The camera's flashed all around the debonair prosecutor began his keynote speech. Facing back against the hoard of reporters was a huge campaign banner, a suave smile of pearly whites flanked by American flags like a golem defending the castle. The man on stage paused for a moment, letting the weight of his words sink in, the crowd waited with bated breath.

"And that sickness has a name. In Latin they would call it 'scelus', in our tongue we call it crime. Me? I call it Cobblepot, Falcone, Sionis."

The names echoed through the room like gunshots. A few gasps rippled through the gathered press, their pens scratching furiously under the sea of mumbles each asking the other if they could believe he mentiond them by name began to rise. His dark eyes scanned the crowd, the flashbulbs stuttering like lightning on a stormy coast.

"Gotham's veins are clogged with it. Its courts are shackled by it. Our streets, our homes, our children - all live under its shadow. And every day, the people of this city are told to settle. To settle for less safety, less dignity, less justice...because they say Gotham can't be saved. That it's not worth saving!"

Harvey Dent leaned forward on the podium, his eyes flush with passion underneath the practiced calm he displayed on that stage. "I say they're wrong. Dead wrong." His reply was a ripple of applause that cracked across the room like dry timber catching fire. He allowed himself a smile.

"I've stood in those courtrooms and watched monsters walk free because they could buy the law, or intimidate it, or twist it to their advantage. I've seen good cops buried while their killers drink champagne in penthouses. I've seen our leaders turn their backs on us because it's easier to negotiate with the mob than to fight them. Gotham does not need another warlord. It does not need another masked savior swooping through the night, deciding who is guilty and who is not. What Gotham needs is law. Order. A justice system that works - and a District Attorney who will not be bought, bent, or broken."

He straightened his tie, his eyes burning with conviction.

"Good people of Gotham, I say again. Gotham has a sickness. But I intend to be the cure."

Thunderous applause roared to life, cameras flashing so wildly it looked like an electrical storm. James Gordon, seated to Dent's right, smiled up at him, shooting him a thumbs up from underneath the desk.

"On election day," Harvey's voice boomed over the applause, "You're not just voting for me! You're voting for a future where the law belongs to the people again. Where justice isn't for sale. Where Gotham can finally stand tall!"

The crowd erupted. Dent raised one fist high, then pointed to the large window at the back of the room, a stunning view of the Gotham river and the city beyond it.

"This is our city!" he declared. "Let's take it back!"

---

---

The army of journalists swarmed the would-be District Attorney as he exited the building, flanked by Gilda Gold, his fiance and the decidedly less lovely Commissioner Gordon, who seemed to be a stone's throw away from beating the crowd back with a campaign placard. The three climbed into the back of a sleek black town car as the chaos of shouted questions and flashing bulbs beat against the windows like hail. As the car began to pull away, Harvey rolled down the window and flashed a peace symbol with his fingers in front of a practiced smile.

He rolled up the window. Inside, the noise dulled to a muted hum. Harvey exhaled slowly, shoulders sinking as if he'd just finished holding up the whole city on his back. Gilda laid a hand gently on his arm. "Harvey, you were incredible."

He gave her a smile, much more genuine and tired than the one he'd flashed out the window moments before.
"I have to be. This is a race for the finish. Second place is losing."

Gordon grunted, tugging at his collar, undoing the top button and loosening his tie.
"Careful out there, Harv. Dropping names like Sionis and Falcone - hell, even Cobblepot? That's blood in the water, kid. They won't like it."

"They don't have to like it." Harvey shot back. "They just have to learn there's a line now. And I'm the one drawing it."

Gilda's fingers tightened. "And what about the one already out there crossing lines?"

Harvey looked at her, puzzled for only a moment. "Batman."

Gordon leaned forward. "People are split on him. Half think he's a savior. The other half think he's a lunatic in a cape."

"I think he's a symptom." Harvey said coldly. "A side effect of a city that’s stopped believing in its own laws. If we do our jobs, if the people trust us to fight for them...there won't be a need for him anymore." He paused for a moment. "Hey, hold on, someone write that down."

The three smiled to each other. The car went quiet for a moment as the skyline of Gotham rolled past the tinted windows - neon lights flickering over cracked concrete, the black water of the river below cutting the city into two jagged halves.

Harvey spoke again, softer now, almost to himself.
"Gotham doesn't need a dark knight. It needs a district attorney."

Gilda watched him with worried eyes, and Gordon just stared ahead grimly, the city lights reflecting in the lenses of his glasses.

---

Deep beneath the foundations of Wayne Manor, the world narrowed to darkness, stone, and the low hum of electronics.

The Batcave was silent except for the steady click-click-click of a projector reel feeding news footage onto the cavern wall. The ghostly image of Harvey Dent loomed across the jagged rock, frozen mid-sentence, fist raised like a conquering hero.

Bruce sat back in the chair, he adjusted his glasses and then allowed his chin to rest on his fist. He was deep in thought, a state of being he often found himself in much more recently. He hit a key on the keyboard to his left and the projector clicked on again. Dent's passionate voice echoed through the cave once more. A few bats stirred further into the chamber.

"Gotham does not need another warlord. It does not need another masked savior swooping through the night, deciding who is guilty and who is not. What Gotham needs is law. Order." The sound bounced off the stone and water all around him.

Alfred appeared behind him, tray in hand, the smell of fresh coffee cutting through the cold.
"Rousing, wasn't it?" the butler said mildly. "A touch self-righteous if you ask me, but I suppose that's the job description."

Bruce didn't answer, he continued to stare at the broadcast, almost hypnotized by it.

"He has a point, Master Bruce." Alfred continued, placing the tray gently on the console. "If Gotham's institutions could be trusted to stand on their own, they could bring justice to Cobblepot and the rest, and you might be able to take the occasional night off."

Finally broken from his trance, Bruce leaned back on his chair and caught his butler's gaze. "Alf, how many times have I got to tell you. You don't have to call me 'Master Bruce!'"

Alfred raised an eyebrow, unflinching.
"And how many times have I told you, sir, that if I start calling you Bruce, the entire fragile illusion of this arrangement will collapse? You have been Master Bruce to me since you were a baby, I don't intend on changing that now."

Bruce huffed, the closest thing to a laugh he ever gave. He turned back to the flickering footage of Dent, pausing it on the frame where Harvey stood with his fist in the air, fire in his eyes.

"He believes it, Alfred." Bruce said. "Every word. We've seen hundreds of men like Dent be bought out and corrupted, somethings telling me he's different."

"That would make him a very rare breed indeed." Alfred replied. He stepped closer. "The question, I suppose, is whether Gotham will believe in him long enough to let him make a difference."

Bruce removed his glasses and set them down gently on the console, leaning forward.
"If he wins...if he can clean out the corruption in the courts, give people faith in the system again, then maybe this city won't need a man in a mask. Maybe it can stand on its own."

There was a beat of silence. Alfred folded his hands behind his back.
"I take it, then, you intend to assist his campaign?"

Bruce smiled. "How do you always read my mind, Alf?"

"It's my superpower sir."

"I know you're joking, but I'm starting to believe you. I want to make a donation to the Harvey Dent campaign fund. Better yet, let's try and get an invite to any gala dinners, Dent will be attending and I can make the donation in person."

Alfred pursed his lips, suppressing a smile.
"Ah. So the reclusive billionaire intends to walk amongst the mortals again. I shall alert the press to prepare themselves for the shock."

Bruce shot him a dry look. "Quietly, Alfred. The fewer headlines, the better. This isn’t about Bruce Wayne. It's about Harvey Dent."

