Sofia watched a bead of sweat roll down her driver's neck. He was tense. He was never tense. Her brother had cruelly given him the nickname 'The Penguin' because of a weak leg that made him wobble like a penguin when he walked, and Sofia had always hated it, had always shouted at him till her ears rang and her cheeks turned hot whenever he said it. It was the pain of watching the insult sink into poor Oswald's face, watching the pain color his face in a color that she couldn't describe, sinking below the rough skin and those sad eyes into a place deep in his heart where he stowed away all the horrible insults that had been thrown at him in his hard life.
She had been thinking about that man she'd met at the company dinner, who'd given her his card. Dark-haired, built like a titan, his body eclipsing everything around it. When he began talking to someone, he knew they'd only be talking to him.
"I used to be a reporter once, and in my long career, I have never reported on a charity event hosted by the Falcones," he said, a playful smile reaching into his cheekbones, angled like a sculpture, smooth as marble.
"It's a new concept to us. You know, what with us being a crime family and all," Sofia shot back, seeing if the mention of her family's illicit origins would make him uncomfortable.
It didn't.
It seemed to intrigue him even more.
"Lois said you talked to your father about the... about the killings in his territory," he said, leaning in, his voice so soft it brushed against her ears like silken pillows.
"Of course. I'm not just an activist for show," she said, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper too, basking in the warmth of his shadow.
"Your father mustn't have liked that very much." He was suddenly serious. Concerned. Their eyes were locked in a strange, sweaty wrestling match, and neither of them wanted to stop wrestling. Her, taking in his dark pupils, framed by his glasses and his eyelashes. Him, drinking in her moon-shaped eyes, deep and lovely, perched atop her dark, curving eyeliner.
"Spot-on. Shouted at me, hissed at me, even slipped in a few threats here and there," she spoke, slowly, seriously, for she couldn't muster up her playfulness when she was busy looking into his eyes. Had she stepped closer to him? She could almost smell his hair now.
"Did that scare you?" he asked. Such an innocent question, it made her heart drop.
"No, it didn't scare me," she answered, gently, as though she was convincing a child.
"It didn't scare you that a man didn't give you what you wanted for the first time in your life?"
"You're very funny... mister...?" she trailed off, stepping closer to him, stepping closer to the warmth of his chest.
"Clark. Clark Kent," he whispered into her ear. It was their little secret.
"And how do you know my friend Lois?" she asked, smiling, a finger trailing on his shoulder. She had him.
"She's my girlfriend," he said, that playful smile spreading over his face again like a bat.
A bolt of embarrassment shot through Sofia like a bullet. For a second, she almost couldn't breathe. She looked at Clark, unfazed as ever, standing over her, blocking the light from the chandelier, bathing her in the perfume he had worn and the perfume of his skin. Was he one of those obliviously charming types? Or did he know what he was doing?
Before she could think about it too much, Clark had given her his card - Clark Kent, defense lawyer at Kent & Lane.
"If you get into any trouble, Sofia. You're from a crime family, you should try doing some crime one of these days," he said, giving her a wink before retreating into the crowd.
The car grinded to a halt. Oswald's neck glistened with sweat.
"Oz? You okay?"
Oswald wouldn't face her.
"Oz?"
His hands fiddled with something. Sofia leaned over to ask him what he was doing, and then his hand flashed towards her chest, and the syringe went in so quickly that she hardly felt the pain, and then the sensation of it within her vanished too as she tumbled into unconsciousness.
When she woke up, the car was dark and hot, and she was covered with sweat.
"Oz?"
She rolled down the windows, and a breeze swept through the car, cooling her skin and stirring the stench of something horrible, something that made Sofia gag. In the darkness, she couldn't even find her phone - it was like she had been left for dead in a void.
"Oz?", she called out again. She heard the rustling of leaves. And then she was hit with a blinding flash of light, sirens erupting into life, and she wasn't sure if it was the red lights or whether there was actually blood on her hands, and as the police dragged her out of the car, she saw a body slump over in the seat beside her, head covered in a bloody sack, the press ID card falling out of the car and hitting the floor.
"Sofia Falcone..."
She already knew what her father had done to her as the policewoman shoved her up against that car and handcuffed her.
"You are under arrest..."
