn¡¯t him, then who? Scarecrow liked his toxins, Riddler couldn¡¯t resist signing everything with neon-green ink like a middle schooler tagging lockers, Penguin preferred blood over bombs¡ªand none of them screamed ¡°demolition expert.¡±

    The fact that he didn¡¯t have an answer only pissed him off more.

    It wasn¡¯t like he believed Arkham was airtight¡ªhe never did¡ªbut this didn¡¯t feel like the usual rogue gallery antics. Which left only two options: someone new trying to make a name for themselves or someone old playing by new rules. Neither option made him feel any better as he stepped closer toward what used to be Blackgate Tower¡¯s front entrance.

    Whoever pulled this off wanted attention, and they were going to get it whether they liked it or not. Batman would make sure of that personally.

    ¡°I¡¯m going in,¡± he said.

    Gordon raised his eyebrow. ¡°What? That¡¯s¡ª¡±

    Batman didn¡¯t wait for Gordon to finish. He was gone before the last words left the man¡¯s mouth, grappling toward the skeletal remains of Blackgate Tower. The hook caught high on an exposed beam, and he shot into the air, slicing through smoke and ash. His cape fanned out before he reeled himself in, boots finding purchase on what used to be someone''s corner office.

    The sick irony wasn¡¯t lost on him: a fortress designed to keep secrets buried now stood wide open, gutted like a fish.

    The inside looked worse than he expected¡ªnot just destruction, but obliteration. Floors had collapsed onto one another like layers of a cake dropped from ten stories up. Desks were splintered into kindling, chairs fused to chunks of melted carpet and metal. A copy machine rested at a forty-five-degree angle, its chassis cracked open and spitting broken glass like teeth. Papers fluttered in the thick air, some burnt at the edges, most covered in soot and unrecognizable save for random letterheads smeared with ink stains.

    The heat lingered even here; patches of fire still clung to whatever hadn¡¯t already been consumed. He stepped over a protruding piece of rebar that jutted up like a spear, careful not to disturb it too much¡ªit was holding up what little remained of the ceiling two floors above him. The groan of stressed metal trembled through the structure every few seconds¡ªthis place isn¡¯t going to stand upright much longer.

    Batman clicked his comm, the familiar static crackling in his ear. "Oracle, do you copy?"

    "I''m here," Barbara''s voice came through clear despite the interference from the building''s remaining electrical systems. "Already scanning police frequencies and security footage from nearby buildings. No clear shots of anyone suspicious entering or leaving Blackgate before the blast."

    "What about thermal readings?"

    "Working on that now. Satellite coverage shows the blast originated from somewhere between the forty-fifth and forty-eighth floors. But Bruce..." She paused, and he could hear the rapid clicking of keys in the background. "Something''s off. The building''s security systems went dark exactly three minutes before the explosion. Not gradually¡ªall at once. Someone knew exactly what they were doing."

    "Send me the building''s original blueprints. I need to know where the structural weak points were."

    "Already on it. But there''s more¡ªI''ve been digging through Blackgate''s client list. In the past month, three major law firms pulled their offices out of the building. No explanation given, just sudden lease terminations with penalty fees paid in full."

    Batman moved deeper into the wreckage, stepping over a fallen support beam. "Names?"

    "Sending them now. But here''s the kicker¡ªall three firms represented different crime families. The Falcones, Maronis, and the Russians. It''s like they knew something was coming."

    "Keep digging. I need everything you can find on those firms and their recent cases."

    "Sure. Be careful in there. That building''s about as stable as a house of cards in a hurricane."

    "Just keep me posted," he replied, cutting the connection as he pressed deeper into the ruins.

    He moved further in, looking every crevice for movement¡ªanything that might indicate someone was still breathing under all this wreckage. Nothing. Just mangled furniture and shredded drywall. A steel filing cabinet lay on its side nearby, its drawers half-open and spilling charred legal documents onto the broken floor tiles. No sign of life.

    A section of wall had collapsed ahead of him, exposing what used to be an elevator shaft. The cables dangled down into darkness below; the car itself was gone¡ªprobably part of that pile sitting somewhere on the street outside now. He paused long enough to listen for anything¡ªa voice, even a cough¡ªbut all he heard was fire crackling and another distant groan from the building¡¯s skeletal frame.

    He pressed forward through what looked like it had once been a hallway but now felt more like an obstacle course. A busted conference table sat buried under concrete slabs painted with streaks of blackened dust. Still no bodies¡ªalive or otherwise¡ªwhich only made his jaw tighten further because it meant one thing: if anyone had been here when this happened, they were either incinerated or crushed beyond recognition.

    The remains of what might¡¯ve once been a stairwell came ahead¡ªa uneven opening leading upward¡ªbut it looked more like a vertical death trap than anything remotely stable. Batman hesitated for only half a second before climbing over the wreckage toward it; his gauntlets gripped twisted railings and fractured steps as he hauled himself upward against the pull of gravity¡ªand the building¡¯s steady protests.

    The rooftop¡ªor what was left of it¡ªgave him nothing but a better view of how bad things really were. Smoke poured out around him in slow spirals as embers drifted higher into the night sky like angry fireflies. From here he could see straight down where entire floors had pancaked together into indistinguishable rubble piles; nothing recognizable, let alone livable.

    No survivors. None that mattered anyway.

    He stood there for another moment, letting himself process¡ªnot the carnage in front of him but what it meant: someone wanted Blackgate Tower erased, not just damaged or inconvenienced but wiped off the map. This wasn¡¯t collateral damage; this was something else, and its goal is to leave no witnesses.

    Whoever did this didn¡¯t care about bodies¡ªthey cared about results.

    Nearby, a chunk of loose concrete fell away from an upper support beam and slammed down onto what remained of a desk below it with a crack loud enough to make anyone else flinch¡ªbut not him. Instead, he turned on his heel and fired off another grapple line without wasting another second; he¡¯d seen all he needed to see.

    Gordon would have questions when he got back down there¡ªquestions Batman probably wouldn¡¯t answer until later, when he pieced together who could pull off something like this.

    But right now? There were no answers up here¡ªjust ghosts trapped inside melted office equipment and scorched drywall threatening to collapse under its own weight any second now.

    Time to move before those ghosts dragged him down with them.

 Chapter 1.1: Jason

    The signs painted Gotham''s streets in patches of red and blue. A rare peaceful night, for once. People walked down the sidewalks, some heading home from late shifts, others starting their night. The wail of police sirens drifted from somewhere in the distance¡ª standard background noise in this city. Nothing worth checking out yet.

    Until...

    The thugs'' footsteps lash against the pavement as they ran with their Two-Face masks bobbing with each stride. Briefcases full of cash swung wildly in their hands and the weight of their ill-gotten gains are slowing them down.

    "Shit, shit, shit!" one of them gasped, risking a glance over his shoulder. "We gotta lose ''em!"

    "I told you!" Martinez wheezed between heavy breaths, his Two-Face mask slipping to reveal beads of sweat rolling down his temple. "I told you we should''ve went the other way, but no - you had to play hotshot and take Fifth!"

    The briefcase slammed against his thigh with each desperate stride, and Jason could see the way Martinez''s fingers were turning numb from gripping the handle. The other guy - Benson, if Jason remembered the intel right - just grunted and kept running.

    "Shut the hell up," Benson shot back, yanking Martinez into a narrow alley. Their shoes splashed through murky puddles, sending dirty water flying. "You got a better plan? Because I''m all ears!"

    Martinez stumbled over a discarded trash bag, catching himself on the brick wall. "Yeah, I got a plan - not dying! Two-Face is gonna skin us if we lose this cash, but that''s better than whatever that freak in got planned."

    The irony almost made Jason smile behind his mask as he tracked their movement from above. These idiots thought they were having a bad night now? They had no idea what was coming.

    "Left," Benson barked, pulling his partner around another corner.

    They rounded a corner, ducking into a narrow alley. The leader skidded to a halt, causing the others to crash into him. Then, a dark silhouette blocked their path, emerging in the shadows.

    "Fuck," another thug whispered. "Is that... is that Batman?"

    A low chuckle emanated from the figure. "Sorry to disappoint, boys. If I were Batman, you''d already be dangling upside down by your ankles, crying for mommy. I¡¯m not him. I¡¯m much worse."

    The sound of guns being cocked cut through the air and two pistols glinted in the light, aimed at the group.

    Jason stepped forward, the faint glow caught the edges of his helmet. The red sheen made him look more demon than man, which was pretty much the vibe he was looking for.

    "It''s Red Hood!" Martinez shouted. "This can¡¯t be real!"

    "Give the man a prize. Unlike the big bad Bat, I don''t give a crap if any of you make it out of this alley breathing."

    "Bullshit, you¡¯re not going kill us," Benson spat. The bravado was paper-thin, and Jason could see the tremor in the hand holding the gun. "You need us alive¡ªfor information or something. That¡¯s how you hero types work."

    Jason''s laugh was cold, humorless. "Wrong answer. I¡¯m not a hero. I stopped playing that game a long time ago. So let''s cut the chase and get to the point. Where''s Two-Face?"

    The thugs exchanged nervous glances, their bravado crumbling under Jason''s steady aim.

    "We don''t know nothin''," Benson stammered, trying to put on a brave face.

    Jason sighed, shaking his head. "Wrong answer." In a blur of motion, he closed the distance between them, his fist connecting with the leader''s jaw with a sickening crack.

    The other thugs sprang into action, but Jason was ready. He ducked under a wild swing, using the momentum to flip one of the goons over his shoulder. The man crashed into a pile of garbage bags, groaning in pain.

    "Last chance," Jason growled, dodging another attack and retaliating with a vicious elbow to the attacker''s solar plexus. "Where''s Two-Face?"

    "Go to hell!" one of the remaining thugs spat, lunging at him with a switchblade.

    Jason caught the man''s wrist, twisting it until the knife clattered to the ground. "Been there, done that. Not impressed." He headbutted the thug, sending him stumbling backward.

    The fight was over in minutes, and Jason stood among the groaning, battered criminals, barely out of breath. He zip-tied their hands behind their backs, making sure the restraints were tight.

    "Now," he said, crouching down next to the leader, who was spitting blood onto the pavement. "Let''s try this one more time. Where''s Two-Face?"

    The thug glared at him for a moment before his resolve crumbled. "The old chemical plant on the east side. That''s where he''s set up shop."

    Jason nodded, standing up. "See? Was that so hard?" He turned to leave, then paused. "Oh, and fellas? You might want to rethink your career choices. This gig doesn''t seem to be working out for you."

    As he walked away, leaving the battered thugs for the GCPD to find, Jason''s comm crackled to life.

    "Red Hood, come in. It''s Oracle."

    Jason tapped his helmet, activating the built-in communicator. "What''s up, Babs? Kind of in the middle of something here."

    "We''ve got a situation."

    "Situation? What kind?"

    "There''s been a terrorist explosion at Blackgate Tower. Casualties are high."

    "Is that so?" Jason muttered. "How bad are we talking?"

    "Bad," Barbara replied. "At least fifty confirmed dead, more injured. The building''s partially collapsed, and we''re still getting reports of people trapped inside."

    "Any idea who''s behind it?"This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

    "Not yet," she said. "That''s where you come in. I need your help to figure this out, but we need to keep it off Batman''s radar for now."

    Jason raised an eyebrow. "Keeping secrets from the old man? That''s not like you, Babs. What¡¯s going on?"

    He could almost hear her frown through the comm. "Bruce is... preoccupied with a another situation. I don''t want to pull him away from that, not when the clown''s involved. Besides, you''ve got experience with this kind of thing that the rest of us don''t."

    Jason''s jaw tightened. "Fair enough. What do you need me to do?"

    "Head to Blackgate Tower. I''ll guide you to a secure entrance away from the main rescue efforts. We need eyes on the ground, someone who can move freely without attracting attention."

    "On it," Jason said, already moving towards his motorcycle. "Send me the coordinates. I''ll let you know what I find."

    As he sped through Gotham''s streets, lacing through traffic with reckless abandon.

    A terrorist attack of this scale wasn''t common, even in a city as Gotham. Someone was making a big play, and he had a feeling this was just the opening move.

    Whatever was going on, Jason needs to get to the bottom of it. And if he had to break a few rules ¨C and maybe a few bones ¨C along the way, well, that was just par for the course in his line of work.

    "Jason. There''s more you need to know," Barbara''s voice crackled through his comm again.

    He sighed. "What is it, Babs? I thought time was of the essence here."

    "It is, but... this explosion, it came out of nowhere. No chatter, no warning signs. Even Batman didn''t see it coming."

    Jason frowned. "That''s not like him. The old man''s usually on top of this."

    "I know," Barbara said. "And that''s not all. The building was using WayneTech security systems. Top of the line stuff. For someone to bypass that..."

    "They''d have to be damn good," Jason finished. "Or have inside help."

    There was a pause on the other end of the line. When Barbara spoke again. "Jason, there''s a reason I''m coming to you with this."

    "Yeah? And what''s that?"

    "I think... I think this could be a chance for you. To show Bruce, to show all of us, that you''re still one of the good guys."

    Jason''s grip tightened on the handlebars. "I never claimed to be one of the good guys. That''s not my style."

    "Maybe not," she conceded. "But I know you. Deep down, you want to do the right thing. This could be your shot at redemption."

    He let out a harsh laugh. "Redemption? That''s a pretty word for a pretty impossible thing. You really think one case is gonna make up for everything?"

    "No," Barbara said. "But it''s a start. And right now, we need someone who can work outside the system. Someone who''s not afraid to get their hands dirty if that''s what it takes to save lives and find the truth."

    Jason was silent for a moment, considering her words. Finally, responded. "Fine. I''ll do it. But not for redemption or whatever BS you''re selling. I''m doing it because someone needs to, and I''m the best person for the job."

    "That''s all I''m asking," she replied. "Be careful out there. And... thank you."

    "Don''t thank me yet," he muttered. "Save that for when I actually figure this thing out."

    An attack that even Batman didn''t see coming? WayneTech security bypassed like it was nothing? This wasn''t some run-of-the-mill terrorist group or Gotham lowlife.

    Jason pushed the bike faster, the wind whipping past his helmet. He had a feeling this case was going to get a lot messier before it got better. But that was fine by him. Messy was what he did best.

    As he approached Blackgate Tower, the scale of the destruction became apparent. Half the building was a smoking ruin, emergency vehicles crowded around the base. He could see figures moving in and out of the wreckage, carrying stretchers.

    Jason pulled off to a side street, hiding his bike in an alley before making his way towards the coordinates Barbara had sent.

    The police formed a barrier around the blast zone, their arms spread wide as they tried to hold back the growing crowd of onlookers and concerned citizens.

    "Back up! Everyone needs to stay behind the yellow tape!" A heavyset officer shouted, his face red with exertion. "This is an active crime scene!"

    "My sister works in there!" A woman in business attire pushed against the line. "I need to know if she''s okay!"

    "Ma''am, please step back," another cop grabbed her shoulders. "Emergency services are doing everything they can. We''ll release information about survivors as soon as we have it."

    Jason watched from his vantage point as more people joined the crowd, their phones held high to capture footage of the destruction.

    Even with bodies still trapped in the rubble, with smoke filling the air and sirens wailing, these people couldn''t help themselves. Some even pushed and jostled for better angles, like this was some kind of tourist attraction. The whole scene made his trigger finger itch. This was what Gotham had become - a city where disaster was just another form of entertainment.

    "Jesus Christ, would you people back off?" The first officer''s voice cracked with frustration. "This isn''t a damn attraction!"

    "Screw you, pig!" Someone in the crowd shouted. "We got a right to be here!"

    The situation was deteriorating fast. Jason could see more cops rushing to reinforce the line as the crowd grew more agitated. Perfect cover for him to slip past unnoticed. While they were busy playing crowd control, he could access the building through Barbara''s route without anyone being the wiser.

    He activated his comm. "Oracle, I''m moving in. Keep me posted if anything changes."

    "Got it. Be careful in there, Jason. The structure''s unstable."

    "I will."

    He moved in silence, sticking to the shadows and avoiding the main rescue efforts.

    Finally, he reached a service entrance on the far side of the building. The door was ajar with the lock clearly forced. Jason drew one of his guns, holding it at the ready as he slipped inside.

    The interior of the building was in shit. In the distance, he could hear shouts and the crackle of radio chatter from the rescue teams.

    Jason moved deeper into the building with his senses on high alert. He wasn''t sure what he was looking for yet, but he knew he''d recognize it when he saw it. Something that didn''t fit. Something that might give a clue as to who was behind this attack and why.

    From his position, he could see him¡ªBatman, moving around. The cape swept behind him like a blade slicing through the smoky air as the Dark Knight scanned for survivors. Of course he was here. A disaster this big? There was no way Bruce Wayne would sit this one out. But Jason couldn''t let himself be seen¡ªBabs had been clear about keeping this quiet.