Their conversation was interrupted by an alarm flashing on his monitor. He turned in his chair. Far off, through the thin mouth of the cave high above the cliffs, a beam of white light split the night sky. Its edge wavered against the low clouds - a single, stark silhouette cut into the darkness.

The Bat-Signal.

"Seems Gotham has other plans for your evening." Alfred said dryly, already lifting up the undrunk coffee and placing it back on the tray.

Bruce rose, all traces of weariness gone now, a subtle electricity moving through him like a switch had been thrown. He pulled off the glasses, set them down gently beside the keyboard, and crossed the stone floor toward the armor vault.

"Have the car ready." he said, his demeanour already shifting.

"Already warming the engine, sir." Alfred replied.

Moments later, the roar of the Batmobile tore out of the cave mouth and into the night, heading for the signal blazing above the Gotham skyline.

---

The Narrows were never quiet, even at this time of night.

The streetlights here buzzed and flickered, casting long sickly-yellow shadows across cracked pavement and rusted fire escapes. A freight train groaned somewhere in the distance, drowned beneath the pulse of bass leaking from a club two blocks away.

Sixteen year old Max Cole sat on the back steps of an abandoned laundromat, knees tucked to his chest, watching the rain trace crooked lines down the brick opposite. His hoodie was too thin for the cold, his sneakers worn until there were holes in the sole. A paper bag with two bruised apples and a can of beans sat beside him. Dinner for the week, if it came to that.

He didn't hear the footsteps until a voice cut through the hiss of the rain.
"You're Max, right? Benny's cousin?"

Max looked up fast. A man in a black leather jacket stood at the edge of the alley, collar turned up, a cigarette glowing like a small orange eye in the darkness. His grin showed too many gold teeth. Behind him loomed two others, both bigger and bulkier than the small man in front.

"Y-yeah." Max said cautiously. "Why? Who's askin'?"

The man flicked the cigarette into a puddle and stepped closer. "Benny says you're quick. Says you don't talk too much. We like that. You want to make some real money, kid?"

Max blinked. His stomach twisted, part hunger and part a feeling of danger. "Doing what?"

The man smiled wider.
"Running errands. That's all. Pickups, drop-offs. Nothing you can't handle. Easy money."

Max hesitated. He thought of the empty fridge, of the eviction notice taped to the front of his building. He thought of his mom, gone two winters ago, and the social worker who'd promised to 'check in' but never did.

"Who-who for?" he asked finally.

The man's grin thinned, like a knife.
"Mr. Cobblepot."

Max swallowed. He didn't know much about the name, just that people didn't say it loud, and that when they did, they didn't smile. But he nodded.

"Atta boy." the man said, clapping him on the shoulder. "First run's tomorrow night. Don't be late." He tossed a business card onto Max's lap. "Oh and uh, call this a sign-on bonus. Get yourself some new clothes and a place to stay for a few nights, kid." He reached into his wallet and threw a few hundred dollar bills at him.

The three men vanished back into the rain-soaked dark, leaving only the faint smell of smoke and the sound of water dripping from the rusted awning overhead. Max sat there for a long while, the cold biting through his hoodie, the city humming all around him. For a long time he just held the money, counting it over and over again. He pulled the hood over his head, picked up the paper bag, and walked into the night.

High above the city, the Bat-Signal cut through the clouds like a scar.

Sitting on the edge of a rooftop over four hundred feet above the ground, Peter Parker stared quizically back at his phone as he awaited Gwen Stacy's follow-up text. The last of his refrigerated ramen sat in a plastic zip-bag placed to one side, the chopsticks he'd used to consume it at the other. And a small, barely noticeable stain now adorned the torso of his red and blue costume from when a gust of wind forced him to spill some of the broth, much to his annoyance. Which meant that it had been a fairly typical afternoon, given the new life that he'd been growing more accustomed to. Still chewing on a few noodles, Peter pulled the bottom half of his mask back over his face and stood, phone in both hands as he noticed that Gwen was typing.

GWENDY
Have our first practice session at 5. Glory's place.
Can text you the address when I get there.

Peter started to respond before pausing, frustrated. The sheer amount of typos was only piling up the more he attempted to compose a message while wearing gloves. He'd considered adding rubber to the fingertips for this very reason. Wasn't sure if that would actually impede his ability to wall-crawl. Eventually, with concentration, he steadied his strokes enough to create something legible.

PETEY
Uh, sure! I can do that!
(You're in a band now?)

Immediately, Gwen's reply lit up the screen.

GWENDY
OMG DUDE
I've been telling you about this for weeks!

Beneath the mask, Peter's face dropped. Then he raised his head, lightly smacking his forehead with his open palm. Of course he remembered Gwen telling him now. Weeks before both of them were due to resume classes at Midtown for the first semester of their senior year, Gwen had gotten addicted to watching a series of recorded punk rock concerts on TikTok. She had even followed one of the bands, The Rocket Racers, before becoming a regular in the comments section. Peter had joked that she was becoming their stalker, but it didn't seem like a phase that his friend was going to grow out of anytime soon. So when she learned that a couple of the other girls in school were following aswell, it seemed only inevitable that they would conspire to start a punk band of their own.

GWENDY
This is the gig. Me on drums.
[Picture Failed To Send, Signal Error]

Then again, Peter would have remembered this more readily if he hadn't spent all of his free time doing exactly what he was in the middle of now. Since deciding to split his life into two distinct halves, Peter had been doing everything that he could to live up to the promise he'd made. That meant making daily trips to one of the five boroughs, all under different excuses to give to his aunt, before shedding his street clothes for his brightly-colored uniform and going out on what could only loosely be considered "patrol". Because the truth was, he still didn't quite have it nailed down to a science. All Peter really did was go out swinging, patch into the police band feed on his phone, and hope he'd either spot something going wrong or hear about a crime in progress.

PETEY
Oooh. That gig!
Didn't know it was official yet. Sorry!

It had produced minimal results so far. This afternoon alone, he'd managed to intervene in three muggings, a burglary-in-progress of a closed antiques shop, a couple of gangland assaults, and an armed robbery of a bodega. All of the perpetrators were left webbed firmly to the nearest pole or ceiling, with the note that Peter had started providing for the NYPD - "Courtesy Of Your Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man!".

But it didn't feel like enough. For as many crimes that Spider-Man managed to stop, three times as many were often reported throughout the city. Peter knew that because he'd become an avid reader of Deb Donovan's column of The Daily Bugle since deciding on his life's path. Not that he'd taken to doomscrolling or anything, but it always left him feeling a bit unfulfilled. And while the solution could easily be to split time between boroughs every day, Peter barely felt like he was keeping up by sticking to one.

GWENDY
Yeah, finally found a lead vocalist. You're gonna flip.

PETEY
Is it one of the 3 people I know?

GWENDY
You know her.

So it made sense that he'd forgotten about Gwen's band. He had alot on his plate, more than what could reasonably be expected of any sixteen-year-old - even one that had been given superhuman abilities during a freak accident that would theoretically make it easier to handle. But as it turns out, one of the few things that the spider bite hadn't gifted Peter was the proportionate ability to multitask social obligations. Still didn't quite make him feel any less like scum for blowing off his best friend's interests. Even if punk wasn't really his thing, Peter felt especially compelled to support Gwen through whatever she needed after the last few months.

PETEY
Pretty sure Harry's not a her.
Unless...

Especially after Uncle Ben. In the weeks following his death, Gwen had never failed to check in on Peter and his aunt multiple times a day. She had delivered them food, gotten her father to fix some things around their apartment that the landlord had neglected, encouraged Peter to spend time with her and Harry in the city, even stayed up until the early hours of the morning to watch movies with them - movies that Peter knew she'd seen a million times. Anything to get their minds off of the terrible loss. It was these acts of kindness that had proved crucial to Peter's ability to move forward, even if his growing list of responsibilities meant that he'd had to turn her down every once in a while.

