Chief James Gordon had always been a man of memory. It was a necessity in his line of work—every case, every face, every crime scene burned into his mind, forming a tapestry of Gotham's tragedies. Tonight, however, his thoughts were consumed by the events of the past week as he drove through the storm-lashed streets, the wipers struggling to keep up with the relentless downpour.
The road from Arkham Island to the Gotham City Police Department was a treacherous one. Not only did it weave through a network of aging bridges and dimly lit tunnels, but the districts it cut through were some of the most dangerous in the city. Criminal factions carved their territories out of these decaying streets like warlords, and of them, the most unpredictable remained Two-Face and her gang.
Using the law as a weapon against crime had always been a precarious game, but with someone like Two-Face—who not only knew the law but had once been one of its fiercest champions—justice felt like a gamble. Harvey Dent had been Gotham's rising star before madness claimed her, a brilliant prosecutor with an unwavering sense of right and wrong. But now? Now she wielded her knowledge of legal loopholes like a blade, slipping through the cracks of the very system she once upheld. Even when Batman managed to drag her into custody, she was released on parole before the ink on the paperwork had dried.
Batman couldn't testify against her. There were no reliable witnesses, only fragments of evidence, never enough to hold her for long. She was careful, calculating. Every crime she committed was one that could not be cleanly pinned to her. And of course, in Gotham, money could wash away even the most damning of sins.
Since Batman's departure, Gordon had been on high alert, but for months, nothing substantial happened—until last week.
That was when the calls started. Citizens, frantic and breathless, reporting that the circus had mobilized in full force, sweeping through the streets in an orgy of fire and violence. He had seen it before, and every time, it heralded the return of the Jester.
Gordon wasted no time. He deployed officers to quell the chaos while he drove straight to Arkham, expecting to find its most infamous inmate missing. Instead, when he arrived at the asylum, passing through layers of reinforced security, he found her right where she was supposed to be.
The Jester sat on the cold floor of her cell, a napkin tucked into her collar like a dinner guest at a fine restaurant. In her hands, a plastic knife and fork gleamed under the flickering fluorescent lights. Her meal? A roasted rat, impaled on the end of her fork as she took delicate, deliberate bites. She chewed with a grin, meeting Gordon's gaze through the thick bulletproof glass as though he were the punchline to some private joke.
There was nothing to say. Nothing worth saying.
He ensured that the locks were secure and left without a word, returning to the city still burning under the circus's rampage. But he did not let his guard down. Something felt wrong—off-kilter.
From that night onward, he made it a habit to visit Arkham daily. To see with his own eyes that the Jester was still there, that she had not slipped free of her cage.
Yet even with the Bat-Signal blazing atop the precinct like a silent guardian, Gotham knew the truth. The bats were gone. And in their absence, the wolves roamed free.
Tonight's visit had been no different. Gordon had stood outside her cell in silence, watching as she scrawled something across the floor with a piece of chalk. Her movements were erratic, frenetic—she would pause, giggle to herself, then add another line, as if every stroke were part of some grand design. At one point, she stopped entirely, head snapping up as if struck by revelation, and then burst into a fit of laughter that rattled through the asylum's halls.
It made his blood boil.
Yes, he hated her. Every fiber of his being wanted to march into that cell and put an end to her madness. He had thought of it countless times—of pulling the trigger, of finally silencing her—but that was not who he was. That was not who he could become.
He was a policeman. A man of law and order. And the law, flawed as it was, deemed her legally immune due to her insanity.
Perhaps, one day, Gotham's council would finally recognize the monstrosities they had granted immunity to. Perhaps they would revoke that protection, open the doors of Blackgate to those who had long deserved the electric chair.
If that day came, Gordon would volunteer to throw the switch himself.
But until then, he remained shackled by the very system he had sworn to uphold.
Tonight, he had lingered at the station later than usual. A ninja had reportedly been sighted in the city, assaulting an unknown target. For the better part of the evening, he had been chasing the lead, but the damn rain had washed away any traces. Even the K9 units had come up empty.
Now, past midnight, he needed to head home and pick up Barbara. Maybe stop by the gas station for some late-night coffee and donuts. But in this weather, even the fast-food joints might have closed.
The rain beat against the windshield in relentless waves, obscuring the road ahead. The wipers worked furiously, but visibility remained poor. It was a strange feeling—driving through a world blurred by shadows and water.
He turned on the radio to break the monotony, but after only a few minutes, he shut it off. The sharp, excitable voice of the Gotham Radio announcer had always unsettled him. There was something about her manic energy, the way she reveled in Gotham's miseries…
One day, he thought, I should look into her.
He had long suspected she was tied to the circus in some way.
As the lonely drive dragged on, Gordon's mind wandered. Barbara. His daughter, once so full of life, now confined to a wheelchair. She remained kind, beautiful, and stronger than most, but the world was cruel to those with limitations. Would she find someone who truly saw her beyond her injury? Would Gotham ever offer her the future she deserved?
Batman had once told him there might be a way to heal her spinal nerves. But what was it?
And what was the danger the Bat had warned of before disappearing?
The circus had made its move. And now, the League of Shadows had returned. What was coming next?
The questions circled his mind as he pushed forward through the downpour. His headlights barely cut through the rain, but just as he turned a corner, his breath caught in his throat.
A body.
Lying motionless on the side of the road.
Even through the rain's haze, he could tell the figure was wearing something unusual. Something wrong.
He slowed the car, scanning the surroundings. The nearby buildings were dark, their doors sealed tight. The people of Gotham had long since learned to mind their own business. A person lying on the roadside could be a trap—or simply another casualty of the city.
There were many ways to die in Gotham.
Exposure. Starvation. Overdose. Murder.
And then there were the corpse collectors—those who profited off the dead, scavenging bodies for whatever could be sold.
Gordon still remembered last winter. Batgirl had led him to that factory. The one turning human flesh into sausages for Gotham's elite restaurants. The demand had been staggering.
To this day, he refused to eat sausage.
And now, as he stared at the fallen figure through the storm, a cold dread settled over him.
Who was this?
And more importantly—was he already too late?