    The old man stopped for a moment, crouching near a slab of fallen concrete, likely checking for life underneath it. Jason used the pause to his advantage. Staying low, he slipped through the shadows in the opposite direction. If Bruce''s focus was on saving lives, Jason''s was elsewhere. He wasn''t here for survivors; he knew there weren''t any left in this part of the building.

    What he was looking for was something deadlier. A lead.

    He kept moving into darker parts of the ruins where even the emergency lights didn¡¯t reach, stepping over steel beams and scorched debris. His instincts told him there wasn¡¯t going to be another bomb lying around¡ªwhoever did this wasn¡¯t sloppy enough to leave their fireworks unspent¡ªbut something about this whole mess felt wrong.

    Then he saw it. Not a bomb, like he''d expected, but a set of maintenance panels embedded along one of the remaining walls. They were scorched and buckled from the blast¡ªbut not destroyed.

    Jason frowned under his helmet and moved closer, brushing debris aside with one hand while keeping his other on the grip of his pistol. The panels shouldn¡¯t have been at the center of an explosion like this unless...unless they were part of it.

    WayneTech¡¯s logo glinted on what remained of the casing. Top-of-the-line equipment. State-of-the-art systems that were supposed to prevent shit like this from happening in the first place. A bad feeling crept into Jason''s gut¡ªnot fear, not hesitation, just a sense that things were spiraling beyond what they appeared.

    "This isn''t right," he whispered.

    Whoever triggered this didn¡¯t plant a bomb¡ªthey¡¯d used these systems to cause the explosion remotely. That meant a hacker¡ªor someone with insider access to WayneTech-level technology.

    Jason crouched lower, examining what was left of the system¡¯s interface. Wires hung loose like torn veins, but some of the components looked...untouched?

    It didn¡¯t make sense unless someone knew exactly how much energy overload these panels could take.

    "Son of a bitch," he said.

    Gotham¡¯s most secure tech flipped into an instrument of terror? Someone who could bypass firewalls Bruce himself designed? Someone who wanted Batman distracted long enough to keep him off their trail?

    He smelled someone new.

    Tucking away what he¡¯d found in that scorched panel in his head, Jason moved on further inside Blackgate Tower to see what else might have gotten missed.

    For now? This intel stayed with him alone until he figured out who was dumb enough¡ªor smart enough¡ªto pull off something this messed up on WayneTech''s watch.

 Chapter 2: Leads

    Batman climbed out of the Batmobile, the engine¡¯s low growl cutting off as he shut it down. Ahead of him sat Arkham Asylum, its hulking shape crouched on the horizon like some sleeping predator. The place had a way of looking worse every time he came back, even though it was supposed to be under tighter control now. New management hadn¡¯t made it any less of a meat grinder for souls that couldn¡¯t claw their way out.

    It had been months since his last trip here¡ªthe night Joker had staged one of his little showcases and turned the asylum into his personal madhouse. That night had ended with bodies on the ground and blood soaking into what passed for Arkham¡¯s carpet¡ªbut not a lot changed in Gotham. You could patch the walls and repaint over the nightmares, but they¡¯d always bleed through eventually.

    Tonight? This wasn¡¯t about nostalgia. Word on the street said Blackgate Tower might have been Joker¡¯s handiwork¡ªthere wasn¡¯t proof yet (not the kind that mattered), but Batman knew better than to brush aside rumors that smelled like cordite and clown greasepaint. He needed eyes on Joker himself to rule him out or lock him in as a suspect. And if not Joker¡­ well, Arkham had no shortage of residents with vendettas and a flair for destruction.

    From where he stood, he could already see signs of upgrades around Arkham¡¯s perimeter. The old guard towers were still there, but new automated drones hovered above them, scanning everything below in slow loops. Armored guards patrolled in pairs behind reinforced fences topped with coils of razor wire that looked like they¡¯d been dipped in motor oil for good measure. And the rumored robot dogs? They were real, too¡ªmetal forms prowling just inside the gates, their heads sweeping from side to side on silent servos as they sniffed out anything breathing where it shouldn¡¯t be.

    Batman didn¡¯t need confirmation to know why all this hardware was here: Arkham wasn¡¯t just a prison anymore; it was a fortress for Gotham¡¯s collective psychosis. They weren¡¯t locking criminals in¡ªthey were keeping everyone else out.

    He moved toward the entrance without hesitation, keeping close to the shadows. The guards didn¡¯t notice him¡ªnot yet¡ªbut he didn¡¯t waste time testing their capabilities either. He wasn¡¯t here for them.

    The main gate emerge ahead, reinforced steel with layers no doubt designed to withstand whatever battering ram Gotham¡¯s criminals could dream up next. A camera pivoted in his direction, its red lens glowing faintly as it scanned everything in its field of vision. Batman fired off his grapple gun before it could register him, yanking himself upward toward an overhead ledge just shy of Arkham¡¯s second floor. The soundless ascent left nothing but empty space where his shadow had been seconds ago.

    He landed without noise, boots pressing into cold stone as he crouched low and took stock of the new defenses up close. The drones were outfitted with thermal imaging¡ªa problem if he hung around too long¡ªbut they had predictable patterns; their programming made them predictable but blind to creativity.

    Below him, one of the robot dogs padded past a guard who seemed more bored than vigilant. The dog stopped briefly¡ªsniffing at nothing in particular¡ªthen kept moving as its handler lit up a cigarette like he wasn¡¯t standing fifty feet from psychotic killers who¡¯d eat his face off given half a chance.

    Through an upper window, Batman caught sight of familiar faces¡ªor at least familiar profiles behind thick glass and fortified cells. Killer Croc hunched in a corner that barely contained his bulk, chains clamped around limbs thicker than tree trunks while he gnawed on something too small to identify from this distance. Scarecrow sat quietly in another cell nearby, head turned upward as though listening to music only he could hear; if Crane noticed Batman watching him, he didn¡¯t show it.

    But no Joker¡ªat least not yet.

    Batman shifted positions again before anyone¡ªor anything¡ªspotted him lingering too long. Another grapple line pulled him higher still until he landed silently near an auxiliary access point that wasn¡¯t on any schematic Gordon or Oracle had ever shown him¡ªprobably carved into existence after one too many riots demanded faster ways to deploy reinforcements without funneling everyone through the main entrance.

    The lock on the panel was digital¡ªnot exactly child¡¯s play but far from unbreakable with gear like his¡ªand within seconds he was inside Arkham¡¯s outer wall system, moving through service corridors lined with electrical conduits and forgotten maintenance equipment gathering dust like memories nobody wanted anymore.

    If Joker really was behind Blackgate Tower? He wouldn¡¯t be sitting comfortably here waiting for Batman to come knocking¡ªbut he also wasn¡¯t dumb enough to leave breadcrumbs pointing back at himself either.

    As far as luxuries went in Gotham¡¯s rogues gallery roster, plausible deniability ranked pretty damn high¡ªand Joker knew how to wear it well enough to make even seasoned detectives second-guess themselves until their brains unraveled under pressure.

    Still... if Joker wasn¡¯t behind Blackgate? That left answers Batman didn¡¯t like much better: someone else with firepower big enough to target Blackgate Tower and turn it into history overnight without leaving fingerprints bold enough for Gotham PD (or even Oracle) to trace back yet.

    Batman stopped at the last corridor in this hellscape of reinforced steel. The cell block here was reserved for Arkham¡¯s worst¡ªthe ones who didn¡¯t just break the rules, they rewrote them with body counts. Glass pods lined the walls like surreal trophies in some demented hunter¡¯s gallery, each one ensuring its occupant couldn¡¯t so much as sneeze without someone upstairs knowing.If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    And then there it was Joker¡¯s cage.

    It stretched floor to ceiling, a thick pane of tempered glass framed in titanium alloy that could probably withstand a tank shell¡ªor at least that¡¯s what Arkham¡¯s administrators liked to tell themselves late at night when sleep wasn¡¯t an option.

    The interior was barebones: a stainless-steel cot bolted to the floor, a small table and chair (both similarly secured), and a toilet tucked into a corner with just enough privacy to be considered humane. This wasn¡¯t a cell¡ªit was an aquarium for Gotham¡¯s apex predator.

    At first glance, it looked empty. The cot was unmussed, the table clear of clutter. Batman scanned the pod, taking in every inch¡ªthe faint scuffs on the floor tiles where restless feet had paced over years, the scratches etched into one of the table legs like someone had tried carving poetry with their fingernails. He lingered for just a moment longer before movement stirred in the shadows at the back of the cell.

    Joker stepped forward like he¡¯d been waiting for this exact moment¡ªa phantom surfacing from dark water. His suit, as always, was immaculate: deep purple with green accents so loud they practically shouted over his pale skin and shock of slicked-back hair. He moved casually¡ªtoo casually for someone locked in what amounted to an anti-apocalypse bunker¡ªbut his grin? That hadn¡¯t changed. Still wide, still unnatural, still daring you to assume anything he didn¡¯t want you to.

    ¡°Well,¡± Joker said, dragging out the word like it was candy melting on his tongue. ¡°If it isn¡¯t my old friend! Here I thought you¡¯d forgotten me.¡±

    He threw his arms out like they were about to hug through three inches of reinforced glass, teeth bared in something between a smile and a snarl.

    ¡°Spare me,¡± Batman said, stepping closer until only the glass separated them. Joker leaned forward too, hands pressed against his side of the barrier like he wanted to crawl through it. ¡°There¡¯s been an attack.¡±

    ¡°Oh no!¡± Joker gasped, eyes widening as if someone had just told him his clown car caught fire on prom night. ¡°What kind of attack? Pie-related? Please tell me there were pies.¡±

    ¡°Blackgate Tower,¡± Batman cut him off. ¡°It¡¯s gone.¡±

    That made Joker pause¡ªnot long enough to seem genuine but enough to sell whatever game he was playing today. His eyebrows lifted with mock surprise as he tapped a finger against his chin.

    ¡°Blackgate Tower? Really? That¡¯s¡­ wow.¡± He whistled low and long before leaning closer again. ¡°Kaboom?¡±

    ¡°You know exactly what happened,¡± Batman shot back.

    ¡°Do I?¡± Joker tilted his head like a curious bird and shrugged. ¡°Honestly, Batsy¡ªit sounds like my kind of party: big explosions! Screaming crowds! The whole shebang! But alas¡­¡± He sighed, clutching at his chest like he felt actual regret. ¡°I wasn¡¯t invited this time.¡±

    ¡°You knew this would happen,¡± Batman pressed. His glare bore into Joker like he could pull answers straight from that twisted skull if he stared hard enough.

    ¡°Wrong!¡± Joker sing-songed before wagging a finger at him through the glass like Batman was an unruly child caught sneaking cookies from the jar. ¡°Don¡¯t go pinning your messy little crime scene on me just because it smells like fireworks and fun times.¡± Then his face dropped¡ªgrin gone, eyes narrowing as some darker thing flickered in their depths. ¡°Because I promise you this: if I had done it... you wouldn¡¯t be standing here asking questions.¡±

    Batman didn¡¯t flinch; he rarely did around Joker anymore. But he also didn¡¯t buy a single word coming out of that painted mouth.

    ¡°I¡¯m supposed to believe you¡¯ve been sitting here quietly while someone else tries to torch Gotham?¡± he asked.

    ¡°Yes!¡± Joker clapped his hands together. ¡°Yes! Exactly! Finally catching up, Detective! This time¡ªand write this down if you need to¡ªI am not your guy.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re lying.¡±

    ¡°About what?¡± Joker leaned all his weight into one hand braced against the glass while gesturing with the other. ¡°About sitting here? About not blowing things up lately? About NOT HAVING ANY FUN?! Because let me tell you¡­¡± His voice dropped lower than usual¡ªa whisper layered with venom while that grin snapped back into place wider than before: ¡°¡­if I¡¯d done Blackgate? You wouldn¡¯t be digging bodies out¡ªyou¡¯d be picking up pieces smaller than fingernails.¡±

    The silence between them stretched long and thin before Joker broke it again with laughter.

    He didn¡¯t respond¡ªnot because he believed any part of Joker¡¯s denial but because lies from him weren¡¯t always useless; sometimes they pointed toward truths buried underneath layers of madness even Joker didn¡¯t realize he let slip.

    Batman walked out of Arkham without another word. There was nothing left to gain from standing around trading verbal jabs with a lunatic.

    He strode through the asylum''s service corridors. Outside, the cold bite of Gotham¡¯s night air greeted him as he slipped back into the shadows and made his way to the Batmobile.

    The car started with a low growl. He guided it down Arkham''s winding access road, pushing thoughts of Joker to the back of his mind for now. Oracle would¡¯ve called if something came up while he was inside¡ªbut her silence told its own story: still nothing.

    The comm crackled as soon as he hit the bridge leading back into Gotham proper.

    ¡°Got anything?¡± Batman asked without preamble.

    ¡°Still working,¡± Oracle said, the faint clatter of her keyboard was audible in the background. ¡°No new leads yet. I¡¯ve combed through traffic cams, satellite footage¡­ nothing actionable.¡±

    "Keep looking," he said. "Someone left a trail."

    "Bruce," she started, hesitating just long enough for him to mark it as unusual. "Nightwing¡¯s at the cave."

    Batman frowned and glanced at the dark stretch of road ahead. "Why?"

    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± she replied. ¡°He just showed up. Said he needed to talk to you.¡±

    Before Batman could ask more, Dick¡¯s voice cut into the line.

    ¡°Hey there,¡± Nightwing said with just enough levity to be irritating under the circumstances. ¡°Glad to see you¡¯re still taking my calls.¡±

    ¡°This better be important,¡± Batman said.

    ¡°Really? No ¡®hello there¡¯ and ¡®how¡¯s Bl¨¹dhaven?¡¯ You¡¯ve got to work on your bedside manner, Bruce.¡±

    ¡°Talk,¡± Batman growled.

    ¡°Alright. It¡¯s about Blackgate.¡±

    ¡°What do you know?¡±

    ¡°Not here,¡± Dick said. ¡°We¡¯ll talk when you get back.¡±

    Batman didn¡¯t argue, didn¡¯t push for details over comms where they could be intercepted or distorted by bad signals or worse intentions. Instead, he rerouted toward the cave.

    Whatever this was¡ªwhatever Nightwing had¡ªit had better be more than theories and guesswork. The clock was ticking too fast for anything less than answers that mattered.

 Chapter 2.2: Poison

    The night air carried the metallic tang of spilled blood as Jason observed his handiwork. Two unconscious bodies sprawled across the rain-slicked rooftop with their sniper rifles scattered beside them like broken toys. His knuckles stung from the impact¡ª he''d pulled his punches just enough to keep them breathing. For now.

    Through his helmet''s sensors, he tracked the heat signatures moving inside the chemical lab below. The place reeked of industrial waste. Two-Face was cooking up something nasty down there, and Jason intended to find out what before Gotham had another crisis on its hands.

    He flexed his fingers, checking the bodies one last time. Neither sniper would wake up anytime soon - he''d made sure of that with strikes to their pressure points. No kill shots tonight, though the temptation had been there.

    Something felt off about this setup. Two-Face never posted snipers on overwatch before - not even during his biggest operations. The paranoid bastard must''ve gotten spooked by Batman''s recent activities across the East End. Too bad for him, he wouldn''t face the Bat tonight. Two-Face would get a different kind of justice instead.

    Bruce''s disapproving scowl flashed through his mind, and Jason pushed the thought away with a bitter smirk. He wasn''t here to play by his rules.

    Jason counted fifteen men scattered across the chemical lab''s main floor. They were hauling metal drums and loading them onto waiting trucks. The whole setup stank of a major drug operation. But are those really drugs that they¡¯re carrying or it is something else?

    Near the loading dock, he spotted Two-Face himself, barking orders while his scarred hand rested on his signature coin.

    The lab''s interior was a maze of pipes and industrial equipment, perfect for picking off targets one by one. Steam hissed from rusted valves, providing cover. More concerning were the rows of unmarked containers lining the walls¡ªenough chemical precursors to flood Gotham''s streets with poison Two-Face was brewing.

    As such as he wanted to crash through those skylights and start cracking skulls, he needed intel first. Whatever Two-Face was cooking up in those drums could be anything from basic narcotics to chemical weapons. One wrong move, one stray bullet hitting the wrong container, and this whole place could turn into ground zero. He had to play this smart - figure out what was in those containers and where they were headed. The trucks'' destinations would tell him everything he needed to know.

    Jason activated his helmet''s audio receptors, filtering out the ambient noise of machinery to focus on Two-Face''s voice.

    "Get those drums loaded faster," Two-Face snapped at his men. "We''ve got three more sites to hit tonight, and I''m not letting this shipment sit here any longer than it has to."

    One of the workers, a heavyset man in a stained jumpsuit, approached him with a clipboard. "Boss, we got a problem with the mixing ratios. The latest batch isn''t stabilizing right."