GWENDY
Trust me, she's got pipes. And Glory's on keyboard.
Also have a new bassist.

This wasn't one of the times Peter had to, though. By the time that he'd be expected to head back before May got suspicious, he'd already be well on his way to the band's practice. And given what he'd come to expect from the criminal element of the Bronx, Peter figured that at most, he'd have sustained a couple of minor bruises to explain away. For as much as he felt like he wasn't doing enough, Peter had to admit something to himself: his spider powers made it entirely too easy to take on these idiots. Whereas he would have never hoped to be able to fight one, let alone multiple enemies before the transformation, Spider-Man was capable of knocking out as many as ten at a time. And that was before he even had to make an effort.

PETEY
Have to ask May if I can come.

GWENDY
Sure, sure! My dad's gonna be there after work to drive us back, so she's probably good w/ it.

"Alright. It's a date."

Peter winced as soon as the words escaped him. He'd never thought of Gwen in that way, so even vaguely referring to a date was something that he considered to be the most awkward thing in the world. Thankfully, he'd only said it aloud and hadn't been dumb enough to respond with that in text. Noticing that his battery was quickly dwindling to less than five percent, Peter decided to pocket his phone and update Gwen whenever he could get to a payphone in the city. Looking over at his bag of ramen, Peter sighed to himself, greeted by a flock of pigeons pecking at it. Gingerly grabbing the bag and upturning it, he allowed the remainder to slide into a small puddle for the birds' consumption.

"Bon appétit, fellas. Hope you like extra salt."

Stuffing the emptied bag into his belt, Peter took a few steps forward and stopped on the very edge. He smiled to himself, briefly, thinking about how he'd spent fifteen years of his life terrified of heights. Those days were definitely over. A new world had opened up to him, and he wasn't going to let himself waste a second of enjoying the thrill. Taking a deep breath, Peter took another step forward - and fell directly into free-fall.

On second thought, he'd make the call later.

Something told him that Spider-Man was needed.

THWIP!

"We're showing a sixty-seven percent increase in neural response rate."

Curt Connors watched with intent as the device on the table infront of him started to move. The titanium coils overlapping part of a thick cable glistened off the overhead light as the three pincers of the claw-like head slowly began to flex, bending the protective rubber coating. The small blue lights began to hum as they came to life, signifying a successful link between man and machine that - thus far, anyway - had never truly been accomplished. But after eleven months of tedious coding, research, trial and error, Project Fenrir had finally borne some small fruit from the labor between Connors and his longtime business partner.

Another man who currently stood adjacent to Connors, with both hands locked on the table and his head craned downward. He wore a headpiece connected by wires to the table, with similar lights to the device, and modules that kept a constant scan running of the different sections of his brain, both to monitor neural activity and provide feedback to the receiver on the arm. Connors was cycling between checking the readout on his laptop and focusing back on the table, barely able to contain his astonishment as the top of the arm mechanically began to rise off of platform.

"Sixty-eight. And it's climbing every second."

A vein appeared in his partner's forehead. He was evidently locked in focus, unable to respond or even move a fraction of an inch without compromising the connection. Connors had to admit to himself that, despite his initial skepticism - after all, his own Project Pelops involved taking a dramatically different approach to the same outcome - there seemed to be a clear winner in the race towards Horizon Labs' promise of eventually replacing missing limbs. A race that, either way, Connors was personally invested in winning.

"Seventy-three! You've already cleared the record!"

Sweat began to appear on his partner's forehead. His brow furrowed, and his fingers clenched against the table. Even with his eyes hidden by a pair of tinted spectacles, the wearer of the response unit didn't dare try to strain himself to maintain the connection now. That had been the error of the previous trials, the impatience to make the arm really move with a degree of effortlessness. But as he stayed locked in, and the arm began to respond to his direct commands, the harder it physically became. It was just as he'd feared from the beginning: he and Connors weren't just trying to solve how to make the brain control a piece of technology, they were actively trying to cheat an entire central nervous system into believing it had a natural appendage. And that was where science and nature seemed to be clashing the hardest.

"Dammit! The numbers are falling. We're back to sixty-four. Hang in there, Otto."

Hearing this, Otto Octavius latched onto the table even harder. There was nothing that the man could stand more than to hear that he'd been so close to success just to end up falling short. Even as the lights blinking next to his ears shifted from blue to red, and the machines began to beep, Octavius was determined not to break concentration. The veins were now pulsating on his neck and his teeth were grinding against themselves. His heart rate was elevated. Connors knew that the test was already over and that they'd failed again, but he knew better than to try and tell Otto the truth. Like all the other trials, Octavius wouldn't hear of it until the arm had fully collapsed into lifelessness.

"Neural response rate has dropped to forty-three percent. Forty percent. Thirty-eight. Otto, you need to..."

"I can... still... do this..."

All it took was for Octavius to breathe just a little too hard - and the connection was immediately, irrevocably severed. The metal arm hit the table with a loud "thunk", and the frustrated doctor's hands balled into a pair of fists. He wanted to hit the table. Wanted to obliterate the table. But the sight of Connors frantically shutting the scan down and the sound of the beeping coming to a stop brought him back to reality. There would be no frustrated and dramatic outbursts, this time. It clearly wouldn't change anything.

"Sorry, I know you wanted to keep at it. But we were close to hitting single digits. And I don't know how the programming would react to that level of decline, nor do we really know the effect that it would have on..."

"It's perfectly fine, Curtis."

With a sigh, Octavius removed the headpiece.

"You can say it if you wish. Another botched attempt."

Connors shook his head. "On the contrary, my friend. We've never gotten this close before. You should have seen the feedback whenever the apparatus began to recognize cognitive input. It was beyond what we could've hoped for!"

Otto took a step back, quickly sitting down to catch his breath.

"I can believe it. There was a moment, a curious... glimmer of something. It was as if I could feel the arm actually become part of me."

Connors approached his friend with a water bottle, which Octavius graciously accepted. His mind was already deep in thought.

"Sort of the opposite of phantom limb syndrome. We knew it was certainly possible, but if you actually experienced it? This could change everything."

Otto took a hearty swig, his eyes never leaving the table.

The project had been, up to this moment, entirely for the benefit of men like Curt Connors - people who had lost something and needed to be able to experience a replication of natural function. There had never been a serious consideration that the project would lead to fully-intact human subjects being able to gain anything that they never had in the first place. That possibility was something that intrigued Octavius far more than he'd have expected.

"Yes..."

Nevertheless, it was a curiosity that he kept to himself. In the morning, the two men would go over the data and see what exactly had gone wrong, then go about refining the process until they got ever closer. There were still dozens of other high-priority projects that they and the rest of the staff at Horizon were hard at work on, including Connors' own formula-based approach to cell regeneration. But it was this breakthrough, brief as it was, that would keep Octavius wide awake during the nights to come.

"It very well could."

THWIP!

Less than ten minutes after beginning his next round of patrol, Spider-Man started to feel it again. That peculiar buzzing in the back of his head. It had started just as he'd rounded the corner above tenth street, then increased with alarming frequency as he'd swung his way over to twelfth. Letting go of his line, the webslinger somersaulted through the air and held out his hands as he advanced upon a brick wall. Clinging to it immediately, he slowly crawled forward as he heard a faint noise. Then another, louder noise, followed by screaming.