Father had actually done it. Father had actually done what he had threatened to do.
"for murder..."
"Whose murder?" she asked, trembling.
"Too many to remember, sweetheart," the policewoman said, before hurling her into the backseat of the police car.
The journey was a blur. Gotham's streets played stage to the shock, the disbelief that raged in her head. Her head rang as a crowd of paid reporters surrounded her, assaulted her with questions as they walked her into the station. They plopped her down in a room with a broken air-conditioner and fifteen policemen who had all been paid to pretend like she was a real threat, eyeing her with mock suspicion as though she could reach over and put a pencil in their necks anytime she wanted, the insane lady, the 'hangman', as Gotham was calling her. Months later, Sofia would find out that it was her father himself who had come up with that name, casually rattling it off the top of his head to some influencer on the web who could make the nickname famous within the span of minutes, dehumanizing her, reducing her to the demon that he wanted everyone to see her as. She was no longer Sofia Falcone, young, beautiful heiress to the Falcone throne. She was the Hangman. Murderer. The Ice Queen of Gotham.
"I need to make a phone call," she said to the policeman who stood beside her. He seemed younger than her, and his hands never left the gun as he answered her.
"What does the hangman need a phone for? You can't make a noose out of a cordless phone, ma'am," he said, pausing for laughter but only receiving silence from the senior policemen. He shot her a look of annoyance, as though it was her fault that his joke had crashed and burned.
"It's my rights, dickhead. Get me a goddamn phone," she snapped. She did not have the energy to deal with insensitive idiots right now.
"Ernst, get the lady a phone. Like it matters," an older policeman in the room said, rolling his eyes. Ernst scowled at her again, and was back in a few minutes with a phone.
She reached into the pocket of her jacket and took out Clark's business card. After punching in his number, the line connected almost immediately.
"Clark?"
"Who is this." His voice had none of the playfulness she had heard only a few hours ago. It dripped with venom, with an anger that seemed to belong to a god. She was struck with the irrational fear that he could simply reach through the phone and snap her like a twig. Lips trembling, she struggled to cobble together a sentence.
"Clark... this is Sofia. From the fundraiser. I'm..." Her voice broke as she began to truly take in the situation. The misted glass of the holding room. The unstopping flashing of sirens outside the window, and the reporters banging against the glass. The policemen, all with their hands on the guns in their belt, eyes trained on her.
"I'm in some serious trouble," she said, breaking into sobs.
There was silence on the other line. For how long, Sofia couldn't tell, but she'd almost begun to think he had hung up when his voice finally came through, loud and filled with so much rage that the signal began to crackle and explode like it had been set aflame.
"You... you... you killed her."
"They're lying, Clark. I need you to-"
"YOU KILLED HER! YOU TOOK MY LOIS! SHE SAID SHE WAS LEAVING TO MEET YOU, AND NOW SHE'S DEAD!" he screamed. Sofia's brain turned to mulch inside her skull.
"W...what? What? What?" she repeated, horrified, unable to think, unable to say anything else. The body in the car. The press ID card. Oh no. Oh god.
"THEY FOUND HER IN A CAR WITH YOU! STRANGLED..." he had to stop take a breath. "STRANGLED TO DEATH! JUST LIKE THOSE OTHER WOMEN WHO WERE MURDERED IN YOUR TERRITORIES!"
"Clark. Clark. Please listen to me-"
"And you have the audacity... to call me? And ask me for help? Is this some kind of sick, twisted mind game, you... you... disgust me."
"Clark."
"I expected nothing less from the Falcone family. A family of monsters."
And then the line disconnected.
The receiver clattered to the floor.
For a few minutes, the only sound was that of the screaming inside her head. Then, the sound of something gently tapping against the floor. Tap tap tap. Like the sound of the raindrops pattering on the roof of the manor in the monsoon. Tap tap tap. She was too exhausted to be curious. To look for the source. She looked down at the floor, watching a pool of tears begin to gather around the receiver. And then a black suit emerged into the pool's reflection, and then two glowing red lenses.
"Good evening, Ms. Falcone."
Sofia looked up.
"My name is Matt Murdock, and I'm your assigned public defender."
She gazed deep into those red lenses, tinted the colour of blood, and a smile that seemed to hide a whole other life beneath it.