    "Show me," Two-Face snatched the clipboard, his good eye scanning the numbers while his scarred face twisted into a deeper scowl. "Fucking amateurs. Double the catalyst concentration. And get Riley down here - he''s the only one who knows how to work this equipment right."

    "Riley called in sick," another worker chimed in.

    Two-Face flipped his coin, then catching it. "Bad luck for him. Send someone to his place. Make sure he understands the consequences of calling in sick during a major operation."

    Jason''s eyes narrowed as he processed the exchange. The technical talk about catalysts and mixing ratios confirmed his suspicions - this wasn''t just a drug cooking operation. They were synthesizing something more complex. Something that required chemical engineering.

    "And check those seals again," Two-Face ordered. "One leak and this whole place goes up. I''m not dying because some minimum wage flunkie can''t handle basic safety protocols."

    The workers scrambled to comply while Jason logged the exchange in his helmet''s recorder.

    A worker in a grease-stained jumpsuit stepped forward, wringing his hands. "Mr. Dent, about the pay you promised¡ª"

    "What about it?" Two-Face''s voice dropped to a dangerous growl.

    "It''s just...we were supposed to get hazard bonuses for handling this stuff, but Joey said¡ª"

    Two-Face pulled out his coin, letting it catch the fluorescent light. "Let''s see what chance has to say about your complaint."

    The coin spun through the air with a ring.

    Jason tensed and waited. He''d seen this routine before.

    The coin landed on Two-Face''s palm and his unscarred side twitched as he revealed the result. "Bad luck."

    "Wait, please¡ª" The worker backpedaled, hands raised.

    Two-Face''s gun cleared its holster faster than the man could blink and the shot the guy. The sound filled through the lab, followed by the thud of a body hitting concrete. Other workers flinched but kept their heads down, continuing their tasks as if nothing had happened.A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

    "Anyone else have concerns about their compensation?" Two-Face surveyed the room, tucking his coin away. "No? Then get back to work. And someone clean that up before it stains the floor."

    Another reason to shut this operation down hard. But he forced himself to stay put, gathering more intel.

    "You," Two-Face pointed at a trembling worker. "Take over his station. And someone tell accounting to strike him from payroll."

    Jason weighed his options. Going in silent meant a cleaner operation¡ªpick them off one by one, minimize the risk of stray bullets hitting those chemical containers. But after watching Two-Face execute that worker in cold blood, his trigger finger itched for payback. The bastard deserved a hard takedown.

    Still, those drums worried him. One wrong move and the whole place could become a toxic disaster zone. He''d seen enough chemical spills in Gotham to know how that ended. The smart play was stealth¡ª gather more intel, identify the compounds, then shut it down.

    But Two-Face wasn''t known for his patience. If Jason took too long, more workers might end up dead. And who knew what other "sick" employees were getting visited by his thugs right now?

    Fuck it. He''d compromise¡ªstart quiet, then get loud once he confirmed what they were dealing with. These assholes had earned themselves a beating either way.

    Oracle''s voice crackled through his comm. "Jason, what the hell are you doing? I told you to focus on that Blackgate Towers."

    "Not now, Barbs," he said. "I''m busy with Two-Face."

    "What? This terrorist attack is a little bit more important than what Two-Face is doing."

    "I know, but I need to stop him first," Jason moved closer to the skylight''s edge. "I''ve been busting my ass for quite some time to look for him. He''s about to poison Gotham as we speak if I don''t stop him."

    "Is he really?"

    Silence hung in the air between them for a moment. Jason could almost hear Barbara''s intake of breath on the other end of the comm.

    "Ok, that part I wasn''t sure," he admitted, watching Two-Face bark orders at his men below. "But whatever he''s doing, I need to stop him."

    "Is this going to take a while?"

    "No. I''ll make it quick," Jason checked his twin pistols, ensuring the magazines were full. "Once I''m finished with him I''ll go straight to that terrorist attack. I promise."

    "Fine. Make it quick."

    The comm went dead with a soft click.

    She used to be different, back when she wore the cape and cowl, she understood that every crime in Gotham needed attention. No criminal deserved a free pass just because a bigger threat came elsewhere. Two-Face was here, right now, with enough chemicals to poison half the city. The body count would keep rising if Jason walked away.

    The bastard had just executed a worker for asking about pay. How many more would die while Jason chased down some nebulous terrorist threat? Barbara might have her priorities, but he had his own code. Every piece of scum in Gotham deserved justice, whether they were small-time dealers or criminal masterminds.

    Two-Face wasn''t getting away this time, not after months of hunting him through Gotham''s shadows. Barbara could handle her terrorist threat - she had the whole Bat-family on speed dial if she needed backup. This was personal for Jason. He''d watched too many bodies drop from Two-Face''s coin flips.

    Some things were worth risking Barbara''s disappointment.

    Jason made his move and descended towards the steel support beam silently. He switched out his magazine and swapped live rounds for rubber bullets. It wasn¡¯t about sparing these assholes¡ªhe had no problem painting this place red¡ªbut Bruce was clear: no body bags. Fine. He could play nice if he had to.

    He crept through the narrow catwalk above the lab floor, keeping low as he surveyed one of the trucks. Its back hatch was open, exposing rows of sealed drums. He dropped onto a stack of pallets and slipped behind some equipment, pulling out a small tool from his belt to pop one of the container¡¯s seals. The fumes hit first¡ªit smell was sharp enough to make his eyes water inside the helmet. He ran a chemical scan with his HUD and let it process as he worked.

    Moving deeper into the maze of pipes and machinery, he found another shipment tucked in a corner away from prying eyes. This time, the blue tint of liquid inside the containers caught his attention. The scan confirmed what he suspected: industrial-grade fluorosilicic acid¡ªa compound used in water treatment plants but lethal in concentrated doses. Enough here to poison every dam, reservoir, and waterline in Gotham several times over. No wonder Two-Face needed someone who knew chemistry.

    Behind him came the crunch of boots on concrete. Jason pivoted fast, grabbing the unlucky thug by his collar before the guy could finish exhaling whatever warning he was about to shout. Jason shoved him against a rusted pipe and jammed a pistol under his jaw.

    "Make a sound," he said, "and I¡¯ll see how well you can breathe without your head attached."

    The worker froze, throat bobbing as Jason dragged him forward like dead weight and maneuvered him toward the trucks. The pistol stayed pressed tight at his neck as they moved past more containers marked with cryptic chemical codes.

    One wrong move with these materials...no way Bruce would forgive this mess if shit went sideways tonight.

    Jason kept moving until they were within sight of Two-Face¡¯s men clustered near one of the larger vats at the center of the operation. There were six or seven of them within arm''s reach; two others leaned against forklifts by the loading dock entrance. None had noticed their missing friend yet¡ªnot surprising given how focused they were on not pissing off Dent.

    Jason gave his hostage a hard shove forward into view before stepping out after him, twin pistols raised and leveled at chest height.

    "Nobody fucking move!" His voice rang through the space like a gunshot.

    Every head snapped toward him at once before freezing in place like they''d just seen a ghost¡ªor worse: Batman.

    "Someone call Dent," Jason barked, jerking his gun toward one of them before shifting it to cover another who looked far too eager to reach for his belt holster. "And don¡¯t get cute reaching for anything unless you want that hand gone."

    No one moved except for one guy near the back who fumbled for his radio and stammered something incomprehensible that must¡¯ve been code for ¡°we¡¯re screwed.¡±

    "Boss!" one of the workers shouted. "We got Red Hood!"

    The radio crackled with static before Two-Face''s voice responded. "What did you say?"

    "It''s the Red Hood! He''s got Tommy at gunpoint!"

    Footsteps went through the lab as Two-Face emerged from behind a wall of chemical vats, his scarred face twisting into a snarl when he spotted Jason.

    "Well, if it isn''t Batman''s prodigal son," Two-Face said, stopping several yards away. "Come to lecture me about morality like your old man?"

    "Cut it, Harvey," Jason kept his guns trained on the workers. "What are in rest of those containers?"

    Two-Face''s fingers brushed his coin. "Why don''t we let chance decide if you get to find out?"

 Chapter 2.3: Fate

    "Try it. See how many of your men I can drop before that coin hits the ground."

    "Always so dramatic," Two-Face''s unscarred side smiled. "Though I suppose that runs in the family. How is dear old Batman these days?"

    "Screw you!" Jason tightened his grip on the pistols. "Answer the question. What are you planning to do with all this acid?"

    "Acid? Who said anything about acid?" Two-Face spread his hands. "This is a legitimate chemical processing facility. We have all the permits."

    "Forged permits, you mean. And I doubt the EPA approved dumping fluorosilicic acid into Gotham''s water supply."

    Two-Face''s unscarred side twisted into a smile. "So what if it is acid? By the time anyone notices, it''ll be too late. The beauty of industrial chemicals - they blend right in with the regular water treatment process."

    "What''s your angle here?" Jason kept his guns trained steady. "This isn''t your usual bank heist. What do you get out of poisoning half of Gotham?"

    "Half?" Two-Face barked out a laugh. "Think bigger, Hood. Every reservoir, every treatment plant, every pipeline feeding into the city. The whole system goes down at once. Then we see how many of Gotham''s elite survive when their fancy filtered water turns toxic."

    "This is about the rich? Seriously?" Jason''s finger tightened on the trigger. "You''re going to poison kids and families just to stick it to some trust fund people?"

    "No, but someone sure as hell paid me big to do it," Two-Face flipped his coin while steam hissed from a nearby pipe.

    "What? You''re doing this for money?" Jason kept his aim steady.

    "What else?" Two-Face paced behind his men.

    "What for?"

    "I don''t need to explain anything to you," Two-Face stopped near a chemical vat, his good eye narrowing. "All you need to know is I''m going to be rich."

    "Then, this conversation is over."

    "Fate? Screw that, I make my own fate."

    Jason kicked his hostage forward, sending the guy sprawling into a stack of crates before he fired two rounds into his back¡ªrubber bullets, sure, but it wasn¡¯t like they came with a cushioning guarantee.

    The crack of gunfire was enough to send Two-Face¡¯s crew scrambling and bolted toward their rifles.

    Jason ran for cover behind a forklift as Two-Face¡¯s shadow disappeared behind the chemical vats. Didn¡¯t matter where Dent was running¡ªnot yet. His men were already fumbling for their weapons, and Jason wasn¡¯t about to let any of them get armed. He shifted around the corner of his cover just in time to catch one thug jamming a fresh magazine into his rifle. No dice.

    Jason closed the gap in an instant, yanking the rifle from the guy¡¯s hands before he could finish chambering a round and slammed the butt of it into his jaw hard enough to collapse him against a crate like a sack of bricks. Before the next guy even had time to react, Jason pivoted and drove his elbow into his gut, doubling him over. The rifle fell from his hands with a metallic thunk and Jason ended it with a single shot to his chest¡ªrubber round or not, it sent him flat on his back, groaning but out of commission.

    "Anyone else?" he muttered under his breath as he dropped low and moved across the floor like a ghost with murder on his mind.

    Another worker was crouched behind a steel drum, shaking as he fiddled with a sidearm that looked older than Bruce¡¯s moral code. Jason didn¡¯t wait for him to get cocky and he grabbed the edge of the drum, rolled it hard into him, and let its weight do most of the work. The poor bastard flailed under the force and crumpled sideways as Jason stepped over him without so much as glancing down.

    Two more left near the loading dock were yelling something incoherent to each other about "taking him out." One had managed to get his hands on an old pump-action shotgun and was trying to aim through hands that weren¡¯t steady enough to eat soup, let alone fire accurately.

    "Screw this," Jason said and broke into another sprint straight at them.

    The shotgun guy fired once¡ªbut too high¡ªand blew apart some piping overhead instead of hitting his target. Jason didn¡¯t slow down, and was already sliding under another stack of pallets as boiling steam hissed from ruptured pipes above him. By the time shotgun guy pumped another round in, Jason was already up and on him like gravity didn¡¯t exist.

    He grabbed hold of the shotgun barrel before it could line up again and drove his knee straight into the thug¡¯s ribs with enough force to send him flying backward onto a pallet jack. The weapon clattered free, but Jason wasn¡¯t done yet¡ªhe spun toward thug number two before shotgun guy had even hit the ground.The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

    This one had gone for a pistol in some misguided attempt at bravery. He got about halfway there before Jason slammed an open palm against his wrist with bone-snapping thud, forcing him to drop it immediately with an audible yelp.

    "Bet that stings," Jason said before planting one more solid strike against the side of his head with his gun barrel as punctuation.

    Both men were down¡ªone writhing against wooden slats while clutching shattered ribs; the other unconscious with blood seeping from a busted lip that¡¯d probably swell shut by morning if he lived long enough to see daylight.

    Jason raised both pistols again and scanned what was left of Two-Face¡¯s operation from behind cover. Most of Dent''s men were either sprawled out cold or smart enough to stay pinned where they¡¯d fallen after seeing their friends get taken out systematically like dominoes in freefall.

    Dent hadn¡¯t shown himself yet¡ªcoward probably thought he could buy time while everyone else did his dirty work¡ªbut Jason wasn¡¯t here for hide-and-seek games. This place would burn by dawn if he had anything to say about it.

    Time for Harvey Dent to answer for all this.

    Jason tapped his comm while scanning the chemical-filled warehouse. "Oracle, I need eyes on Two-Face. The bastard slipped away during the fight."

    "Give me a second," Barbara worked her magic. "Pulling up thermal imaging from the Wayne Industries satellite."

    "Make it quick. He''s probably halfway to Bludhaven by now."

    "Actually..." A pause. "Got him. He just hijacked a black sedan heading east on Morrison Avenue. Looks like he''s making a break for the industrial district."

    "Of course he is. Probably has another lab set up." Jason moved toward the exit, stepping over groaning bodies. "Send me the route."

    "Already done. But Jason, that terrorist threat¡ª"

    "I know, I know. Let me finish this first. Two-Face just admitted someone paid him to poison Gotham''s water supply. This is bigger than we thought."

    Barbara sighed through the comm. "Fine. But make it fast."

    "Ten minutes. That''s all I need," Jason ran towards his motorcycle. "Keep tracking him."

    "He''s turning onto Kane Street now. Moving fast."

    "Not fast enough," Jason started the engine and shot his way out the compound. "Time to show Harvey why they call me the Red Hood. And Barb, send word to the GCPD and direct them to the warehouse."

    "Got it."

    Two-Face wasn''t getting away - not with plans to poison millions. This ended tonight, one way or another.

    Jason gunned the motorcycle''s engine and shot onto the main road, moving between cars as horns blared around him. The night air whipped past his helmet as he leaned into each turn.

    "Where is he now?" he asked through his comm, dodging past a delivery truck.

    "Three blocks ahead, just passed Robinson Park," Oracle replied. "He''s headed for the bridge."

    "Got it," Jason twisted the throttle and threaded between two sedans, the engine roaring as he gained speed.

    When Harvey''s black car came into view, Jason pulled his pistol and lined up the shot. But before he could fire, one of Dent''s men emerged from the passenger window wielding a grenade launcher. The thug squeezed the trigger.

    Jason jerked his bike hard to the right as the grenade sailed past. The explosion behind him sent cars flying, metal screaming as vehicles collided in chain reactions. A semi-truck jackknifed across three lanes as its trailer tipped over with a thunderous crash while other drivers swerved to avoid the crash.

    Through his helmet''s enhanced audio, he could hear the screech of brakes and crunch of metal continuing behind him as the pileup grew. But he kept his focus forward, accelerating to close the gap with Two-Face''s car.

    "You''ve got to be kidding me!" Jason careened through traffic as another car swerved to avoid debris. "Oracle, I need some help here. Any tips on this one?"

    "One¡ªDon''t get killed," her voice crackled through static.

    "What? That''s it?" Jason ducked as a side mirror whizzed past his head.

    "What do you want me to say?"

    The thug hanging out the passenger window steadied his aim again before belching another explosive round.

    Jason yanked his bike sideways as the grenade sailed overhead. The blast rocked nearby vehicles, sending a taxi spinning into the guardrail.

    "Can''t do this forever," he shouted over engine noise. "Need to end this quick!"

    "Can you shoot out their tires?" Oracle''s voice competed with wind rush.

    "Too dark¡ªcan barely see them," Jason swerved around a truck.

    "What about hitting the side of the car?"

    "No good¡ªtoo much civilian traffic," Jason gestured at the stream of vehicles boxing him in. "One stray bullet hits the wrong target, we''ll have more casualties than that pileup back there."

    "Use your grappling hook," Barbara replied through the comm. "Hook onto their car and reel yourself in. Get close enough to take out that grenade launcher before they level half of Gotham."

    "Now that''s more like it," Jason pulled the grapple gun from his belt with his free hand, keeping the bike steady with the other. "Why didn''t I think of that?"