Eyes widening beneath the large mirrored lenses of his mask, Spider-Man stood upright -actually sideways, given the way he was perched on the wall - and hopped into a direct sprint. He could see a faraway set of figures running away from a particular building. As he approached more rapidly, the wall-crawler held out his hand and placed two fingers above the hidden trigger of his web-shooters. Pressing down, he allowed the sticky substance to fire out, coil itself, and hit a building just above the area.

Jeez. Don't need a map to tell me where to be.

Leaping into another swing, Spider-Man vaulted over the panicked bystanders and immediately spotted a street lamp that could give him a better vantage point of the scene. Dropping from the line, he flipped twice and landed perfectly atop it, his feet practically wrapped around the pole. A woman ran past, too scared to notice him, clutching her infant child in her arms. Too timid to try and stop her, the teenager cleared his throat and looked towards an older man who was similarly fleeing.

"Excuse me! Sir, you got a sec? What's going..."

The man took one look at him - this bug-eyed teenage boy covered head to toe in spandex, suspended on top of a street lamp high above the street - and immediately turned on his heel, breaking into a frantic run.

"OH, GOD! IT'S ANOTHER ONE!"

Another one?

Spider-Man was struck by how weird a statement that was. How many other sixteen-year-olds in colorful tights were busy breaking the laws of physics in the area? His curiosity was almost too much to contain, so he looked ahead and watched as more civilians piled off onto the sidewalk, blending into the perplexed crowd that had been in the middle of their day-to-day commute. Quickly, the webhead realized that they were all looking to get out of the same place: a building with a large turquoise banner that read "fresh seafood" below a smaller sign. Randazzo's Seafood.

"Never had to stop a holdup of crab and oysters before, but it is the Bronx we're talkin' about..."

Backflipping off the street lamp and landing gracefully on the ground, Spider-Man fired two weblines into the opposite sides of the building's entrance, which he then noticed was heavily damaged. Infact, the door to the place had looked as if it were ripped off its hinges, with glass and debris everywhere along the outside. There were also, very strangely, massive puddles of water leading into the area. Almost as if they were tracks made by an enormous animal, like a bear...

Or something even bigger.

But the webslinger put aside such concerns, knowing that any hesitation meant the difference between life and death. Tugging on the weblines and arching his back, Spider-Man flung himself into the fish market that seemed to be the epicenter of the chaos. Once inside, he performed a handspring and spun himself, latching his feet onto the ceiling. It was a bizarre sight, but it felt as natural as anything he'd done since learning to use his abilities.

Once upside down, Spider-Man noticed a darkened figure looming over a large, broken crate of fresh fish towards the back. And despite all of the panic that had been provoked from the place, this seemed to be the extent of the disturbance. There were no ski-mask-wearing thugs with glocks and a series of hastily delivered demands in sight. On some level, the wallcrawler felt a tinge of disappointment. But as long as he was here...

"Hey! Bartering 101, pal!"

The figure paused. Then turned.

"You're supposed to offer a price less than standard, look especially smug about it, then the seller's entitled to call the cops on..."

Then rose, revealing a more massive height than expected.

"...you..."

Null

"Huh."

It had been about six months, two weeks, and three days since the spider bite. In that time, Spider-Man had directly intervened in what he assumed to be just about every type of petty crime imaginable. And despite an effort to improve, the vigilante had only recently felt that he was starting to learn how to navigate a given scenario. An armed robbery in Soho? That had been a matter of divide and conquer, jumping and moving too fast for the gunmen to be able to spot him, let alone nail him. A high-speed chase wrecking its way through Greenwich Village? It called for gumming up the tires with a careful shot of web fluid, getting the vehicle slowed down enough to whip the passengers out of their seats before delivering the hurt. A hostage crisis at the Themysciran Embassy in Midtown? Well, apart from being an utterly stupid place to be waving around a rifle, given that most of the volunteers were trained in some sort of crazy Greco-Roman style martial art, that had been a matter of stealthily picking off each of the perpetrators room-by-room, sticking close to the ceiling and moving as quietly as possible.

The point was that it had all felt like another form of science. Solving a problem with some improvisational hypothesis, putting the theoretical into practice, and eliminating the variables with experience. Before eventually whittling it all down to an effective strategy that could be relied upon in situations that demanded quick thinking. The webslinger had never claimed to be an expert at any of it, especially given that he was still over a year away from graduating high school. These kinds of scenarios were far from normal for a teenager to even have to consider, let alone put into practice. People his age were generally more interested in sneaking in a house party beyond their parents' notice, or whether to try out for the next season of football. They didn't have to wonder what the hell to do when faced with a rampaging nine-foot-tall great white shark. With legs and arms, appearing to be breathing air.

And yet, here they were. On one hand, Spider-Man's initial reaction had been momentary denial. Surely, he wasn't actually seeing what was standing right infront of him, which was a creature bigger than anyone that he'd ever encountered and reeking of half-devoured fish. Was it some elaborate cosplay? It didn't seem likely. Even most blockbuster movie productions didn't think to put gills that actually moved on the sides of their monster hybrid's head. A mutant or a metahuman seemed more within the realm of possibility, but even that explanation left the webhead with more questions than answers: in all of the documented cases, most mutants woke up sometime after puberty with swatches of reptilian scales or something. They didn't just suddenly have their entire biological makeup eroded with the traits of an aquatic predator.

"I'm tryin' really hard not to tell you that we're gonna need a bigger boat. I totally won't, but I figured I'd let you know... the temptation's there."

The creature simply stared back at him, quizically. A fresh halibut limply fell from its massive hand and landed with a splat, the only thing cutting the tension that was hanging in the air. In all honesty, Peter could feel his heart pounding out of his chest. He was rightfully terrified, doubly so whenever the giant shark man - or person, or whatever their gender technically could be in this corner of the animal kingdom - moved forward with more curiosity about what it was facing than anything. Everything in Spider-Man's body was screaming at him to run about as far away from the area as possible, to forget this had ever happened for the sake of his own sanity.

But he knew that he couldn't. This thing had caused a ton of property damage and created a pretty sizable disturbance. People were panicked and probably right to be. And the police were probably about as prepared to deal with this as any random passerby. More to the point, someone was gonna get hurt if this wasn't contained. Guess this still fits the whole great power, great responsibility bill.

After sustaining another moment of silence, where the brute seemed to sniff at the air before deciding whether to advance, Spider-Man leaped off the ceiling and landed upright. He wasn't trained in the ways of animal control, but he certainly felt like his only choice was to wing it until something seemed to work. Holding his hands out infront of him, the teenager tried desperately to ignore the laughable height difference between them before gathering up what was left of his draining courage.

"Nice fishy. Calm, calm fishy-fish person. Let's not get any ideas. I've seen Deep Blue Sea, and let me tell you, I am not about to go out like Samuel L Jack..."

Then it did exactly what Peter feared. With his spider-senses racheting up to eleven, the wall-crawler let out a quiet "yipe!" as the shark-guy lunged directly at him, baring its horrifying rows of razor-sharp teeth. Retracting his hands immediately, Spider-Man spun and fired a webline out of the market and yanked as hard as possible. The maneuver, operating purely on instinctual survival, worked enough to pull him directly out of the way of certain death before the brute's jaws could chomp down on his comparatively tiny frame. Launched towards the street at a breakneck pace, Spider-Man grabbed onto the same street lamp that he'd perched on right before entering, spun his body around in a hundred-and-eighty-degree angle, and stomped both feet onto it to secure himself. Just in time to watch as big, finny, and gruesome smashed his way through a vacant wooden stand of cocktail shrimp varieties.

"Whoah, whoah, whoah!"



