The night in Gotham never truly changes. It is a city of shadows and illusions, where neon lights glimmer over cracked sidewalks and rain-soaked streets, masking the filth that festers beneath. Towering skyscrapers in the heart of downtown house lavish restaurants and nightclubs, their glass exteriors reflecting the artificial glow of a metropolis that refuses to sleep. Inside, the wealthy indulge in excess, drinking wine that costs more than a laborer's monthly wage and feasting on delicacies whose names most people have never heard.
To them, Gotham is a playground—an endless source of pleasure, power, and indulgence. A place where fortunes are spent on fleeting desires, whether in the arms of a young companion or at the high-stakes tables of a casino where the house always wins.
But only a few streets away, hidden behind alleyways that reek of damp asphalt and despair, the true Gotham emerges. There, gunfire erupts without warning. There, desperate screams are swallowed by the darkness. There, crime is not a mere act but a way of life.
Gotham is a city where sin reigns unchecked, where the unimaginable is commonplace. No crime is too strange, no criminal too outlandish. The city serves as a living museum of modern villainy, a twisted exhibit of humanity's worst impulses.
The balance between chaos and order is precarious, forever shifting in the hands of those who dare to seize it. Law and anarchy do not stand apart but rather intertwine like the roots of an ancient tree, so tangled that one cannot be removed without destroying the other. The concept of justice here is fluid, and the idea of morality exists in shades of gray.
For thirty years, James Gordon has known this truth better than most.
He started as a detective, hunting down killers in blood-streaked alleyways, climbing the ranks through perseverance and grit until, at last, he wore the badge of Commissioner. But Gotham has never made things easy for men like him.
The city is not just corrupt; it is woven from corruption itself. Mayors dine in the infamous Iceberg Lounge, exchanging deals over fine whiskey with the likes of Oswald Cobblepot. Senators whisper secrets to the Scarecrow in exchange for experimental drugs from Arkham's vaults. Judges take their orders from crime lords like Two-Face, while Black Mask operates drug factories under the guise of chemical plants funded by the Gotham Institute.
Gordon has lived with the certainty that his survival in this city is not due to luck or skill alone. No, his continued existence is owed to something else entirely—something lurking in the darkness behind him.
A shadow.
A legend.
A force that moves unseen, striking like vengeance itself.
Batwoman.
She is the fear that keeps criminals awake at night, the nightmare that whispers through Gotham's underworld. She exists where the law falters, where justice fails. When the police are too restrained, when the law is too slow, when the powerful shield the wicked—she steps in.
Many have tried to kill Gordon over the years. Assassins, mobsters, dirty cops. Yet each time, before the final blow could land, a woman in a dark cowl would intervene, leaving his would-be murderers broken and afraid.
Fear.
That is what she instills in the hearts of those who thrive in darkness. Not justice. Not hope.
Pure, unrelenting fear.
Gordon was still just a captain when she first appeared. He had resisted the idea of a masked vigilante prowling his city, believing order could only come through lawful means.
"I can't just take your word for it that you're on our side," he had told her once. "I need to see that what you're doing is actually helping Gotham—not just making it worse."
Back then, Gotham was ruled by men like Carmine Falcone, whose empire stretched across the city like a spider's web. The police department was riddled with corruption, half the force in the pockets of crime families. Drugs, smuggling, arms dealing, human trafficking—every vice had its price, and the highest bidders walked free.
Gordon had fought to bring them down, but the system resisted. Judges dismissed cases. Evidence disappeared. Witnesses turned up dead.
And then she came.
Batwoman hunted down the untouchables. She forced confessions from men who believed themselves above the law, tore apart networks that had stood for generations. When Gordon finally had the chance to face Falcone in a courtroom, the crime lord's empire was already in ruins.
The sun had risen on Gotham that day—if only for a moment.
From then on, Gordon no longer fought her. He let her work in the shadows, knowing that her presence, however unsettling, had become necessary.
Of course, he could never admit it publicly.
"Captain Gordon, we have reports that a mysterious woman in a bat costume took down the bank robbers last night. Does the police department have any comment on this?"
The reporters swarmed him outside the precinct, microphones shoved toward his face as cameras flashed. He stood beside the police van, escorting a handcuffed suspect inside.
"Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous," Gordon said with practiced ease, straightening his tie. "Gotham has never had any so-called 'Batwoman.'"
"But we have video evidence!" one journalist pressed.
"Fakes. Forgeries," he countered without hesitation. "On behalf of the Gotham City Police Department, I express serious concern over these rumors and strongly condemn them."
And then, later that night, he would slip away to the rooftop utility room, switch on an untraceable line, and sigh into the receiver.
"Could you at least avoid the surveillance cameras next time?"
She had been careful back then. But as the years passed, Gotham's legend of the Bat grew—and with it, so did her enemies.
Unfortunately, not all of them wore masks for noble reasons.
Her presence inspired more than just fear. It also drew out madness. Soon, the crimes in Gotham escalated beyond mere robberies and homicides.
A nuclear bomb hidden in the city just to test her resolve. A hostage crisis designed as an elaborate game.
The line between hero and villain blurred until Gotham's very soul seemed to teeter on the edge of insanity.
And then, she arrived.
No one knew where she had come from. Only that she had a face painted like a porcelain doll, lips stretched into a crimson smile that never faltered. Long green hair cascaded over her shoulders, framing eyes that burned with something beyond mere cruelty—something closer to glee.
She carved her mark upon the city in blood, laughing as she did it.
And worse, she made Gotham laugh with her.
No more fear. No more worries. No more morality.
Just chaos.
Madness took root in the city, spreading like wildfire. Those who had once cowered in the shadows found themselves emboldened by her presence, inspired by her twisted philosophy. And Gotham, already teetering, finally began to tip.
Her rivalry with Batwoman consumed the city. Again and again, she was captured, locked away in Arkham Asylum—only to escape each time, as if the walls of the madhouse were mere formalities.
Until, six months ago, she went too far.
Barbara Gordon had never been a target. She was just a daughter. An innocent.
But during one of the Jester's 'games,' a stray bullet shattered her spine.
Gordon had wanted to end it then. To put a bullet between that grinning woman's eyes and be done with it. But Batwoman had stopped him.
"Don't let her win," she had said. "Don't become her."
And so, the Jester had been sent back to Arkham.
Where she would never be cured.
Because no doctor in Gotham dared to try anymore.
The last one had fallen in love with her.
And the city would never be the same again .