    "Because you were too busy playing chicken with explosives?"

    "Funny," Jason aimed the grapple at Two-Face''s speeding car. "Here goes nothing."

    The hook shot out with a whir and latched onto the sedan''s trunk. Jason hit the retract button and let the cable pull him forward as his bike fell away behind him. He sailed through the air, jacket whipping in the wind, and landed hard on the car''s roof.

    The thug with the grenade launcher aimed up at him, but Jason was faster. He grabbed the weapon''s barrel and yanked it away, sending the next grenade careening into the night sky before he the shot the thug with his rubber bullet.

    Jason crawled forward along the sedan''s roof, inching toward Harvey''s position. The car suddenly swerved violently, forcing him to grip the edges as his pistol clattered away onto the road.

    "I''m not going back to jail!" Harvey shouted through the window, jerking the wheel again.

    "Should''ve thought about that before trying to poison the whole damn city!" Jason yelled back, fighting to maintain his grip as the car went through the traffic.

    The sedan continued its wild path, making Jason slide dangerously close to the edge. He dug his fingers into a gap near the sunroof, barely hanging on as Harvey zigzagged between lanes.

    "Face it, Hood - you''ll never catch me," Harvey taunted. "Batman would''ve had me in cuffs by now. You''re just a cheap knockoff."

    That hit a nerve. Jason''s jaw clenched beneath his helmet. "That''s where you''re wrong, Harvey. I''m not Batman." He pulled a mini-grenade from his belt with his free hand. "I''m much worse."

    He slammed the device through the driver''s side window and kicked away from the car.

    "What the¡ª" Harvey''s curse was cut short as the grenade detonated.

    BOOM!

    The explosion sent the sedan flipping as it rolled across the asphalt in a shower of sparks. Jason landed in a crouch, watching flames lick the wreckage. Harvey would survive as the charge was non-lethal, but he wouldn''t be poisoning anyone''s water supply tonight.

 Chapter 3: Vale

    Batman guided the batmobile onto the turntable platform. He killed the power, letting the sound fade into the familiar ambient noise of water dripping and bats rustling overhead.

    Oracle sat at her workstation, surrounded by screens showing various camera feeds and data streams. Her fingers moved across multiple keyboards while lines of code reflected in her glasses. She gave him a brief nod but kept working.

    "Master Bruce," Alfred appeared at his side as he climbed out of the car, carrying a silver tray with a steaming cup. "I took the liberty of preparing some Earl Grey. You''ve been out since dawn."

    "Not now, Alfred," Batman pulled back his cowl, revealing the exhaustion etched across his features.

    "Very well, sir," Alfred''s disapproval was subtle but clear. "I''ll leave it here should you change your mind."

    Dick stood near the main computer bank, arms crossed as he watched Bruce approach. "You look like crap."

    "What do you have?"

    "Good to see you too," Dick pushed off from the console. "Look, I know you''re not big on small talk, but this isn''t exactly a quick briefing kind of situation."

    "Then start talking," Bruce moved past him to check one of Oracle''s screens.

    "Bruce," Dick grabbed his shoulder. "You need to sit down for this one."

    Bruce turned, really looking at Dick for the first time since arriving. The younger man''s expression was grim¡ªnot his usual easy confidence.

    "What aren''t you telling me?"

    "A lot," Dick ran a hand through his hair. "And none of it''s good. But first, when''s the last time you actually slept?"

    "Dick¡ª"

    "I''m serious."

    Bruce thought about it¡ªwell, tried to. The truth was, he didn¡¯t know the answer. When had he actually slept? It wasn¡¯t just a bad streak; this was a full-on blackout in his memory. Days and nights had bled together in a mess of stakeouts, back-alley interrogations, and dead ends on whatever lead had set him off this time. Hell, he¡¯d been so buried in it all he¡¯d completely forgotten Clark¡¯s birthday¡ªClark, the guy who reminded everyone else¡¯s birthdays were coming up like some indestructible Hallmark calendar with a cape.

    Now that little slip-up was bouncing around in his head, too. Clark had probably made some self-deprecating comment about Bruce being too busy saving Gotham to care about cake and candles¡ªor worse, he¡¯d said nothing at all. Typical Kent: the only man alive who could guilt-trip you by just existing.

    Bruce dragged his thoughts back to the present. Sleep wasn¡¯t a luxury; it hadn¡¯t been for years. Sure, Alfred nagged him about it (and would probably have something cutting to say about it later tonight), but what did it matter? If skipping a few REM cycles meant keeping Gotham breathing, then he''d keep running on fumes until the tank finally blew.

    ¡°I honesty don¡¯t know,¡± he finally admitted, his voice low but steady. ¡°But it doesn¡¯t matter right now. Tell me what¡¯s going on. What¡¯s with the Blackgate Tower explosion?¡±

    Dick''s expression hardened as he moved closer to the computer bank, pulling up files he''d brought with him. "I''ve been tracking something in Bl¨¹dhaven. Arms dealers, assassins - the usual crew, except they''re moving serious hardware into Gotham. Not just guns and explosives - we''re talking next-gen tech that shouldn''t even exist yet."

    "Who''s behind it?" Bruce asked, scanning the data scrolling across the screen.

    "That''s where it gets interesting. Name came up during my investigation - Detective Marcus Vale, GCPD."

    Bruce''s eyes narrowed. "Vale? Never heard of him."

    "Veteran cop, twenty years on the force. Clean record, solid conviction rate. He was working the same case from Gotham''s end," Dick pulled up Vale''s personnel file. "According to my sources, he was supposed to meet with Gordon yesterday - right before Blackgate went up in smoke. Whatever Vale uncovered, he never got the chance to share it."

    "He was in the tower when it happened?"

    Dick nodded. "Along with everyone else who didn''t make it out. But here''s the kicker¡ªI intercepted a coded message that originated from inside Blackgate. Vale sent it minutes before the explosion."

    Bruce turned to face him. "What did it say?"

    "Three words: ''The Owls are watching.''" Dick let that sink in. "Vale knew something was coming. He tried to warn us, but..."

    "But someone made sure he couldn''t," Bruce finished, his jaw tight. "The timing''s too perfect. They knew he was meeting Gordon. They knew what he''d found."This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

    "Bruce," Dick said quietly, "if Vale was right about the Owls... we''re not just dealing with arms dealers anymore. This goes deeper."

    The cave fell silent except for the distant sound of water dripping. Bruce stared at Vale''s photo on the screen - another good cop who''d died trying to expose the truth. Another body on Gotham''s growing pile.

    The Owls. He¡¯d buried them¡ªor so he thought. Not just figuratively, either. He¡¯d torn through their maze of secrets, smashed their operatives, brought the "immortal" Court crashing down into Gotham¡¯s gutters. And yet here they were, watching again.

    It didn¡¯t add up. He wasn¡¯t na?ve enough to think something that old and that vicious could be wiped out cleanly¡ªbut he had been thorough, more than thorough. The kind of thorough that left no loose ends. The kind of thorough that sent a message: Stay buried or I¡¯ll dismantle you all over again.

    But now? This felt different. The Court didn¡¯t operate in ways you could track with street-level intel and intercepted messages. They didn¡¯t tip their hand with cryptic warnings scrawled across crime scenes or whisper threats into the right ears to keep Batman chasing shadows. They stayed quiet, always in the background, pulling strings too high up for most people to even notice they were dangling.

    So why now? Why this? Blowing up Blackgate Tower wasn¡¯t just loud¡ªit was sloppy. Destructive for the sake of destruction wasn¡¯t their style; that was more Joker¡¯s territory or any number of Gotham¡¯s other costumed lunatics looking to leave scars on the city for fun. The Court made surgical strikes: one person removed here, one policy shifted there, all without anyone realizing it until years later when they were already ten steps ahead.

    If this really was them¡ªif some splinter group or sleeper cell of Talons had crawled out from whatever dark pit they called home¡ªthen something was off. Either they¡¯d changed tactics¡­ or someone wanted him to think the Owls were back in play. Neither option sat well.

    He started pulling up old files on the Batcomputer, cross-referencing every known associate still alive¡ªor alive enough¡ªto keep tabs on.

    A few names popped out like rusted nails he¡¯d hoped were hammered flat for good: old financiers whose family fortunes built Arkham before it became a dumping ground for psychopaths; ex-council members who¡¯d vanished after his first run-in with the Court; construction contractors paid through shell corporations to build hidden chambers under Gotham landmarks.

    ¡°Bruce,¡± Dick said, ¡°you¡¯re thinking it¡¯s them.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t think,¡± Bruce replied, not looking away from the screen as patterns began emerging in old bank statements and property records. ¡°I know.¡±

    ¡°And yet somehow you missed this.¡±

    Bruce didn¡¯t flinch at that¡ªnot outwardly, anyway¡ªbut inside? It hit. He had missed something. Either he hadn¡¯t gone deep enough the first time or someone had rebuilt faster and smarter than he could dismantle.

    ¡°How?¡± Dick pressed, stepping closer but keeping his distance from Bruce¡¯s zone. ¡°How do people like that just start up again under your radar?¡±

    ¡°Because I assumed fear worked,¡± Bruce¡¯s voice had an edge like sandpaper scraped too hard against wood. ¡°I assumed what I left behind in their ruins was enough to make them stay gone.¡±

    ¡°And now?¡± Dick asked.

    ¡°Now I know better,¡± he replied. ¡°Oracle, send everything you have. Every scrap of intel, every lead Vale was following. If the Court of Owls is back in Gotham, we need to know what they''re planning before more buildings start falling.¡±

    Barbara swiveled in her chair, fingers pausing over her keyboard. "I don''t know, Bruce. The Owls always have a way of hiding their work."

    "Not this time," Bruce said, moving to stand behind her workstation. He tracked multiple screens, taking in the data streams and surveillance feeds. "They''re making mistakes."

    "Or they want us to think they are," Barbara countered. She pulled up a new window, lines of code reflecting off her glasses. "Look at these patterns. The way they''re moving money, the shell companies - it''s too obvious. The Court I remember wouldn''t leave breadcrumbs like this."

    "Unless they''re desperate," Dick chimed in from his position near the main console. "Maybe whatever Vale found spooked them enough to rush things."

    Barbara shook her head. "The Court doesn''t get spooked. They plan. They wait. Everything they do has layers of contingencies built in." She turned back to Bruce. "Remember what happened last time we thought we had them cornered?"

    "That was different," Bruce said.

    "Was it?" Barbara pulled up another screen showing thermal imaging of Blackgate Tower before the explosion. "Because right now, all I''m seeing are fragments that don''t add up. The tech signatures don''t match their usual MO. The timing''s wrong. Even the explosion pattern looks engineered for maximum visibility."

    "So what are you saying?" Dick asked.

    "I''m saying maybe we''re seeing what someone wants us to see," Barbara replied. "And rushing in based on a dead cop''s cryptic message might be exactly what they''re counting on."

    "You mean like a copycat?" Dick asked.

    "Yes."

    She was right - the Court had always been about subtlety and misdirection. This felt different. Wrong. But if not the Court, then who? And why make it look like their handiwork?

    He needed more time to think, to analyze. But time wasn''t a luxury Gotham could afford right now. Not with buildings falling and bodies piling up.

    "Sir," Alfred''s voice cut through the tension, "I hate to interrupt what I''m sure is a riveting discussion about Gotham''s resident secret society, but you have the Wayne Foundation fundraiser in two hours."

    Bruce didn''t turn around. "Cancel it."

    "I''m afraid that''s not possible. The guest list includes three city council members and the police commissioner himself. Your absence would be... noted."

    "Alfred, I don''t have time for champagne and small talk," Bruce said. "Not with this happening."

    "On the contrary, Master Bruce," Alfred stepped closer, his reflection visible in one of the dark monitors. "The fundraiser presents an opportunity to gather intelligence from Gotham''s elite¡ªthe very circles where the Court once held considerable influence."

    Bruce stopped typing. "They''ll be watching."

    "Precisely," Alfred said. "And what better way to maintain your carefully crafted persona than by attending a charity event while Gotham whispers about terrorist attacks?"

    "He''s got a point," Dick added. "Plus, Gordon will be there. Might be worth hearing what he knows about Vale off the record."

    Bruce rubbed his temples. The thought of playing billionaire playboy while the Court¡ªor whoever was imitating them¡ªplotted their next move made his stomach turn. But Alfred was right. Bruce Wayne''s public appearances mattered just as much as Batman''s shadows.

    "Fine," he growled. "But I''m not staying long."

    "I took the liberty of laying out your Armani," Alfred said, the ghost of a smile crossing his face. "The charcoal one. Less conspicuous than the black."

    Bruce stood up from the console. "Oracle, keep digging. If anything changes¡ª"

    "I''ll let you know," she finished. "Try not to punch any socialites this time."

    "That was one time," Bruce muttered as he headed toward the elevator. "And he deserved it."

 Chapter 3.1: Interrogation

    Jason dangled Two-Face from the ceiling beam, the rope creaking as his victim swayed forty feet above the warehouse floor. Blood trickled down Harvey''s temple from the crash, his suit torn and singed.

    "Wakey, wakey," he kicked Harvey''s shoulder, sending him spinning like a spinning pi?ata.

    "You son of a bitch!" Two-Face thrashed against the bonds. "When I get out of here¡ª"

    "You''ll what? Flip a coin?" Jason kicked him again. "Your guys are in custody, your lab''s toast, and that water supply scheme? Done."

    "You think this is over?" Harvey spat blood. "You have no idea what''s coming. My employer¡ª"

    "Yeah, about that." Jason crouched on the beam. "Who hired you? Must''ve been someone with deep pockets to make you play errand boy."

    "Go to hell!"

    "Already been there. Didn''t stick." Jason pulled his pistol. "Last chance, Harvey. Who''s behind this?"

    Two-Face laughed. "You really think I''m scared of you? Batman''s reject? His failed Robin?"

    "Batman would keep you alive," Jason pressed the gun to Harvey''s head. "Me? I''m still deciding."

    "Do it then," he sneered. "Pull the trigger. Prove you''re the monster they say you are."

    A monster. The word hit different now compared to when he first heard it years ago. Jason embraced how it made his trigger finger twitch.

    He''d crossed that line before - putting down scum like Harvey was nothing new. But Batman''s shadow wrap over him like it always did, a constant reminder of rules and restraint. The old man''s disapproval followed Jason everywhere, even now.

    Still, the thought of being feared, of being the boogeyman that kept Gotham''s worst up at night... it felt right. Natural. His gun against Harvey''s temple...it brought back memories of other executions, other choices. Maybe monster wasn''t such a bad word after all.

    "Nah," Jason holstered his weapon. "Death''s too easy. But a few hours hanging here might loosen your tongue. I''ll be back when you''re ready to talk."

    "I''ll kill you for this!" Harvey screamed as Jason walked away. "You hear me? I''ll tear you apart!"

    Jason waved without looking back. "Sure you will, Harv. Sure you will."

    He pulled off his helmet with a click, revealing the domino mask underneath. The red material curved around his eyes, a remnant of his Robin days that he couldn''t quite shake. He leaned back against a concrete pillar as he reloaded his pistol with rubber bullets.

    "You know what, Harvey? I''ve got all night," he fired a shot that caught Two-Face in the shoulder, making him swing like a demented pendulum. "And plenty of ammo."

    "Screw you!" Two-Face spat blood with his face in a mess of cuts from the earlier crash. "You think this is funny? Playing games?"

    "Actually, yeah," Another shot pinged off the rope near Harvey''s hands, making him flinch. "I''m having a blast. Way better than patrol. Go on. Scream. No one¡¯s going to hear you."

    "When I get down from here¡ª"

    "You''ll what?" Jason interrupted, putting another round into Harvey''s thigh. "Call your mysterious boss? Speaking of which, still waiting on that name."

    Two-Face thrashed against the bonds. "I told you...go to hell!"

    "Been there," Jason lined up another shot. "Got the t-shirt. Now about that employer..."

    "Keep shooting, you psychotic little shit. I''m not telling you anything."

    "Fine by me," Jason''s next shot caught Harvey in the gut, doubling him over as much as the ropes allowed. "Like I said, I got all night. And tomorrow night. And the next. I''ve got nowhere else to be."

    The warehouse blasted with gunshots and Two-Face''s curses as Jason kept up his target practice, waiting for Harvey to break. One way or another, he''d get what he needed. He just had to be patient - and patience was something the Red Hood had in spades when it came to making criminals suffer.

    "Really, Jason? Playing target practice with Two-Face?" Oracle''s voice crackled through his comm.

    He fired another round that caught Harvey in the shoulder. "Just having a friendly chat."

    "This isn''t what we discussed. Batman wouldn''t¡ª"

    "Good thing I''m not Batman then," Jason cut her off, lining up another shot. "Unless you''ve got a better way to make him talk?"