Holding out his hands again, two fingers pressed into each palm, Spider-Man fired off twin strands of webbing that hit eachother mid-stream. The fluid instantaneously formed into a massive screen of sticky netting that blanketed the destroyed entrance of the market, catching the toothsome giant off guard as it barreled directly into the wall of goop. For a moment, the wall-crawler watched as an indent of his pursuer warped the netting, evidently confused as to what the fluid was and why it suddenly had trouble moving. For Spider-Man, it was the first moment in a harrowing few minutes that a sense of relief washed over him. To the point that he couldn't help but taunt the creature's feeble attempts to break itself loose.

"Yeah, that's right! Time the frak out, ugly!"

Then the sound of ripping started. Panicked, the webspinner readied himself to fire off a reinforcement layer to coat what was already there, but he couldn't even react in time if he tried. Within seconds, the teeth of the shark pierced through the webbing like tissue paper, and the sight of its massive fingers appeared in another, bigger tear beneath them. With a pull, the sticky entrapment came down around the shark and splintered into hundreds of strands that looked like a pile of loose wiring. The monster stood revealed once again, ripping its legs free with a concentrated step forward.

The urge to head in the opposite direction only increased in Spider-Man, but he noticed a crowd of onlookers starting to build on opposite sides of him, clearly horrified as to what was happening. If Sharknado caught a whiff of the rest of the fresh meat in the area, there was no telling what kind of a feeding frenzy it'd go on. He couldn't take the chance.

Please don't let me die doing this very stupid thing.

Valiantly, Spider-Man somersaulted off the lamp post and fired another webline. This time, it sailed over his approaching enemy's head, securely locking onto a section of the brick wall that hadn't been compromised. Wrapping it around his wrist, Spider-Man jumped back a few paces, strategically waiting for the brute to get to where he wanted it.

"Okay, big guy. Let's be reasonable. Arachnids are about as far away from tuna as you can get."

Pulling back at it until his elbow locked into a sharp arch, Spider-Man dug his heels into the concrete, creating as much tension in the line as possible. The shark guy remained thankfully oblivious, focused entirely on the red and blue morsel infront of it.

"For one thing, we're really bad for the gut."

Throwing his heels behind him, the webhead allowed gravity to do the work for him. With the inertia building from the outstretched line, Spider-Man shot at Fish N' Chips with the velocity of a missile. Using less than the fraction of a second he had, the wall-crawler flipped through the air and lined the bottom of his heel directly for the creature's abdominal area. With his combined strength and the speed at which he was going, Peter had quietly done the equations in his head, reckoning that he'd hit zero G with enough force - at least, if the space hadn't been so enclosed.

C'mon, Spidey. This has to be enough.

The kick connected, and... nothing happened. The brute looked down at him, once again puzzled, watching the teenager bounce off its stomach and hit the pavement, equally as dumbfounded. It had felt like kicking a wall that refused to give, and hurt enough to cause the vigilante to question whether he had just broken his ankle. But his adrenaline was running too high to worry about it right now. Because by the time Spider-Man looked back up, the shark guy was on him, grabbing that same ankle and effortlessly hoisting him into the air. This was it, he thought - this was where he ended up eaten alive infront of a crowd of spectators. He wanted to panic and cry out, begging for his life, but he found himself unable to do anything. The fear had frozen him solid.

So whenever the creature made its next move, a tiny part of him felt relieved. One sniff of Spider-Man's body had caused his enemy to lose interest immediately. Whether it was simply because Peter had used too much AXE Body Spray that morning or that the shark guy could sense the bizarre cocktail of whatever rested in the blood flowing through his veins, the webslinger didn't know. But the shark guy simply shook its head, turned towards the fish market, and tossed him back inside like a frisbee.

Spider-Man went flying into a cardboard crab standee that read "ALWAYS FRESH!" and collided with a case of filleted salmon, causing tiny glass shards to explode everywhere and rip at a couple of spots of his costume. His head spinning, Spider-Man nevertheless grabbed at the edges of the case and pulled himself out, already feeling more battered than he ever had and now reeking of seafood - but still very much alive.

Well. Know one thing.

Hearing the screams from outside the building, Spider-Man shot upright and limped his way forward. Firing another pair of weblines at the gaping hole where an entrance used to be, the wall-crawler sighed to himself, arched his aching body back, and pulled again - launching himself right into the fray before anyone could enter the food chain in the worst way imaginable. He didn't know how, given that the creature was strong enough to withstand even a superhumanly charged hit, but he'd find a way to gain the advantage.

After all, how tough could a mega fish truly be?

I'm never eating calamari again.

Null

---

Rain battered the grimy rooftops as Commissioner Jim Gordon lit up another cigarette. His first year with the Bat had been tumultuous to say the least. What started as a hunt gradually grew into an uneasy partnership, one Jim couldn't say he was entirely happy with, but he'd come to the conclusion a long time ago it was much better to have the Dark Knight on his side rather than against him.

Still, Harvey Dent stirred something in Jim he hadn't felt since moving to Gotham all those years ago. Hope. For once someone wanted to make a change for the better in Gotham who wouldn't be corrupted by bribery - at least, not yet.

"Jim."

The hairs on the back of the Commissioner's neck stood on end as he whipped around to face the figure that had seemed to emerge as if from thin air from the shadows. Batman always made his entrances this way, impossibly quiet and sudden. Jim still hadn't got used to it, he wasn't sure he ever would.

He let out a sigh, breathing smoke into the air, removing the cigarette from his mouth between two fingers and scratching his forehead.
"You ever think about knocking, Batman? Maybe calling ahead?"

"You called me."

"Fair enough." Gordon tucked the cigarette back between his lips, the ember glowing faint in the rain. He spoke around it. "Things are shifting. Dent's making waves. The names he dropped today? Falcone, Cobblepot, Sionis? You could feel the ground shake in City Hall."

Batman stepped closer, the signal's light haloing the edges of his cowl. "You think he painted a target on himself."

"I think he just about painted the whole damn city red." Gordon muttered. He took a long drag, then flicked the butt off the ledge. "Word is, some of my cases are getting pulled. Detectives reassigned. Files vanishing. Not random stuff either - anything touching the construction yards, the unions, offshore money. Funny enough everything relating to Falcone."

Batman didn't laugh, his eyes narrowed. "Someone's shielding him. Who?"

"That's the problem." Gordon said, frustration evident in his voice. "It's not one name. It's like shadows shifting on a wall. Judges, aldermen, cops - it's coming from everywhere at once."

Batman's cape rippled as he leaned just a fraction forward. "Falcone hasn't had that kind of pull in years"

Gordon nodded. "Maybe he's found it again. Or maybe someone want's us to think he has."

Batman said nothing, but his silence was sharp enough to cut through the rain. A thousand names were going through his head, a thousand people to start interrogating to get his source.

"Either way," Gordon went on, "Dent's poked the hornet's nest. If Falcone really is building back his kingdom, then Dent just put himself at the top of the hit list. And if it's not Falcone..." He let the thought trail off.

Batman's cape rippled as he stepped back into the shadows. "Then whoever it is wants Dent out of the way just the same."

The Commissioner pulled in a slow breath, steadying himself. "So what's our play?"

"You keep Dent alive." Batman's voice was already fading into the night. "I'll find out who's really moving the pieces."

And just like that, he was gone. Only the signal's beam remained, stretching into stormclouds that smothered the sky. Gordon lit another cigarette with unsteady hands. For the first time in years, Gotham had a man willing to fight for it in the light of day. Which meant the city's shadows would fight all the harder to swallow him whole.

---

Eugene Carbone shook off the deluge of rain as he stepped into his small, messy flat. If his now ex-wife was still there to smell him she'd definitely have shouted at him to take a shower, and stop stinking the place up with the all encompassing smell of booze and cigarettes that surrounded him. He allowed himself a long drawn out sigh, he missed her nagging.

Opting to toss his still soaking coat onto his table, almost entirely covered in opened bill letters and various takeaway menu's that had been pushed through his letterbox, he then took a seat in his usual spot, on the stained armchair he had claimed as his throne, a beer in his hand as his sceptre and a tv for his jester.

He was flicking through channels mindlessly when a dark shadow cast over his space. Instinctively he began to glance around, looking everywhere until finally his searching landed on the window. A ghastly visage peered in toward him. Like a silhouette come to life with eyes that seemed to pierce through him.

He felt all the air escape his lungs as fight or flight took over - this time opting for the more sensible 'flight' option. Eugene fell sideways over his armchair, scrambling across the floor backwards until he felt his back clunk against the short partition between his living room and kitchen.

The figure was moving slowly and deliberatley, one long hooked finger sliding itself underneath his window and agonizingly pulling it up. It's darkness was filling the room as it glided in, it felt like everything around him was losing all its light. Gene had to move quickly, there was no way he could run from something like this.

He crawled to his feet as fast as he could, turning the corner of the partition and yanking open a kitchen drawer so fast it almost flew out from its housing. He rooted around inside for his pistol, and after finally gripping it in shaky hands he decided to grab a kitchen knife to be doubly safe.

Gene raised the pistol, and without warning began firing off round after round into the invader. It raised a jagged wing across its eyeline and the bullets seemed to crumple and fall to the floor as they collided with its form.

Soon he was out of ammo, and in a fit of hysteria opted to toss the pistol itself at the creature. It finally felt like his luck was turning, the metal collided against its wing and seemed to stagger it slightly, now was his chance - his chance to kill this demon and finally get some recognition in this town.

He charged at it with the kitchen knife like a knight charging a dragon. He mustered up what little courage he had left as he approached and raised the blade, before chopping it down toward it.

His luck was short lived. A hand shot out and grabbed his wrist, twisting it at the joint and forcing him to drop the knife, before another gripped him by the throat and pinned him against the wall.

"P-please, I don't know what you are or what you want, but it can't be me! I'm a loser, I'm a nobody!"

Its eyes narrowed, for a moment there was just silence, then its grip tightened around his throat.

"A nobody with Falcone's name on his pay slips."

Gene's eyes went wide, confusion bleeding into terror. He wheezed through the vice-like grip. "T-the union-contracts-dockside deals! I don't ask questions, I just sign what they tell me! It's not me, I swear, it's not me!"

Batman leaned closer, his presence suffocating, his eyes burning holes through Gene's excuses. The stench of stale beer and sweat clung to the man's clothes.

"Who is it then?"

"I-I don't-"

The grip tightened. Gene clawed at Batman’s gauntlet, coughing and sputtering.

"Name."

Finally, the dam burst. "Ralph Maroni! He runs the books for Dockworkers Local 27! He's the one! I just look the other way when the shipments come through! Please, that's all I know!" Batman's hand loosened just enough for Gene to suck in a ragged breath. His eyes brimmed with tears. "They said if I didn't keep quiet, I'd end up in the Gotham River. I swear, I don't want any part of it. I just...I just needed the paycheck. Please you gotta understand!"

The Dark Knight released him. Gene collapsed to the floor, clutching his throat, sobbing like a child. Batman stood over him, an obsidian monolith against the flickering glow of the TV.

"Stay quiet." Batman growled. "If I go to visit our mutual friend and find out you'd warned him before I get to him." He leaned close to Eugene. "You won't need to worry about Falcone, you'll answer to me." And just like that, he was gone. Back into the storm, leaving Gene trembling in his own filth.

---

"Honey, I'm home!" called Harvey in his exagerrated Jack Nicholson impression. Not one that would win any awards in any contest mind you, but one he insisted on doing whenever he got home after his fiance. Which, to tell the truth, was almost all of the time.

From the kitchen came the clink of plates and the faint smell of garlic and tomatoes. Gilda appeared in the doorway with a wooden spoon in her hand, her hair tied back, and a smile playing on her lips.
"You know," she teased, "For a man who makes a living speaking in front of juries, your impressions are truly awful."

"What can I say?" Harvey dropped his coat over the back of the nearest chair and spread his arms wide like a showman. "I'm a man of many talents and lying ain't one of them."

She shook her head, laughing under her breath as he crossed the room and kissed her on the cheek. The scent of wine and pasta sauce lingered in the air between them.
"Long day?" she asked softly.

"The longest." Harvey admitted, loosening his tie. His smile dimmed for a moment, the weight of City Hall still on his shoulders. "Dent versus Gotham City - it's a hell of a case. And an even better title for my autobiography."

Gilda reached up, brushing his cheek with her thumb. "Well, lucky for you, your jury here is much easier to sway. Dinner's almost ready. You sit, you eat, and for one night at least you don't have to save the whole world."

Harvey sank into his chair, the weariness momentarily lifting at the sound of her voice. For a fleeting moment, the crusade outside their walls didn't exist - no mobsters, no politicians, no masks. Just Harvey and Gilda, sharing a quiet night in a city that had precious few of them left.

But even as he smiled and watched her return to the kitchen, a flicker of unease crept at the edges of his mind. He knew what Gordon had warned him. He knew the names he'd spoken into the cameras earlier that week. And though he'd never admit it out loud, a part of him wondered if he'd just invited those shadows straight to their door.

Gilda slid a plate of pasta in front of him and sat opposite, his faltered smile strengthening yet again as he caught sight of her face. The two idly chatted for a while, drifting from the day’s grind into lighter talk — the sort of chatter you’d hear on every Gotham radio station.

Why, people asked, did New York get Spider-Man, Smallville the Blur...and Gotham, of all places, a creature of the night? A 'Bat Demon' some said. A violent vigilante, others spat.

Harvey laughed it off for her sake, but even here, in the quiet of their home, the Bat was never far from conversation.

"Oh! Harvey I almost forgot!" Gilda said, raising her hand to cover the social faux pas of speaking with her mouth full and pushing herself away from the table. She leaned back over the kitchen counter and grabbed a letter, accidentally staining the envelope with a thumbprint of pasta sauce. She giddily handed it to her partner and sat back down.

"Who's this from?" He asked.

"You won't believe this, Harv - Bruce Wayne!"

"Well it seems like Bruce Wayne's autograph these days is a marinara thumbprint. Exclusive club, Gil - we should be flattered"

She blushed. Harvey's energy shifted more towards suspicion than excitement. Whenever one of the uber wealthy came knocking for someone like him it usually came with strings attached. Wayne had been a recluse for years, only appearing in the papers just when you'd started to forget about him, doing some flashy photo op or making headlines at some fundraiser. The idea that Gotham's crown prince of excess was suddenly writing to him felt more like the set-up to a punchline than an opportunity.

Harvey slid a finger under the sauce-stained flap and tore it open. Inside was heavy cream cardstock embossed with Wayne's insignia - old money was practically pressed into the paper itself. He read aloud, tone dry:

"Mr. Dent, it would be my honor if you and your fiancée would attend a charitable gala hosted at Wayne Manor this Friday evening. Gotham's renewal must begin with the right voices, and yours has been among the loudest. I hope you will lend it to the night."

Gilda clasped her hands together. "See? That’s huge, Harvey. This is exactly what you need. People with money listening to you, not just the press. You could make a real impression."