    "There are other methods that don''t involve shooting someone repeatedly with rubber bullets."This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

    "Like what? Ask nicely?" Jason laughed. "Harvey here was about to poison half of Gotham. He''s lucky I''m using non-lethal rounds."

    Two-Face spat blood. "When I get free¡ª"

    Another shot caught him in the leg, cutting off his threat.

    "Jason..." Barbara''s tone carried a warning.

    "Someone paid him to contaminate the city''s water supply. That means there''s a bigger player involved. You want me to just let that go?"

    "No, but¡ª"

    "Then let me work," Jason reloaded his pistol. "I''ll get the information we need."

    "And if he doesn''t break?"

    "He''ll break," Jason aimed at Harvey again. "They always do. Now unless you''ve got actual intel for me, I''ve got work to finish."

    Barbara sighed through the comm. "Just...try not to kill him."

    "No promises," Jason muttered as he squeezed the trigger again, hitting Two-Face in the chest. "Oww, that¡¯s gotta hurt."

    Hours ticked by in a brutal rhythm of gunshots and curses. Jason kept his position against the pillar, firing rubber rounds at Two-Face''s swaying form. The criminal''s threats had devolved into wordless snarls of pain, but still no information about his employer.

    Around midnight, Jason pulled out a sandwich from his jacket pocket and unwrapped it between shots, taking bites of turkey and swiss while Harvey dangled. Blood stained Two-Face''s suit in growing patches where the rubber bullets had struck, but Jason kept shooting. The warehouse floor collected spent casings like fallen leaves, marking time in brass and lead.

    Jason checked his watch, rolling his shoulders. The night had dragged on, and Harvey''s stubbornness was starting to get old. He holstered his gun and walked closer to the dangling figure.

    "You know what, Harvey? I''m getting bored of this game," he circled beneath Two-Face. "Maybe we should try something new."

    Two-Face lifted his blood-streaked face. "What... what are you talking about?"

    "Well," Jason pulled out a knife and examined the rope. "I''m thinking about letting gravity do the work. That concrete floor looks pretty hard from up here."

    "You''re bluffing," Harvey said. "Batman''s code¡ª"

    "How many times do I have to spell it out? I''m not Batman," Jason sawed at the rope, letting a few strands snap. "And his code? Died with me in that warehouse."

    "Wait!" Two-Face thrashed as more rope strands frayed. "You can''t¡ª"

    "Can''t what? Drop you? Watch your skull crack open?" Another strand snapped. "Because I''m pretty sure I can."

    "You psychotic piece of shit!"

    "Tick tock. Running out of rope here," Jason cut another strand. "Last chance to tell me who hired you."

    "Go fuck yourself!"

    Jason shrugged and sliced deeper. The rope groaned under the strain. "Have it your way. Hope you learned to fly like Superman¡ª"

    "Stop! Jesus Christ, stop!" Two-Face''s composure shattered. "I don''t know who it was! I swear to God, I don''t know!"

    "Bull."

    "It''s the truth! He transferred the money through offshore accounts. Five million up front, five more on completion. I never saw his face, never got a name. Just instructions through encrypted messages."

    Jason paused, studying Harvey''s face ¨C both sides. For once, the criminal''s fear looked genuine. "You expect me to believe that?"

    "It''s all I know! I swear on my money, on everything ¨C I don''t know who they are!"

    Jason twirled the knife between his fingers, watching Harvey''s blood drip onto the concrete below. "Not good enough. I need more than ''some guy paid me.'' Give me something I can work with."

    "That''s all I know! What do you want from me?" Two-Face shouted.

    "Details, Harvey. Every little thing you remember. What did his voice sound like? Did he have an accent? Any quirks?"

    "Never heard his voice. Everything was through text messages. But..." Harvey licked his split lip. "It was a man. Had to be. The way he wrote, how he gave orders - definitely male."

    "What kind of orders?"

    "Just the basics. Which chemicals to use, where to set up the lab, when to trigger the contamination, like a freaking instruction manual," Two-Face shifted in his bonds, wincing. "Called himself ''The Owl.'' Pretentious prick."

    Jason''s grip tightened on the knife. "Motives?"

    "Didn''t share his life story with me," Harvey spat. "He paid, I followed instructions. That''s business."

    "Some business. Could''ve killed thousands."

    "Like I give a shit. Money''s money," Two-Face laughed, then coughed up blood. "That''s all I know. The Owl, the instructions, the payment. Nothing else. So either kill me or cut me down."

    Jason studied him for a moment, then sheathed his knife. The Owl. It wasn''t much, but it was a start. At least he had something to work with now, even if Harvey was holding back. And if Two-Face was lying about any of it, well - there''d be time for another chat later.

    He stepped back, letting Harvey sway in the warehouse light. "Hang in there, Harv. GCPD should be here soon to cut you down."

    "Fuck you!"

    "Yeah, yeah," Jason tapped his comm. "Oracle, you catch all that?"

    "Every word," Barbara''s voice crackled through. "But Jason, the Court of Owls? We dealt with them years ago. Bruce dismantled their operation."

    She had a point about the Court of Owls - Batman had torn that organization down to its foundations years ago. But someone was using their name, their symbol. A copycat made sense, but that raised more questions than answers. The old Court had been Gotham''s elite, generations of wealth and power. This felt different. Whoever this "Owl" was, they weren''t playing by the old rules. And that made them unpredictable.

    "Different owl maybe?" Jason paced beneath Two-Face''s dangling form. "Could be someone using their name, trying to build street cred."

    "Or it could be a coincidence. Not every owl reference leads back to the Court."

    "In Gotham? Nothing''s a coincidence," Jason kicked an empty shell casing. "Call it in to GCPD. Let them handle clean-up while I dig deeper."

    "Already done. Units are five minutes out," Barbara paused. "Just be careful. If this is connected to the Court somehow..."

    "Then I''ll handle it. Like I handled Harvey here."

    "That''s what I''m worried about. Your methods¡ª"

    "Got results," Jason cut her off. "Send me everything you can find on recent big-money transfers. Offshore accounts, shell companies, anything that could lead to our mystery owl."

    "I''ll start digging. And Jason? Try not to shoot anyone else tonight."

    "No promises, Barbie. No promises," he clicked off the comm and gave Two-Face one last look. "Been fun. Let''s do it again sometime."

    Two-Face''s only response was a string of curses that reverberated through the warehouse as Jason slipped away into the night.

    The thought nagged at him as police sirens wailed in the distance. Owls. Always the owls. If this was the Court''s work and not some two-bit copycat, he''d need Bruce''s help to burn their operation to ash.

    Last time hadn''t been enough - hadn''t even come close. The Court of Owls had roots deeper than anyone realized, and taking them down would require more than just rubber bullets and interrogations.

    But if they were back, plotting their revenge on Gotham... Jason shook his head. No point spinning theories without proof. First, he needed evidence. Then he could figure out if this was the real Court or just another criminal using their name. Either way, someone was going to bleed.

 Chapter 4: The Party

    Bruce shrugged off his cape and armor, letting Alfred help him into his white dress shirt.

    Dick leaned against a nearby table, arms crossed. "Don''t you think Bane has something to do with this since he''s the only enemy that Batman didn''t imprison in Arkham Asylum?"

    "Bane is reformed," Bruce said, adjusting his cuffs. "He''s been clean for two years."

    "You sure about that?" Dick raised an eyebrow. "Guy broke your back once. People don''t just change overnight."

    "He''s running youth programs in Santa Prisca," Bruce said as Alfred draped the charcoal tie around his neck. "Teaching kids to stay off Venom. Last I checked, he hasn''t touched the stuff either."

    "Right, because criminals never lie about getting clean," Dick pushed off from the table. "Look, I''m just saying¡ªbig explosion, military-grade tech, someone trying to draw you out? Sounds like his old playbook."

    "Master Dick does raise a valid point," Alfred said, smoothing Bruce''s lapels. "Though perhaps not for the reasons he thinks."

    Bruce turned to face the mirror. "What do you mean?"

    "If someone wished to frame another party for these attacks, who better than a reformed villain? The perfect red herring, as it were."

    "Crap," Dick muttered. "Didn''t think of that."

    Bane was a long shot, but the kind that felt just plausible enough to gnaw at the back of Bruce¡¯s mind. The man had played both sides before¡ªacted like he was done with the game, only to crush anyone dumb enough to believe him when the mask came off. Bruce had seen it firsthand, literally felt the consequences in his spine when trust proved fatal.

    Sure, Bane said he was clean now¡ªrehabbed, running outreach programs, a walking after-school special. No Venom, no vendettas. But even the best masks crack under pressure. And if someone else had been pulling his strings? That was worse.

    Bruce¡¯s fingers twitched as Alfred finished straightening his tie. There were too many variables at play, too many moving pieces that didn¡¯t fit together yet. But there was also precedent¡ªBane had taken Gotham apart once before and left its bones on display for weeks. Bruce didn¡¯t have the luxury of dismissing the guy just because his current PR makeover looked pretty convincing from a distance.

    Maybe this wasn¡¯t Bane. Maybe it was some other ghost clawing its way out of Gotham¡¯s crowded closet of horrors. But if it was him? If he missed something, gave him too much rope to hang them all with¡­?

    He couldn¡¯t afford to be wrong. Not again.

    Bruce grabbed his jacket. "Oracle, add Bane''s known associates to the search parameters. If someone''s trying to use his reputation as cover, I want to know who."

    "And if it actually is him?" Dick asked.

    "Then he''ll wish he''d stayed reformed."

    Bruce followed Alfred through the cave''s winding paths toward the private garage where they kept the "normal" vehicles.

    The Rolls Royce waited in shadows, its silver paint job catching what little light filtered down from above.

    Alfred opened the rear door.

    "I still think this is a waste of time," Bruce said, sliding into the leather seats. "We should be tracking down leads, not schmoozing with Gotham''s elite."

    "The two aren''t mutually exclusive, sir," Alfred settled behind the wheel, adjusting his driving gloves. "Besides, maintaining Bruce Wayne''s public image is just as crucial as Batman''s work. The city needs both."

    "The city needs answers," Bruce loosened his tie. "Vale died trying to expose something. Now we''re playing dress-up while his killers plan their next move."

    "Perhaps," Alfred guided the car up the ramp that led to Wayne Manor''s grounds. "But consider this¡ª One of those party-goes could give you that information."

    "You think they''ll just hand over that info over cocktails?"

    "No," Alfred''s eyes met Bruce''s in the rearview mirror. "But money talks, sir. And tonight, you''ll be surrounded by people who have quite a lot to say about it."

    The car emerged into the fading daylight, tires crunching over gravel as they headed toward the city. Bruce stared out the window, watching his home shrink behind them. Time to put on the mask¡ªthe other mask. The one that smiled and joked and pretended not to notice Gotham bleeding.

    Bruce couldn¡¯t stand these events. Not because of the tuxedo or the small talk. That part came easy, almost automatic now. What grated on him was the people. The so-called ¡°pillars¡± of Gotham society. Wealthy socialites with polished veneers and hollow smiles, showing up to sip champagne and make a few tax-deductible donations¡ªnot because they cared, but because it looked good.

    These weren¡¯t his allies; they were opportunists. Every handshake came with an agenda, every compliment carried subtext. Money talked in this circle, sure, but it rarely said anything useful. They didn¡¯t know about the Court of Owls or Vale or Blackgate¡ªor if they did, they wouldn¡¯t bring it up over canap¨¦s. These people operated on gossip and self-interest; they weren¡¯t exactly the types to stick their necks out. Even if they had information that could help him, it¡¯d cost him something¡ªand not just money.Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

    He hated it. Hated pretending to be one of them when he could think of ten better ways to be spending his time tonight¡ªmost of which involved tracking down leads on whoever orchestrated Vale¡¯s death. Instead, he¡¯d be stuck playing Bruce Wayne: making jokes about city politics he didn¡¯t find funny, dodging veiled questions about his personal life, acting like he hadn¡¯t been awake for hours chasing ghosts through Gotham¡¯s underbelly.

    That was the worst part¡ªthe act. Because even when he was surrounded by people at these fundraisers, dressed to the nines and eager to court Wayne Enterprises¡¯ influence, he felt more alone than he ever did in the cave or on the streets as Batman. At least there, in the dark, everything was honest¡ªthe danger, the stakes, even his enemies. Here? It was all masks and theater.

    He leaned back against the upholstery as Alfred navigated through city traffic. Bruce tried to shake off his thoughts¡ªthe sense that this entire evening would be a waste of time¡ªbut couldn¡¯t quite manage it.

    The fundraiser felt like a concession. A reminder that no matter how much control he had as Batman, there were parts of this war he had to fight as Bruce Wayne¡ªand those fights always left him feeling exposed and powerless.

    Powerless because he knew these people didn¡¯t see him for who he truly was¡ªnot that he wanted them to¡ªbut also because they didn¡¯t care about Gotham beyond what it could give them: contracts for their businesses, grants for their pet projects, photo ops for their PR teams. They weren¡¯t in this for justice or change; they were in it for themselves. And as much as he hated admitting it...sometimes so was Bruce Wayne.

    He glanced at Alfred through the partition window¡ªhis oldest ally, possibly his wisest too¡ªand squashed those thoughts before they spiraled further. Feeling sorry for himself wouldn¡¯t change anything; it never had. Tonight wasn¡¯t about what Bruce wanted or even what Gotham¡¯s elite deserved¡ªit was about extracting value from them while keeping up appearances long enough not to raise suspicion.

    ¡°Alfred,¡± he said after a moment.

    ¡°Yes, sir?¡±

    ¡°You ever think we¡¯re wasting our time with these people?¡±

    Alfred glanced in the mirror before answering: ¡°I think time spent strategically is never wasted.¡±

    Strategically. That¡¯s how Alfred always framed these things¡ªas chess moves in a game most of Gotham didn¡¯t even realize they were playing yet. Maybe that was enough for tonight¡ªto treat this like reconnaissance rather than some futile attempt to change hearts and minds over overpriced wine.

    Still¡­ Bruce couldn¡¯t shake that nagging doubt: what if no one at this party had anything useful? What if all this effort¡ªthe suit, the smile, the endless stream of meaningless chatter¡ªamounted to nothing? Worse yet¡­ what if someone at that party did know something important but wouldn¡¯t trust him enough¡ªor fear him enough¡ªto give it up?

    Because at the end of the day? That¡¯s all these people cared about: trust or fear¡ªor sometimes just leverage¡ªand while Batman thrived in those dynamics thanks to broken bones and threats...Bruce Wayne? He operated on borrowed charisma and vague promises wrapped in dollar signs.

    And God help him...sometimes he wondered which mask Gotham really needed more of: his or theirs?

    The Rolls pulled up to the curb outside the Gotham Grand Hotel, its polished exterior reflecting the flash of cameras before Bruce even opened the door. Alfred cut the engine and came around to let him out, but the reporters had already swarmed.

    "Mr. Wayne! Over here!"

    "Bruce, what''s your response to the Blackgate explosion?"

    "Is Wayne Enterprises increasing security after the attack?"

    Bruce stepped out, adjusting his tie. The cameras clicked rapid-fire, capturing his ¡®smile¡¯.

    "I think tonight we should focus on what matters¡ª supporting Gotham''s first responders and their families. That''s why we''re all here."

    "Sources say a GCPD detective was investigating corporate corruption before he died. Is Wayne Enterprises involved?"

    "The only thing Wayne Enterprises is involved in tonight is writing checks," Bruce said with a chuckle. "Now if you''ll excuse me, I hear they''re serving that fancy champagne I can never pronounce."

    More questions flew at his back as Alfred guided him toward the entrance. The doorman nodded, opening the massive doors that would lead him into another kind of battleground¡ªone where the weapons were words and wealth instead of fists and fear.

    "Try not to stay out too late, sir," Alfred murmured. "The other suit might be needed before morning."

    "No promises," Bruce replied, stepping into the light and noise of Gotham''s elite at play. Time to see what secrets money could buy tonight.

    The Gotham Grand Hotel''s ballroom dripped with old money and new ambitions. Crystal chandeliers shimmered warm light over the sea of designer gowns and tailored suits below. The usual suspects filled the room¡ªpoliticians seeking campaign donations, business moguls hunting contracts, socialites competing for attention.

    Veronica Vreeland held court near the champagne fountain, her red Valentino dress was a splash of blood against the cream marble. The Van Dahl sisters lurked by the seafood station with their matching Chanel ensembles marking them as the twins they tried so hard to deny being. Hamilton Hill Jr. worked the room in his father''s old style, glad-handing anyone who might help fund his inevitable run for office.

    Near the stage, where a string quartet played music no one listened to, Commissioner Gordon''s wife Barbara stood with the other GCPD spouses. Their dresses came from department stores instead of fashion houses, but they carried themselves with more dignity than the social climbers around them.