Harvey set the card down and rubbed his jaw, caught between pride and caution. "Or I could walk straight into a room full of people who'd rather I disappear. Dent versus Gotham, remember? Most of those donors bankroll the same unions, construction sites, and backroom deals I’ve been rattling cages over. A dinner invitation doesn't erase that."

She tilted her head. "Maybe not. But it shows they can't ignore you anymore. Even the Wayne name is paying attention. And hey, I've never read anything about Bruce Wayne getting involved in any of that business."

He leaned back in his chair, staring at the invitation as though it were another case file, another puzzle to pick apart. The truth was, Bruce Wayne was a cipher. No one in Gotham could decide if he was an idiot playboy, a hidden genius, or just a spoiled heir who'd gotten lucky. That made him unpredictable - and Harvey hated unpredictable.

Still, Gilda's excitement was contagious. And if there was one thing Harvey Dent knew, it was that in Gotham, opportunities didn’t knock twice.

"I'll tell you what." He said, reaching into a pocket and pulling out a coin. "Heads we go, tails we stay at home and watch Poirot"

He flipped the coin into the air knowing full well the decision had been made even before he'd taken it from his pocket.

---

"Master Bruce, I think the first guests are arriving." Spoke Alfred, peeking a head through the door into Bruce's study.

Bruce didn't answer immediately. He sat in the half-dark of his study, the only real light in the room being provided by a projector flickering images along the back wall. Black-and-white film grain stuttered and danced: The Gray Ghost, Season 1, Episode 7: The Man in the Mirror. The hero's voice echoed through the room, gravelly yet theatrical:

"Justice isn’t about what they see in the light...it's about what they fear in the dark!"

The shot cut to the Grey Ghost walking through a burning alley, his silhouette dissolving into smoke. Bruce watched, unmoving. The tape whirred softly and then stopped.

It was the same episode he'd watched when he was twelve, the night before everything changed. Back then, it was comfort. Now, it was a reminder of why he did what he did. Why he had to avenge his parents tragic murder.

"Master Bruce?" Alfred called again, a touch louder this time. He flicked on the main light.

Bruce blinked, shielding his eyes with his forearm from the blinding light and shaking himself back into the present. "They're early?"

"Yes, sir. Quite early. Well, if you call being on time early, that is, which a lot of your richer friends seem to. They are nearly forty minutes before anyone else was expected. Shall I-"

Bruce was already standing, buttoning the jacket of his black suit and grabbing his overcoat from the desk nearby. "No. I'll go."

He clicked off the projector. The Grey Ghost vanished in a blink, swallowed by darkness. For a moment, he caught his own reflection in a long mirror mounted between two tall bookshelves - an antique thing, its reflection warped and freckled with age. His outline wavered in the dim light, splitting him in two, one half swallowed by shadow, the other faintly illuminated by the dying glow of the projector. Pale, tired eyes stared back from both sides.

The manor's halls were cavernous and silent as he descended, the sound of his footsteps swallowed by marble and shadow. Outside, the first rumble of thunder rolled somewhere over the Gotham skyline. By the time Alfred reached the door to open it, Bruce was already there. He hesitated for half a second before pulling the handle himself.

Through the drizzle and of the early evening, a single black sedan idled at the foot of the steps. The doors opened and out stepped Harvey Dent, sharp suit, polished shoes, his arm linked with Gilda's.

Bruce was already waiting for them, flanked by two pristine, black, vintage cars and standing in front of what looked more like a fortress than a home. Harvey had seen places like this before, solitary refuges for those with too much money. For Gilda, however, this was like seeing Hogwarts for the first time.



Dent smiled up at him, every inch the public servant. "Mr. Wayne! Hope we're not interrupting - seems we're the first to arrive."

Bruce's eyes widened slightly. Then, a faint but sincere smile broke the usual stone of his expression. "On time, actually. That might make you the rarest guest of the evening, Mr. Dent." He stepped forward, extending a hand. "I'm glad you came. Both of you."

Harvey shook his hand firmly, the rain flecking both their sleeves. Gilda beamed, taking in the sight of the manor up close, all gothic arches and warm light spilling from tall windows.

Bruce caught her awe with a brief chuckle. "I keep telling Alfred we should rent the place out for films. He says it would ruin the mystery."

"Seems you'd make a fine leading man." Gilda replied with a smile.

Bruce glanced away with polite modesty. "I don’t think anyone's ready for that performance. I don't think any fortune teller sees an Oscar in my future." He gestured toward the open doorway. "Please, come in. Alfred's just finishing the first round of drinks, and there's a fire going in the west hall. You'll have the pick of seats before the crowd starts pretending to like each other."

That earned a laugh from Harvey. "That's politics in a nutshell, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce nodded knowingly. "Please, call me, Bruce."

As they stepped through the grand doorway, thunder rolled again in the distance, a reminder that outside the manor's warmth, Gotham was still Gotham. But for now, inside, the night was meant for charm, for alliances, for pretending that something like renewal could still exist in a city that had long since forgotten how.

The three took a seat by the fire. To tell the truth, Bruce was both glad and anxious about them arriving early. He'd wanted to chat to them, but in all honesty he'd always liked the escape these big parties afforded him, being able to sidle out of a conversation under the guise of having to talk to an old friend always lent him an air of security in social situations. After a brief chattering of small talk, Harvey, in his usual way, cut to what the really wanted to talk about.

"So, Bruce. You've got to tell me what this is all about. It's not so often that a small town kid from the Narrows like me gets an invitation from Gotham's favourite son."

Bruce gave a small, self-deprecating laugh. "I don't know about favorite. Depends which paper you read." He leaned back slightly, the firelight glinting off the glass of his tumbler. "Truth is, Harvey, Gotham's been bleeding for a long time. I thought maybe tonight we could stop the city from eating itself for five minutes."

"Five minutes is generous." Harvey said, half-smiling. "Most of my meetings don't make it past three before someone mentions campaign funding or the Falcone name."

Bruce's eyes flicked toward the flames. "That's exactly the problem. You're fighting uphill against a system that's decided corruption is more comfortable than change."

There was a surprising weight to the words tha tumbled from Bruce's mouth. Gilda noticed it first, the hint of conviction that didn't sound like a bored billionaire at all. Harvey remained suspicious, but something about the man in front of him struck him as different from the rest.

"And what about you?" Gilda asked "What makes you think they'll listen tonight?"

Bruce looked between them, the faintest trace of a smile crossing his lips. "They won't, not really. But they'll pretend to. And sometimes, that's the opening you need." He stood, moving toward the mantel to pour himself another drink. "If you can plant one honest voice in a room full of liars, you've already changed the tone of the conversation."

Harvey chuckled, though his expression softened. "You make it sound almost noble, Bruce."

Bruce swirled the drink in his glass. "Maybe I'm just nostalgic. My father used to host nights like this; doctors, lawyers, councilmen - people who believed Gotham could heal itself. Somewhere along the way, those dinners turned into galas, and those ideals turned into talking points."

"Then maybe tonight's about turning back the clock." Harvey said.

Bruce glanced at him, something like approval flickering behind his usual calm. "Maybe it is. Or maybe it's about making our own. Things might have felt a bit more classy in my fathers day, but god knows it was just as corrupt."

A crack of thunder outside drew all their attention for a moment, shaking the tall windows. Alfred appeared discreetly in the doorway, ever-polished.

"Sir, the first wave of guests are arriving. The district commissioner, Mr. Cobblepot, and...the Vale delegation."

Bruce set his glass down and exhaled through his nose. "And there goes the quiet part of the evening."

Harvey stood, buttoning his jacket. "Guess the real show's starting."

Harvey adjusted his tie, glancing toward the tall doors where the sound of voices and umbrellas shaking off rain began to filter through. "Tell me something, Bruce." He said, a look of serious reservation crossing his eyeline. "Why the hell is Cobblepot on the guest list? I thought this was a renewal gala, not a parade for racketeers."

Bruce swirled his drink around. "He owns half the waterfront. The Gotham Renewal Initiative needs those docks to move materials in and out of the Narrows. If he feels excluded, he'll make it harder for us."

"Right..." Harvey muttered. "Wouldn't want to upset the legitimate businessman who launders money through ice sculptures and champagne towers."

Alfred cleared his throat softly. "Master Wayne did express reservations, Mr. Dent. But the guest list was strongly encouraged by the Mayor’s office."

"Meaning Falcone." Harvey said.

Bruce didn't deny it. He turned toward the window instead, watching the city lights smear against the rain-streaked glass as he took a sip of whiskey. "Meaning politics." he said at last. "And tonight, that's what this is, all performance."

Harvey gave a humorless chuckle. "Performance, huh? Let's hope the audience doesn't start shooting."

Bruce met his eyes. "Harvey, I don't like this anymore than you do. But I can assure you I've been nothing but truthful with you. You have my full support. The world's a stage, let's make sure Cobblepot makes a quick exit stage left."

A beat passed. The doors at the far end of the hall opened wider, and the noise of arrival - laughter, camera flashes, umbrellas, the metallic clink of catering trays spilled in.

Alfred glanced between them. "Shall I announce you, sir?"

Bruce drew in a slow breath, setting the glass aside. "No," he said. "Let them find me."

Harvey smirked faintly. "Still allergic to attention?"

"Only the wrong kind." Bruce replied. Then he straightened his cuffs and nodded toward the ballroom. "Come on, Harvey. Let's see how deep this rot goes tonight."

As the trio disappeared into the growing hum of the gala, the noise of champagne laughter and jazz echoing off marble the storm outside deepened, lightning briefly illuminating the manor's windows.

---

The first deal wasn't supposed to be anything big. Just a favor. Just a one-off so he could get enough money to buy a roof over his head and get a normal job. That's what Max Cole kept telling himself, anyway.

The rain hadn't stopped in three days, and the Narrows stank of rust and runoff. He waited under the awning of a half-collapsed laundromat, clutching a duffel bag like it was his last posession in the whole world. A flickering neon sign buzzed overhead, casting sickly blue light across the puddles.

He checked his phone again, a message from Rico, the guy who set this up and found him in that alleyway.

"Don't talk too much. Don't look nervous. They'll know you're new if you do. Don't fuck this up, kid."

He looked nervous. The sound of an old sedan rolling up over cracked asphalt cut through the rain. A dark-haired man stepped out, wrapped in a cheap parka, a cigarette already burning. Behind him, one other figure stayed in the car. No one said a word. The man, mid-thirties, worn face, eyes like a rats stared down at the teenager.

"Cole?"

Max swallowed. "Yeah."

"You got it?"

He unzipped the duffel, revealing neat stacks of tiny glass vials. Green tint, stamped with a little penguin emblem, a quiet signature for the Iceberg Lounge's newest side business. It wasn't coke or heroin, not exactly, a designer compound the club was moving through construction crews and dock workers.

The man whistled staring at the vials. "You must really trust Rico, huh?"

"I don't trust anybody." Max said, the words almost coming out too fsat.

That earned him a grin. The rat faced man looked back to his accomplice in the car. The man grabbed for the duffel bag.

"Alright kid, hand it over."

Max gripped onto the bag. "Money first."

Another laugh. "Yeah, yeah kid, I already squared it with Rico. Give me the stuff."

Max felt a rush of anxiety and energy course through him. This felt wrong. The situation as a whole, but also what the man was saying. A thousand possibilities rushed through his head and all of them ended in death. Confronting this guy was dangerous, but something within him said that returning empty handed would be even worse.

Almost instinctively he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a switchblade, flicking it open and pointing it an inch away from the man's chest.

"Woah, woah, kid! Let's not do anything hasty. You hand over the bag and I'll forget about all of thi-"

"Give me the fucking money."

"Come on kid, stop playing around."

Something primal took over Max, he moved like a panther, quickly lowering the knife and sliding it along the top of the mans hand. He let out a pained yell as crimson began to pour out and hit the floor.

"Jesus christ, kid what are you doing?!"

Max approached him once more, pointing the knife at his throat as his other hand held the bag behind him.

"Give me the money now." The man breathlessly nodded and called for the assailant in the car to do so. He threw a suitcase over which slid along the ground, stopping just at Max's feet. "Now tell your friend to get the fuck out of here. I ain't taking any chances." He snatched the briefcase up, fingers slick with rain and a smear of the man#s blood. The rat-faced man staggered back, clutching his hand, eyes wild with a mix of fury and fear.

"Run." Max hissed, the word ripping out of him with more authority and confidence than he'd felt in his whole life. It felt like a rush.

The man in the car gunned the engine and peeled away without looking back. Behind him, the rat-faced man sank to the curb, kneading his hand where the blade had nicked tendons and nerves. He spat at Max, a wet, red arc, then turned and limped after his partner, cursing under his breath.

Max stood for a long moment in the neon gutter, the rain washing away the blood and the suitcase heavy like a weight in his hands. The adrenaline thudded through his chest like a second heartbeat. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to vomit. He wanted to run home and never leave again.

Instead he ducked into the shadow of the laundromat, palms shaking, and counted out the bills in the suitcase. Not much by any big players standards, enough for a month's rent in a run-down room and maybe a few weeks of food, but to Max it felt like he'd claimed the holy grail.

A message from Rico blinked across his phone. "How'd it go, Max?"

He jammed the phone into his pocket and slid the duffel under his arm. Every step toward the Narrows felt louder. People moved past him under umbrellas, wrapped in their own dramas, oblivious to the small violence that had just sputtered into the gutters.

By the time he reached the tenement he'd been calling home on Rico's dime, the city's neon bled into the grime of his entryway. He climbed the narrow stairs two at a time, the suitcase thumping against his knee, and pushed open the door to his cramped room.

His heart finally began to slow when he thumbed through the bills again, then set them into an envelope and slid it beneath the floorboard where he kept the last of his keepsakes: an old photograph of his mother, a bus token, a school badge that had long since been bent and scrubbed of color.

He sat on the edge of the bed and let the rain drum out its rhythm against the window. His hands trembled, part with shock and part with a private, ugly thrill. He'd done it. He#d stepped over a line, and for the first time in his life, the world felt quieter, not safer, but quieter, as if something had finally answered him.

Somewhere in the building a radio murmured late-night talk, a man arguing about law and order and whether kids these days had any spine. Max turned the radio off. He lay back and stared at the ceiling, listening to his breathing and the distant hum of the city.

For a moment, he allowed himself a fantasy. Take the money and run. Get out of Gotham, go to Metropolis, to New York. Start a new life. He shook such thoughts out of his head. Fantasys weren't for people like him, they were for people that mattered

Before sleep could take him, he pulled the duffel close and unzipped a corner, fingers brushing the vials tucked inside. He didn't touch them. He only stared, and for the first time he imagined what they would mean for other people, how a single dose could fracture a life, how the shipments sliding through the docks could bleed the neighborhood dry.

His resolve hardened into something raw and dangerous. He'd taken the money. He'd kept the product moving. He'd become a piece in a machine far bigger than him. But he wasn't going to be a feedbag forever.

Tomorrow, he told himself, he'd meet Rico and quit. He'd find honest work. He'd keep his head down. He'd lie to himself again, and again.

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