    The new money crowd stuck to the edges¡ªtech entrepreneurs and crypto millionaires in flashy suits that screamed "notice me." They''d learned to mimic the old guard''s manners, if not their subtlety. Their wives and girlfriends wore this season''s most expensive mistakes, diamonds competing with cleavage for attention.

    Even the waitstaff told a story¡ªhired from the same agency that had served Gotham''s elite for generations. They ghosted through the crowd in pressed black uniforms, invisible until needed.

    Bruce snagged a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, lifting it in a mock toast to no one in particular. He made a show of scanning the room, offering smiles and casual waves to faces he recognized but wished he didn''t.

    "Didn''t expect to see you here," Clark Kent appeared at his side, adjusting glasses that never quite sat straight on his face.

    Even in a rental tux that had seen better days, the man managed to look both out of place and completely at ease.

    Bruce nearly choked on his drink. "What the hell are you doing here?"

    "Perry''s idea," Clark grimaced, tugging at his bow tie. "Said the Planet needs society coverage that isn''t just Lois ripping apart corporate corruption. Something about ''balanced reporting'' and ''not antagonizing advertisers.''"

    "So he sent you? To a Gotham charity event?"

    "Trust me, I tried to get out of it. Told him there was a developing situation in Kazakhstan that needed coverage," Clark accepted a glass from a waiter but didn''t drink. "He said, and I quote, ''Kent, unless Metropolis is actually on fire, you''re covering the damn party.''"

    Bruce snorted. "You could have mentioned Kazakhstan was actually on fire."

    "Thought about it. But lying''s not really my thing." Clark''s eyes tracked the movement of the crowd. "Besides, figured you might need backup tonight. These people are sharks."

    "I can handle sharks."

    "Yeah, but can you handle them sober?" Clark nodded toward Bruce''s already empty glass. "That''s what, your third?"

    "First. And I''m not actually drinking them," Bruce set the glass on another passing tray. "Can''t afford to be drunk tonight. Something''s happening in Gotham."

    Clark''s expression shifted. "You mean that explosion at Blackgate? It''s connected to something bigger, isn''t it?"

    "Keep your voice down," Bruce muttered. "But yes. And someone in this room might know more than they''re letting on."

 Chapter 4.1: Talia

    The motorcycle skidded to a halt inside the warehouse, its metal frame groaning from the abuse it had taken during the chase with Dent. Jason kicked down the stand and dismounted, running his hand over the scratched paint job and mangled side mirror. The bike had seen better days, but it had done its job - keeping up with Two-Face''s getaway car.

    He walked the bike further into his makeshift base, past the worn workbench cluttered with gun parts and ammunition. The space wasn''t much but it served its purpose. A cot pushed against the far wall with a mini-fridge humming in the corner, and enough tech to keep tabs on Gotham''s underworld. No fancy bat-computers or glass cases, just the essentials.

    Jason grabbed his laptop from the desk and pulled up the bike''s diagnostics. The damage readout showed 10% - not great, but not catastrophic. The mirror would need replacing, along with some body panels, but the engine and core systems were intact. He''d had worse after previous nights of patrol.

    The floor was stained with old oil spots and dried blood - some his, some not. Metal support beams disappeared into the shadows of the high ceiling, and the air smelled of gunpowder and motor oil. It wasn''t the cave, with its million-dollar equipment and pristine surfaces, but it was his. Sometimes that''s all that mattered.

    The Ducati Panigale V4 R wasn''t just a bike - it was his workhorse, his escape route, and sometimes his only friend on Gotham''s meanest streets. Jason pulled up the diagnostic interface on his laptop, scanning through the damage readout while his free hand traced the fresh scratches along the carbon fiber panels. The chase with Two-Face had left its mark.

    He grabbed his tools from the workbench and got to work, starting with the mangled mirror. The computer highlighted the damaged sections in red on the 3D model - beyond the mirror, the right fairing was cracked and the rear brake lever was bent. Nothing he couldn''t fix. The bike''s heart - that beautiful 998cc V4 engine - was still purring like a dream.

    Jason lost himself in the familiar rhythm of repairs. He stripped off the damaged panels, replaced the mirror assembly, and straightened out the brake lever. The work was therapeutic in its own way - just him, his tools, and the machine. No masks, no family drama, no city crying out for salvation. Just the simple satisfaction of fixing what was broken.

    His hands stilled on the wrench as he caught the faint scent of jasmine cutting through the motor oil and gunpowder. He didn''t bother looking up from his work.

    "I know you''re there. Might as well come out."

    Talia al Ghul emerged from the shadows like she owned them. She wore civilian clothes - dark jeans and a leather jacket - but moved with the same grace she displayed in combat.

    "Your security needs work," she said, studying the warehouse with mild distaste.

    "If you''re here to criticize my living space, save it. What do you want?"

    She circled the bike, trailing her fingers along the fresh scratches. "Can''t I check on my former student?"

    "Cut the crap, Talia. You never show up without a reason."

    "True enough," she leaned against the workbench, arms crossed. "There''s movement in Gotham. My father''s people have been spotted in the city."

    "Ra''s?" Jason set down his tools. "Thought he was still playing dead after that mess in Hong Kong."

    Ra''s al Ghul. He stared at the bike''s engine, but his mind was elsewhere, churning through the implications of the Demon''s Head being back in play. That manipulative bastard had a way of turning everything to ash, leaving nothing but bodies in his wake. Jason had lost count of how many times Ra''s had tried to destroy Gotham, how many times he''d played his twisted games with Bruce and the family.

    And Bruce - there was another headache waiting to happen. His former mentor would be neck-deep in this mess the moment he caught wind of Ra''s being back. The man couldn''t help himself. It was like watching a car crash in slow motion, over and over. Bruce and Ra''s, locked in their eternal chess match while Gotham burned.

    Then there was Talia, standing in his warehouse like she had any right to be there. Their history was complicated enough without her father''s shadow coming over everything. She''d saved him once, brought him back from death''s door, but that debt had been paid long ago. Now she was just another player in Gotham''s endless game of masks and shadows.

    Jason was too sober for this crap. Ra''s being back meant sleepless nights, impossible choices, and probably more than a few explosions. Just another Tuesday in Gotham.

    "He was. Things change," Talia was fixed on the gun parts scattered across the bench. "I thought you might want to know, given your... history with the League."

    "Yeah, being murdered tends to create some history," he wiped his hands on a rag. "Why tell me and not Bruce?"

    "Because you''ll actually do something about it. Bruce..." She shook her head. "He''d investigate, gather evidence, plan. Meanwhile, my father''s operatives would complete the mission that brought them here."Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

    The al Ghuls were like cockroaches - impossible to kill and always coming back when you least wanted them. Every time he thought they were done, they''d crawl out of whatever hole they''d been hiding in, ready to start the cycle of destruction all over again.

    He knew their game by now. Ra''s would show up with some grand scheme to "cleanse" the world, Bruce would get caught up playing detective, and bodies would pile up while the old man gathered his evidence. Then there''d be a big showdown, Ra''s would "die," and a few months later they''d do it all again. Like a carzy merry-go-round that never stopped spinning.

    At least Talia was direct about it. She didn''t pretend to be anything other than what she was - a killer, a survivor, someone who''d do whatever it took to achieve her goals. Not like Bruce with his rules and his moral high ground. Sometimes a bullet was better than a batarang, but try telling that to the old man.

    Jason died once already thanks to this family''s games. Being brought back hadn''t made him any fonder of their bullshit. The al Ghuls treated death like a minor inconvenience, something to be overcome with a quick dip in the Lazarus Pit. No wonder they never learned their lesson - there were no real consequences for them.

    The whole thing was exhausting. Maybe that''s why he preferred his way of handling things. No games, no resurrection pits, just permanent solutions to persistent problems. But even he had to admit - you couldn''t permanently solve the al Ghuls. They were like a curse on Gotham, always lurking in the shadows, waiting for their next chance to watch the world burn.

    "Sorry, I got my hands full," Jason said, wiping grease off his fingers with an old shop rag. He tossed it onto the bench and leaned back against the Ducati, crossing his arms.

    "Why is that?"

    "Not something you need to be concerned with," he shrugged, pushing off the bike and turning back to his tools. "But thanks for the info, by the way. I can handle myself."

    Talia tilted her head, like a predator sizing up its prey. "Is it something to do with that bombing incident in Arkham City?"

    Jason froze for a second at the mention of Arkham, then reached for another wrench on the workbench. "How¡¯d you know about that?"

    "It¡¯s called the news," she said, her lips curling just enough to piss him off.

    "Of course. How dumb of me," he said, tightening a bolt on the bike harder than necessary.

    "You want me to help you?"

    He laughed. "No thanks. I can handle myself."

    Her eyes flicked toward him, narrowing as if she didn¡¯t believe him. "Is that so? It looks like you need help."

    She change her stance from one foot to the other, all casual-like, but Jason caught how her attention lingered on the cluttered desk and the scattered blueprints for Arkham¡¯s security systems.

    "Seriously?" he snapped, dropping the wrench onto his workbench with a clatter. "Talia¡ªwhy are you really here? Is it because of your problems or mine? Because last I checked, mine were stacking up faster than I can count."

    "Maybe I¡¯m capable of caring about both."

    "Bullcrap," he fired back without hesitation and pointed a finger at her like he was accusing her of a crime. "You don¡¯t just show up out of nowhere unless there¡¯s something in it for you¡ªor Daddy Dearest."

    Jason knew better by now. Every offer of help came with strings attached - that''s how the game worked in Gotham.

    The truth had hit him like a crowbar to the chest years ago: no one really gave a damn about anyone else. Not in this city. Not in this life. Everyone had an angle they were working, a goal they were chasing. Even Bruce, for all his talk about family and justice, saw people as pieces on his grand chessboard. Tools to be used in his endless war on crime.

    Jason had learned that lesson the hard way, buried six feet under while everyone moved on without him. When he clawed his way back to life, the world hadn''t stopped spinning. No one had saved him - he''d saved himself. The only reason he still played along with Bruce''s crusade was out of respect for what the man had once meant to him. Nothing more.

    He''d built his own path now, carved out his corner of Gotham where at least the rules were honest: trust no one, expect nothing, and always watch your back. It wasn''t pretty, but it was real. And real was all he had left after everything else had been stripped away.

    Talia just stood with that unnerving calm she always carried around her like armor. Finally, she spoke: "Why can¡¯t it be both?"

    Jason snorted and shook his head as he grabbed a screwdriver and went back to prying a stripped screw loose from one of the panels. "Because nothing in this city ever gets done without an angle. You¡¯ve got one; I just haven¡¯t figured it out yet."

    The screw came loose and his knuckles slammed into the side of the bike hard enough to sting.

    "You¡¯re too cynical for your own good," Talia said after a moment.

    "And you¡¯re too naive if you think I don¡¯t see what this is," Jason shot back as he sucked on his scraped knuckles. "You don¡¯t trust me¡ªyou never have¡ªbut now Ra¡¯s is back in Gotham and suddenly I¡¯m your go-to guy? Screw that."

    "This isn¡¯t about trust¡ªit¡¯s about survival," she said, stepping closer but still staying just outside arm¡¯s reach¡ªthe way she always did when things got tense between them.

    "Funny how those two things always seem mutually exclusive in your world," Jason muttered under his breath before turning back around to face her.

    "I see."

    "So what is it?" he asked as he gestured between them. "What do you really want from me? Another pawn for your dad¡¯s stupid chessboard? Sorry¡ªtell Ra''s I''m retired."

    Talia''s expression didn''t change much¡ªif anything it grew colder¡ªbut there was something in her eyes now that might¡¯ve been disappointment, or maybe amusement disguised as something softer.

    "I thought you''d be smarter than this," she said before turning away from him. "I thought you¡¯d understand the stakes without me having to spell them out for you. But maybe I was wrong. Maybe the Lazarus Pit didn¡¯t just bring you back¡ªit made you blind."

    Jason growled low in his throat. "Careful, Talia. You¡¯re not exactly stepping on safe ground here, either. You think you can waltz in with your cryptic warnings and your holier-than-thou attitude and I¡¯ll just fall in line? Newsflash: I don¡¯t dance to anyone¡¯s tune anymore¡ªnot yours, not Ra¡¯s, not even Bruce¡¯s."

    Talia stepped back, her fingers trailing along the edge of the workbench. "Anyways, if you ever need help, you know where to find me."

    "Yeah, just follow the trail of bodies and burning cities. Hard to miss," Jason picked up a wrench and turned back to the bike, making it clear the conversation was over.

    She paused at the warehouse entrance, one hand on the door frame. "You''re not as alone as you think, Jason."

    "Save the pep talk. I''ve got work to do," he didn''t look up as her footsteps faded into the night.

    The warehouse felt emptier without her presence, but Jason preferred it that way. No complications, no mind games, just him and his bike. He tightened the last bolt and ran his hand over the repaired panel. Tomorrow would bring new problems, but for now, this was enough.

 Chapter 5: March

    "So, what do you know about the Blackgate explosion?"

    Bruce gave Clark a sideways glance. "Since when are you interested in Gotham''s problems? Thought you were here for the canap¨¦s and small talk?"

    "Come on, Bruce. You know me better than that." Clark adjusted his glasses. "An explosion that big?That''s not just local news anymore."

    "Right. And Perry White suddenly cares about Gotham society pages."

    "He doesn''t. But when three major crime families'' lawyers clear out before their office explodes?" Clark shrugged. "That''s the kind of story that makes editors forget about party coverage."

    Bruce grabbed two fresh champagne glasses as a waiter passed, maintaining appearances. "You fishing for quotes?"

    "No. I''m trying to help. Something about this feels wrong¡ªlike Intergang wrong. They''ve been pushing into new territories lately."

    "This isn''t Metropolis. Gotham''s problems are mine to handle."

    "Geez, Bruce. Not everything''s a territorial pissing match," Clark said. "So tell me. What have you got?"

    Bruce scanned the room before leading Clark to a quieter corner near a massive flower arrangement.

    "Fine," he whispered. "But this stays between us. No quotes, no sources, no Planet exclusives."

    "You know I wouldn''t¡ª"

    "I mean it, Clark. This is bigger than some puff piece about rich people throwing money at problems they created," Bruce set his untouched champagne on a nearby table.

    "Ok, I got it. Spill it out."

    He sighed. "There¡¯s this detective. Vale is his name. He was investigating something before he died. Something about the Court of Owls."

    "Owls? I thought you shut them down years ago."

    "So did I. But Vale sent a warning to Dick right before the explosion. Said ''The Owls are watching.''" Bruce said. "Could be a copycat using their reputation. Could be remnants of the original Court. Either way, someone wanted Vale dead and Blackgate destroyed."

    "And you think someone here knows something?"

    "These people? They know everything that happens in Gotham. They just pretend not to notice until it affects their stock portfolios," Bruce''s lip curled. "Problem is getting them to talk without raising suspicions."

    "Want me to do some enhanced eavesdropping?"

    "Really? You think that¡¯d go unnoticed? Half the room¡¯s already side-eyeing you like you''re a walking polygraph," Bruce replied. "Subtlety was never your strong suit."

    "And you¡¯re subtle?" Clark crossed his arms. "News flash: Bruce Wayne seen skulking in corners instead of schmoozing with the elite? Very discreet."

    Bruce shot him a glare. "I work with what I''ve got."

    Clark held up his hands in mock surrender. "Alright, alright. So what will it be? Want me to use my super hearing?"

    Bruce let out a short laugh, shaking his head. "Feels like cheating, using powers like that."

    "Since when do you care about playing fair?" Clark leaned against the wall. "You''re the guy who keeps kryptonite in his belt."

    "That''s different."

    "How? Because you''re the one doing it?" Clark rolled his eyes. "You know, Bruce, sometimes it''s okay to take shortcuts. I swear you¡¯re like doing everything the hard way."

    "The hard way works."

    "Yeah? How''s that working out for Vale?" Clark said. "Sorry. Low blow. But my point stands. You''ve got resources¡ªuse them. Doesn''t make you less effective just because you didn''t suffer through getting the information."

    Bruce stared into the crowd. "It''s not about suffering. It''s about control. Your powers¡ªthey''re a wild card. Too many variables."

    "And your way isn''t? Come on. You''re standing here in a thousand-dollar suit, pretending to drink champagne, hoping someone slips up and mentions something useful. How many variables are in that plan?"

    "At least I can account for those variables," Bruce muttered. "And that reminds me, why are you renting a suit?"

    Clark smirked, unimpressed by the jab. "Because unlike you, I don¡¯t have a multimillion-dollar fashion budget to raid whenever I need to blend in with the upper crust. Besides, this suit works just fine. I''m blending better than you are."

    "Whatever. Do your thing. But be subtle about it."

    He straightened his glasses. "Subtle is my middle name."

    "Your middle name is Joseph."

    "Now who''s being a smartass?" Clark grinned. "Give me five minutes. I''ll let you know if I hear anything interesting."This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

    Bruce watched him disappear into the crowd, wondering if he''d just made things better or worse. But Clark had a point¡ªsometimes the direct approach wasn''t always the best one. Sometimes you needed to bend the rules a little.

    Even if it felt like cheating.

    Bruce watched Clark vanish into the crowd, shaking his head at how easily his friend could blend in despite being the most powerful being on Earth. The party''s dull roar continued around him''¡ªcrystal glasses clinking, fake laughter, the quartet playing songs no one listened to.

    "Bruce Wayne. Didn''t expect to see you here tonight."

    He turned to find Commissioner Gordon approaching, drink in hand. The older man looked uncomfortable in his dress uniform.

    "Jim. How are things at the precinct?"

    "Like you care about police business," Gordon said. "Though I guess that explosion at Blackgate''s got everyone talking."

    Bruce maintained his smile. "Terrible business. Any leads?"

    "Above my pay grade to discuss ongoing investigations with civilians," Gordon took a sip of his whiskey. "Even rich ones who donate to the policeman''s ball."

    "Come on, Jim. My company had offices in that building. I''ve got shareholders breathing down my neck about security concerns."

    "Yeah? Tell them to get in line. I''ve got the mayor, the DA, and half of city council demanding answers," Gordon''s mustache twitched. "But between us? Something''s not right about this one. The timing... it''s too clean."

    "What do you mean?"

    "Professional job. Military-grade explosives. But no bodies recovered yet - like someone cleared the building first," Gordon stared into his glass. "Vale was onto something big before he died. Now this happens? Can''t be coincidence."

    "Detective Vale? I remember reading about that in the internet. Tragic loss."

    "Yeah. He was a good cop. Better than most." Gordon''s eyes narrowed. "Funny thing though¡ªhe was investigating some of your company''s subsidiaries before he died."

    "Wayne Enterprises has nothing to hide. Our books are open."

    "Sure they are," Gordon finished his drink. "Just like how you''ve got nothing to hide about where you really go during those ''business trips'' abroad?"

    Bruce''s heart skipped, but his playboy smile never wavered. "You know me. Just chasing the next big deal...or the next pretty face."

    "Right," Gordon set his empty glass down. "Well, duty calls. Thanks for the chat, Mr. Wayne."

    Bruce watched him walk away, wondering how much the Commissioner really suspected. Gordon wasn''t stupid¡ªhe had to have noticed patterns over the years. But as long as he never confirmed his suspicions about Batman''s identity, they could maintain this careful dance of half-truths and plausible deniability.

    Now he just had to hope Clark was having better luck gathering intel than he was.

    Bruce went through the crowd, keeping his smile plastered on as he nodded at various socialites. After a few minutes of mindless small talk, he spotted Clark near the dessert table and made his way over.

    "Find anything?" Bruce asked under his breath, pretending to examine a chocolate torte.

    Clark shook his head. "Nothing useful. Just rich people complaining about their beach houses and stock portfolios. Someone''s really upset about their neighbor''s new tennis court blocking their ocean view."

    "Seriously? That''s it?"

    "Well, there was a heated debate about whether caviar is overrated. And someone''s having an affair with their yoga instructor," Clark adjusted his glasses. "But nothing about Blackgate or Vale."

    Bruce tapped his concealed earpiece. "Oracle, please tell me you''ve got something."

    "Sorry Bruce," Barbara''s voice crackled through. "I''ve been monitoring police channels, surveillance feeds, everything. It''s like they knew exactly how to cover their tracks. Even the shell companies are dead ends."

    "That''s not possible. Nobody''s that thorough."

    "Well, someone is. I''ll keep digging, but..." she trailed off.

    "But what?"

    "This feels wrong. We always find something by now. A fingerprint, a money trail, a witness. This time? Nothing."

    She was right - this level of perfection wasn''t normal. Even the most careful criminals left traces. The fact that they hadn''t found a single solid lead meant someone had resources and expertise far beyond the usual suspects.

    "Keep looking," he told her. "And Clark? Try focusing on anyone who seems too calm about all this. People who aren''t gossiping about Blackgate might have a reason to stay quiet."

    "On it," Clark said, moving back into the crowd.

    Bruce grabbed another prop champagne glass. The night was still young, but his patience was wearing thin. Someone in this room knew something¡ªhe just had to figure out who.

    "Well, I''ll be," a smooth voice cut through the party noise behind him. "If it isn''t Bruce Wayne. In the flesh."

    Bruce turned, champagne glass still in hand. "Uhm...you''re?"

    "Apologies, where are my manners." The man stepped forward, extending his hand. "Lincoln March."

    Bruce shook it. "Wait a minute, you''re the guy that ran for mayor before, right?"

    "Yes, I''m afraid so," March adjusted his tie with a rueful smile. "But sadly, I didn''t win."

    "Well, there''s always a next time I suppose." Bruce took a casual sip from his glass.

    "That''s true."

    They both watched the crowd mill about - socialites laughing too loud at bad jokes, businessmen huddled in corners making deals, waiters passing through it all.

    Bruce knew Lincoln March¡¯s type: the kind of guy who wore his ambition like cologne, over-applied and impossible to ignore.

    March had come out of nowhere a few years back, pitching himself as Gotham¡¯s savior with that politician charm¡ªperfect suits, perfect smile, and just enough fake humility to sell it.

    He ran for mayor claiming he¡¯d clean up the city, bring in jobs, turn crime-ridden neighborhoods into shiny playgrounds for the wealthy. But when Batman looked under the hood of March¡¯s campaign, it was nothing but grease and corruption.

    March had been neck-deep in backroom deals. Money laundering through shell companies that didn¡¯t even bother to hide their false addresses. Bribes to city officials disguised as ¡°consulting fees.¡± Campaign funds funneling from questionable sources¡ªmob families, black-market arms dealers, and one particularly shady construction firm tied to multiple ¡°accidental¡± building collapses. He wasn¡¯t just dirty; he was radioactive.

    Bruce had exposed him¡ªwell, as quietly as you could while dressed as a bat. The files Batman uncovered made sure March¡¯s political career fell apart before election day. The man disappeared after that¡ªno public appearances, no interviews, not even a blip on Gotham¡¯s nightlife radar. It was like he¡¯d been swallowed whole by the city he once claimed to want to save.

    Now he was back. And not just back, but smiling like he belonged in this room full of vultures pretending to care about things like charity and first responders. That set off alarm bells for Bruce¡ªit wasn¡¯t just that he had resurfaced; it was where he¡¯d resurfaced. His kind didn¡¯t slink into fundraisers without a reason.

    ¡°Why are you here?¡± Bruce asked.

    Inside his head, though, gears were spinning at high speed: What does he want? Why now? And why here?

    March turned to face him. "I came here for you, what else?"

    Bruce doesn¡¯t buy it. He¡¯s heard too many lines like that before, too many veiled threats wrapped in charm.

    He gave March a faint smile, the kind you''d give an overeager salesman you had no intention of buying from.

    "Flattering," Bruce said, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "I''d be flattered if I thought you meant it."

    "Oh, I¡¯m hurt," he said, placing a hand over his heart in an exaggerated gesture. "But I suppose skepticism comes with the territory for someone like you."

    "Not really. By the way, you left after losing the election. Where did you go?"

    March chuckled like oil dripping through cracks in an old machine.

    "Here and there," he said. "A little self-reflection, some travel...you know how it is. Sometimes a man needs to rebuild himself after a fall. Find his footing, reassess his purpose. Losing the election gave me clarity. An opportunity to reinvent myself."

 Chapter 5.1: Not a puzzle

    Jason lounged in the metal folding chair, thumbing through the stack of wrinkled bills he''d lifted off the thugs. The warehouse air reeked of fish and rust, but he''d smelled worse. Three of Nigma''s men sat tied up against a support beam with their faces sporting various shades of purple and red from their earlier disagreement.

    "One hundered grand," Jason said, tossing the money onto the scratched table next to his pistols. "Not bad for a night''s work. Thanks for that." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Now, why don''t you boys tell me where your boss is hiding?"

    Edward freaking Nigma. Every other month, that pretentious asshole found a way to slip through Arkham''s security like it was made of Swiss cheese. Someone in that prison needed their ass kicked to the curb because this was getting ridiculous.

    The whole situation reeked of Edward¡¯s usual MO - stealing tech, leaving breadcrumbs, setting up elaborate schemes. And like clockwork, the guy would use it all to get under Bruce''s skin. Classic Riddler crap.

    That''s probably why Bruce had pawned this case off on him. The golden boy got to chase after the heavy hitters while Jason dealt with the B-list circus. Bruce''s way of keeping him occupied, throwing him a bone to gnaw on while the real work happened elsewhere.

    Fine by him. He''d play cleanup crew if it meant putting Nigma back in his cell. At least he got to rough up some thugs and make a profit doing it.

    The biggest goon, a bald guy with a neck tattoo, spat blood onto the concrete. "Go screw yourself!"

    "Original," Jason picked up one of his guns, checking the magazine. "Look, I''ve had a long night. My coffee''s getting cold, and these chairs are bad for my back. Just tell me where Nigma is, and we can all go home."

    "We ain''t telling you anything," the second thug shouted.

    "That''s what the last group said too," Jason stood, stretching. "Before they started crying. Your choice - we can do this the easy way, or we can get creative. And trust me, I''ve got plenty of ideas."

    The third goon, younger than the others, moved nervously. The other two shot him warning glares.

    "Tick tock, gentlemen," Jason picked up his second gun. "Who wants to go first?"

    This was how he survived now - no trust fund, no fancy corporate backing, just cold hard cash taken from the scum of Gotham. Bruce would hate it, but he had unlimited resources and a multi-billion dollar company. Jason had to work with what he could get.

    Equipment wasn''t cheap, and neither were the safehouses scattered across the city. Every bullet, every piece of body armor, every first aid kit - it all added up. The constant moving, the bribes for information, the weapons that kept him alive night after night - none of it came free.

    Unlike the Bat''s fancy gadgets, his tools came from less reputable sources, and those sources expected payment. The criminal underworld ran on cash, and Jason had learned to play their game. He''d take their money, use it to fund his operations, and then use those same resources to hurt them where it counted. It wasn''t pretty, but it worked.

    The money would keep him going for another month or two. New armor, ammunition, maybe upgrade some of his surveillance gear. In this line of work, being under-equipped meant being dead, and Jason had already died once. He wasn''t planning on a repeat performance.

    The crack of gunfire rang through the house as Jason''s bullet struck the concrete inches from the bald thug''s foot. The man jerked back, chains rattling against the support beam.

    "Hey! I said where the hell is your boss?!" he kept his gun trained on them.

    "Jesus Christ!" The younger one yelped, trying to squirm away from where the bullet had hit.

    "Shut up, Jessie!" Neck Tattoo snarled, though his face had gone pale.

    "Next one goes in someone''s kneecap," Jason said, adjusting his aim. "Your choice who gets it first."

    "You''re bluffing," the second thug said. "Batman''s guys don''t shoot people."

    Jason laughed. "Do I look like Batman to you? Trust me, breaking your legs is just the start of what I''m willing to do."

    The three men exchanged glances, sweat beading on their foreheads. Jason could practically smell their fear blending with the warehouse''s musty air. Good. Fear made people stupid. Made them sloppy. Made them talk.

    He checked his watch, making a show of looking bored. They were close to breaking - he could feel it. And if they didn''t... well, he had plenty of creative solutions in mind. Sometimes this job had its perks.

    "Last chance," he said, chambering another round. "After this, we do things my way."

    "What do you mean by that?" the second thug asked.

    Jason holstered one gun and pulled out his phone, thumbing through news articles. "You guys remember that incident in Japan? The subway attack?" He turned the screen to show them grainy photos of people collapsed on train platforms. "Sarin gas. Kills in minutes. Painful way to go - seizures, suffocation, the works."

    "You wouldn''t," Neck Tattoo said.

    "Try me," Jason pulled a small canister from his jacket. "Modified version. More concentrated. Worse symptoms." He rolled it between his fingers. "See, unlike the Bat, I don''t mind getting my hands dirty. And unlike him, I know sometimes you have to speak a language criminals understand."

    The younger one, Jessie, started shaking. "Man, I can''t¡ªI don''t want to die like that."

    "Then start talking," Jason said, thumb hovering over the release valve.

    "Shut the hell up!" Neck Tattoo shouted.

    "No, screw this!" Jessie blurted out. "He''s at the old theater on Morrison Street! The one that burned down last year. He''s got some kind of setup in the basement!"

    Jason pocketed the canister - which was actually filled with harmless smoke - and grinned behind his helmet. "Now was that so hard?"

    "You''re dead, Jessie!" the second thug snarled. "When Eddie finds out¡ª"

    "Eddie''s not going to find out anything," Jason cut him off, "because Eddie''s going back to Arkham. And you three?" He pulled zip ties from his pocket. "You''re taking a nice trip downtown to the GCPD. I hear the holding cells are lovely this time of year."

    The sound of sirens wailed in the distance. Right on schedule. Anonymous tips were useful like that.If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

    Jason stepped out of the warehouse and headed straight for his bike. He swung a leg over and shot out of the place.

    The comm crackled in his ear. Right on cue.

    ¡°Talk to me,¡± Jason said, passing by pedestrians.

    Oracle¡¯s voice filtered through. ¡°Did some digging on that backer Harvey¡¯s been dealing with.¡±

    Jason leaned into a turn, tires skidding just close enough to the curb to keep things exciting. ¡°And?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s... complicated,¡± Oracle replied. A pause followed, one of those deliberate ones she used when she was bracing him for bad news. ¡°I traced it back to Joker.¡±

    Jason nearly swerved. His fingers tightened on the handlebars as the word hit him like a sucker punch to the gut. ¡°You¡¯ve got to be kidding me. No way.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s what I thought too,¡± Oracle admitted. ¡°But everything points back to him¡ªor someone using his name, anyway.¡±

    Jason spit out a curse. That name always felt like acid in his throat, burning every time it came up. That guy is the psycho¡ªthe one who had left Jason bleeding out in a warehouse all those years ago, broken inside out in ways no amount of vengeance could ever fix.

    He gunned the throttle harder than necessary. The city blurred around him in streaks of neon and shadow as he cut through traffic like a knife slicing air. ¡°It¡¯s gotta be a joke,¡± he said. ¡°Someone¡¯s covering their tracks. There¡¯s no way this is his game¡ªhe¡¯s locked up tight in Arkham.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s... kind of the issue,¡± Oracle said. ¡°Whoever this is? They¡¯re not sloppy. No loose ends, no breadcrumbs we can follow without hitting a dead end.¡± Another pause, then: ¡°They¡¯re good, Jason. Scary good.¡±

    Joker or not, whoever was behind this knew how to stay invisible, which wasn¡¯t exactly comforting considering everything Gotham had seen over the years.

    ¡°So what you¡¯re telling me,¡± Jason said, passing around a minivan that slammed on its brakes too late to stop him from cutting past them, ¡°is that Harvey¡¯s got some mystery backer who might¡ªor might not¡ªbe that clown-faced son of a bitch.¡±

    ¡°That about sums it up,¡± Oracle replied.

    ¡°Fantastic,¡± Jason muttered, giving himself just enough sarcasm to keep from spiraling into something darker.

    Jason parked the bike a block over from Morrison Street, keeping it close enough for a quick getaway but far enough that no one would spot it and put two and two together.

    The streets were quiet¡ªnot Gotham quiet, which usually meant someone was getting mugged in an alley. That probably should¡¯ve been his first clue.

    He approached the burnt-out theater with his helmet still on, scanning for anything out of place. The building looked as dead as the reviews it had gotten before the fire.

    Windows boarded up, doors chained shut, and graffiti scrawled across every surface like Gotham¡¯s young artists had decided to claim the ruins for themselves. A ¡°KEEP OUT¡± sign hung crookedly on the front gate¡ªnot exactly subtle, even for Nigma.

    Jason didn¡¯t bother with the main entrance. Too obvious. He rounded the side of the building, spotting an old fire escape still hanging on by rust and bad luck. It groaned under his weight as he climbed, but it held long enough to let him reach a second-story window. A quick swipe with a glass cutter, and he was inside.

    The place felt wrong. Not in any supernatural ¡°spooky vibes¡± kind of way¡ªJason wasn¡¯t superstitious or stupid¡ªjust off. He¡¯d raided plenty of hideouts before: warehouses packed with stolen gear, abandoned buildings rigged with traps, luxury penthouses reeking of expensive cologne and bad plans. This didn¡¯t feel like any of those.

    The air smelled stale, like no one had been here in weeks. Dust coated everything: countertops, furniture, even a plate left on a side table with what looked like petrified pizza crusts. If this was where Nigma had been working out of, Jason figured his standards must¡¯ve seriously slipped since their last encounter.

    Still, he stuck to shadows where they existed and avoiding any creaky spots in the floorboards when they didn¡¯t.

    The main room was empty¡ªa few overturned chairs, an old couch half-buried under tarps¡ªbut not much else to look at. Definitely not the kind of setup Nigma usually ran with; the guy loved his puzzles and flair too much to hole up in what amounted to a condemned apartment.

    "Barbs,¡± Jason muttered into his comms as he moved farther inside, stepping through what used to be a doorway before most of its frame had rotted away. ¡°I don¡¯t think Nigma did it."

    "What makes you think that?" Oracle¡¯s voice came through.

    Jason paused just outside another room¡ªnot because he was hesitating but because what he saw didn¡¯t add up.

    Inside was a sight he hadn¡¯t expected: Edward Nigma himself tied to a chair in the center of the space like someone had gift-wrapped him and left him for Jason to find. His signature green suit jacket was ripped at one sleeve, his glasses sat crooked on his face, and someone had gagged him so thoroughly that even his smug mouth couldn¡¯t work around it.

    ¡°I think someone set him up,¡± he said into the comms as he stepped inside to get a closer look.

    Nigma¡¯s eyes locked onto him¡ªwide and wild like an animal who¡¯d been caught in one trap only to spot another walking toward them. He made some muffled noises behind it, jerking against his restraints hard enough that his chair scraped against the floor.

    Jason crouched next to him without untying anything yet. "You look like hell," he said before leaning back on his heels to take stock of the situation again.

    Whoever had left Nigma here clearly wanted Jason¡ªor someone¡ªto find him. The question was why.

    He clicked back onto Oracle¡¯s line as he gave Nigma another once-over.

    "This isn¡¯t his usual style," Jason added into the comms as if Nigma could hear him through Oracle''s channel anyway¡ªand even if he could have, what was he going to do about it? Mumble at him harder? "No traps. No riddles scrawled all over the walls or dumbass word puzzles waiting outside."

    ¡°You¡¯re saying this isn¡¯t one of his games?¡± Oracle asked.

    ¡°Not unless tying himself up is part of his new shtick,¡± Jason shot back. "There¡¯s no way this guy pulled this off alone¡ªor at all.¡±

    Nigma let out another string of muffled protests then¡ªa little louder this time¡ªas if trying to make sure Jason didn¡¯t miss just how unhappy he was about being trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey.

    ¡°Relax,¡± Jason said at him before pulling out a pocketknife.

    ¡ª¡ª

    POV: Jason Todd/Red Hood

    Writing Style: Third-person POV Limited. Past-tense. Casual, irreverent tone and "zero fucks given" attitude. Raw and unfiltered dialogue, mixed with evocative descriptions. Poignant yet unpretentious narrative. Focus on action. Focus on realism and fast-paced narrative. Characters full of grit.

    The pieces weren''t fitting together - Joker supposedly bankrolling Harvey''s operations, and now finding Riddler gift-wrapped like a present. His gut told him this was wrong. All of it.

    Someone was pulling strings behind the scenes, orchestrating this whole mess. The setup was too perfect, too clean. Nigma''s usual schemes had his ego plastered all over them - riddles spray-painted on walls, elaborate deathtraps, that insufferable need to prove he was the smartest person in the room. This? This was different.

    He felt the edge of his knife, considering the situation. The warehouse earlier, the thugs'' information, finding Nigma here - it felt manufactured, like following breadcrumbs laid out by someone else. The question was who had the resources and skill to manipulate both Harvey and Nigma while staying completely hidden.

    Not many players in Gotham could pull that off. Most of the city''s criminals were too focused on territory wars or quick scores to orchestrate something this complex. This required patience, planning, and serious backing. The kind of operation that made Jason''s combat instincts scream danger.

    The Joker angle bothered him most. Using that psycho''s name was either a terrible mistake or a smart move designed to get under his skin. Either way, someone was trying to play him - and Jason hated being played.

    He''d been down this road before. Chasing leads that seemed solid until they dissolved into smoke, following trails that led nowhere. But this time felt different. All of it suggested something bigger brewing beneath Gotham''s surface. Something that made finding Nigma tied up in an abandoned apartment look like just the beginning.

    "Jason, what''s in your mind?" Oracle''s voice cut through his thoughts. "You¡¯ve been silent for a long time."

    "This whole thing stinks."

    "How so?"

    "Harvey''s got mystery money, Nigma''s tied up like a present, and someone''s using Joker''s name. It''s not right."

    "You think it''s all connected?"

    "Has to be. Look at the timing - Harvey starts getting funded right when Nigma disappears, then I get led straight to him?" Jason kicked a loose piece of plaster. "Someone''s playing puppet master, and I don''t like it."

    "Could be Black Mask," Oracle suggested. "He''s got the resources."

    "Nah, not his style. Sionis is all about showing off, making sure everyone knows it''s him pulling the strings. This is..." Jason said. "This is someone who knows how to stay invisible."

    "I''ll dig deeper into Harvey''s finances, see if¡ª"

    "Wait," Jason cut her off. Something clicked. "The theater. Morrison Street. Why there?"

    "What do you mean?"

    "This place burned down last year. Insurance job gone wrong, right?"

    "Let me check." Keys clacked in the background. "Yeah, owned by... oh shit."

    "What?"

    "Shell company. Traced back to Roman Sionis, but the paperwork''s weird. Lots of holes."

    "Someone''s using his old properties. Setting up shop right under everyone''s nose. Time to have a chat with our friend here about what he knows."

    The whole situation felt like a chess game where he couldn''t see all the pieces. But one thing was clear - whoever was behind this knew exactly what they were doing. And that made them dangerous.

 Chapter 6: This is not Nothing

    The night dragged on, and March kept droning about his so-called adventures, the places he''d visited, the "fascinating" people he¡¯d met¡ªsome ambassador here, a billionaire¡¯s daughter there.

    It was all surface-level fluff, the kind of pre-packaged anecdotes guys like him threw around to sound worldly and accomplished.

    Bruce didn¡¯t care. He nodded when it felt appropriate, let out a canned laugh when March¡¯s story seemed designed to land a punchline.

    But as March rambled on about some yacht party in the Aegean or some conference that brought ¡°visionaries¡± together (whatever that meant), Bruce couldn¡¯t shake the feeling that this guy wasn¡¯t worth his time. There was nothing under the surface. No tells, no slips. Just another self-important schmuck trying to claw his way back into Gotham¡¯s elite, all while thinking he could charm his way into his good graces.

    Bruce let him talk, mostly to see if he¡¯d screw up and say something useful. Maybe drop a name, mention the wrong place at the wrong time. But March was too polished for that¡ªor maybe just too shallow. Either way, there was nothing here but hot air and ambition dressed in an expensive suit.

    Still, Bruce played the game: smiled when needed, asked an occasional question that sounded genuine but wasn¡¯t. ¡°Oh really? How did you manage to meet him?¡± or ¡°That must¡¯ve been quite the experience.¡± Automatic responses, just enough to keep March going while Bruce¡¯s brain worked overtime on everything else.

    The harder truth settled in after a few minutes: Lincoln March wasn¡¯t the guy he was looking for. Not tonight. Sure, he was still slimy¡ªprobably up to something shady in some other part of town¡ªbut whatever that was didn¡¯t seem connected to Blackgate or Vale¡¯s death. If anything, March was just another opportunist looking for a crack in Gotham¡¯s foundation to exploit.

    Bruce let him finish his latest tale about some gala in Dubai and Monaco¡ªhe hadn¡¯t been listening closely enough to tell¡ªand gave him an easy grin before excusing himself.

    ¡°Lincoln,¡± he said, ¡°always a pleasure.¡±

    ¡°You too, Bruce,¡± March replied, extending a hand.

    Bruce took it, a brief shake that betrayed nothing, and turned on his heel. He didn¡¯t look back as he walked away, though he could feel his eyes lingering on him, like a predator assessing whether its prey had slipped out of reach or was still within striking distance.

    "You shouldn''t have walked away from March so fast," Barbara said. "Something about him feels off."

    "He''s clean," Bruce muttered under his breath, pretending to check his phone. "Just another failed politician trying to get back in the game."

    "Since when do you dismiss a lead without digging deeper? The guy vanishes for years then shows up right after Blackgate goes boom? Come on."

    Bruce moved to a quiet corner. "I watched him the whole time. No tells, no nervous tics, nothing. Trust me, if he knew anything about Vale or the explosion, he would''ve slipped."

    "Or maybe he''s just better at hiding it than most," Barbara countered. "Run his financials again. Check his travel records. Something''s gotta¡ª"

    "Already did. Three times. He spent the last few years bouncing between luxury resorts and charity events. Nothing connects him to this."

    "Since when do you trust the obvious answer?"

    "I don''t. But I know a dead end when I see one." Bruce grabbed another prop champagne glass as a waiter passed. "March is looking for an angle back into Gotham society. That''s it."

    "Fine," Barbara sighed. "But I''m still gonna dig. And when I find something¡ª"

    "If you find something, I''ll buy you dinner and admit I was wrong."

    "Deal. Now get back to work. Clark''s heading your way with that look on his face."

    Bruce ended the call just as Clark approached. Whatever he''d heard with that super-hearing of his, it wasn''t good news.

    "Sorry. I got bothing. Not a damn thing."

    "What do you mean nothing? You''re Superman. Your hearing doesn''t just fail."

    "Look, I scanned every conversation in this room. Twice. The most suspicious thing I heard was someone planning to dodge their taxes," Clark said. "Either these people are really good at keeping secrets, or they genuinely don''t know anything."

    Bruce frowned. "That''s impossible. Someone has to know something."

    "Well, they''re not talking about it here," Clark checked his watch. "Listen, I need to head back to Metropolis. Perry''s gonna have my ass if I don''t file something by morning, even if it''s just party coverage."

    "Sure, run back to your puff pieces," Bruce said, but there was no real bite to it.

    "Hey, some of us have actual jobs to maintain," Clark straightened his rental suit. "Call me if you need anything else. And Bruce? Be careful with this one. Something feels wrong about the whole thing."A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

    Bruce felt it too. That nagging absence, the feeling that the pieces he was holding onto weren¡¯t part of the puzzle he thought he was solving. It wasn¡¯t just that something felt missing¡ªsomething was missing. Like trying to grip a shadow, no edges to hold, no substance to pin down. Worse, it wasn¡¯t random. This wasn¡¯t Gotham¡¯s usual brand of crime, where leads were scattered like shrapnel and you just had to be smart¡ªor stubborn¡ªenough to find them.

    No, this was controlled. Someone wasn¡¯t just covering their tracks; they were building an entire set of false ones, leading him away from what mattered and toward dead ends that smelled of freshly poured cement. Whoever they were, they knew him¡ªhow he worked, how he thought. They understood his obsessive need for control and they were exploiting it.

    Bruce hated threads like these: limp but unbroken, dangling just out of reach as if taunting him to pull harder, knowing they¡¯d unravel into something worse once he did.

    If someone was controlling him¡ªor trying to¡ªthen he needed to think like them for a moment. What would they want? Keep Batman busy chasing ghosts while something bigger unfolded in plain sight? Or make Bruce Wayne look somewhere else entirely while Gotham drowned under another wave of corruption?

    Too many questions without answers¡ªand Bruce hated unanswered questions almost as much as he hated losing control.

    If someone out there thought they could manipulate him or outmaneuver him, then fine¡ªthey could think that for now. Let them keep building walls around their secrets while Bruce found ways through them.

    Because if there was one thing he excelled at more than anything else¡ªeven more than intimidation or detective work¡ªit was patience.

    Patience¡ªand making people regret underestimating him.

    After Clark left, Bruce tapped his earpiece. "Oracle?"

    "Already heard. Looks like we''re doing this the old-fashioned way."

    "Yeah. Start compiling a list of everyone who might have had access to Blackgate''s security systems. Cross-reference with Vale''s case files. We''ll work our way down."

    "That could take weeks."

    "Then we better get started," Bruce set down his untouched champagne. "Send the first batch of names to the cave. I''ll head there after this circus is over."

    Bruce needed to start with the ones who were desperate, the kind of criminals who¡¯d sell out their own mother for a stale sandwich if it meant shaving a few years off their sentence.

    People like Harley Quinn. Sure, she was high-profile because of her history with the Joker, but without the Clown Prince pulling her strings, she wasn¡¯t much more than a loud distraction running on fumes. She¡¯d been laying low since Arkham sprung its latest leak. No big heists, no flashy schemes. Just whispers about sightings here and there.

    Harley had connections in all kinds of circles: mobsters, rogue scientists, washed-out hitmen. Most of them underestimated her, thinking she was all glitter and giggles with no brain behind it. That was their mistake. Bruce knew better¡ªshe played the fool when it suited her, but she had sharp instincts for survival. If someone was making waves in Gotham¡¯s underworld¡ªespecially someone bold enough to take out Blackgate¡ªHarley might¡¯ve heard something.

    She¡¯d be slippery to pin down, though. Always moving, never staying long enough in one place for anyone to get comfortable¡ªor stupid enough to tip off the Bat. But she had patterns. Habits she couldn¡¯t quite quit, no matter how hard she tried to reinvent herself post-Joker.

    Dive bars that catered to wannabe villains, abandoned amusement parks on the city outskirts, even those weird underground fight clubs where Gotham¡¯s worst liked to blow off steam between jobs. Harley liked places like that¡ªthe edges of society where rules didn¡¯t apply and people were too drunk or too scared to notice her hanging out in plain sight.

    If Harley didn¡¯t pan out, Bruce could move on to others lower on the food chain¡ªnot the heavy hitters but the pawns who handled dirty work for whoever was really pulling strings in Gotham right now. Guys like Firefly. Not exactly criminal royalty, but his obsession with blowing stuff up made him a natural suspect whenever anything went boom in Gotham.

    Bruce doubted Firefly had the chops for something as intricate as Blackgate¡ªmilitary-grade explosives weren¡¯t his style¡ªbut he might¡¯ve sold materials or heard chatter about it through his network of arms dealers.

    Then there was Victor Zsasz: unpredictable and sick beyond belief, sure, but also deeply connected to Gotham¡¯s criminal underbelly in ways most people didn¡¯t realize.

    He wasn¡¯t just a killer; he was a collector of secrets¡ªone of those psychos who thrived on knowing every filthy detail about every player in town. Bruce wasn¡¯t eager to deal with him¡ªthe guy always tried turning their encounters into some twisted game¡ªbut if there was even a chance he¡¯d picked up breadcrumbs, he¡¯d be worth a visit.

    Bruce would have to filter through these grunts¡ªstart wide and work inward toward whoever held real power in this mess. Low-level thugs like these were often too dumb or too reckless to keep their mouths shut when pressed by Batman¡¯s particular brand of persuasion.

    And if nothing shook loose from them? Well, then he¡¯d go deeper into Gotham¡¯s shadows where dirt stained more than hands. The Penguin would follow after that: always scheming behind his iceberg lounge empire and pretending his dealings were ¡°just business.¡± Cobblepot kept tabs on everyone; even if he wasn¡¯t involved directly with Blackgate or Vale¡¯s death, odds were he knew who was.

    For now, though? Harley first.

    "What about March?" Barbara asked.

    "Keep an eye on him, but he''s not priority. Focus on people with direct connections to Blackgate or Vale."

    "Got it. Try not to have too much fun at your party."

    Bruce ended the call, already planning his exit strategy.

    The hard way it was¡ªinterviews, surveillance, good old-fashioned detective work. Just like the old days.

    At least nobody could accuse him of taking shortcuts now.

    Bruce slipped through the crowd, phone already pressed to his ear as he headed for the parking garage.

    The call connected on the third ring.

    "Hey," Dick''s voice crackled through. "How''s the party?"

    "Waste of time. Listen, I need you to do some legwork tonight."

    "Let me guess¡ªBlackgate?"

    "Yeah. I''m going after Harley, but we need to cast a wider net. Hit up the usual spots¡ªdive bars, fight clubs, anywhere the small-timers hang out."

    "You really think street-level guys would know anything about this?" Dick asked. "Seems above their pay grade."

    "Someone always talks. Check with Mouse - he tends bar at that shithole near the docks. And that pawn shop owner, Martinez. He sees everything on that block."

    "Fine, but I''m telling you, this feels bigger than street crime."

    Bruce pushed through the exit doors into the garage''s fluorescent glare. "Maybe. But we start at the bottom and work up. That''s how we''ve always done it."

    "Yeah, yeah. The hard way. You know, sometimes I think you just like making things difficult."

    "Just do it, Dick. And be careful - whoever did Blackgate isn''t playing around."

    "When am I not careful?"

    "You want a list?"

    "Funny. I''ll call if I find anything," Dick hung up.

    Bruce spotted Alfred waiting with the car, expression neutral as always. Time to trade one mask for another. Harley Quinn wouldn''t talk to Bruce Wayne, but she might talk to Batman.

    If he could find her.