Chapter Text
The storm that night was a patient, brooding presence over the manor. It didn't howl, much as it murmured against the old leaded glass, the rain a constant, hushed sibilance. To Tim, the noise was a blessing. It masked the sound of his own breathing, the soft creak of the floorboards under his socks as he moved away from the warm, inhabited wing of the house.
He passed through the portrait gallery. The faces of long-dead Waynes watched him from their gilded frames, their painted eyes seeming to hold a silent, ancestral disapproval. Alfred’s voice was echoed in his mind. “The east wing’s foundations are unsound, Master Timothy. It is not a place for exploration.”
But “unsound foundations” didn’t explain the other things. The way the staff would fall silent when he entered a room, the fragments of whispers about lights turning on-and-off on their own and sightings of a specter pacing down the hall. It was statistically improbable, of course. Hauntings were, without exception, the product of environmental factors and psychological suggestion. He was Robin. He dealt in the tangible—ballistics, forensics, the very real monsters that prowled Gotham’s streets.
Yet, the pull was undeniable. This was his home now, his territory. To be Robin was to be fearless, to confront the darkness head-on, even the darkness within one's own walls. He needed to know its corners, its secrets. He needed to prove, if only to himself, that he wasn't just a boy playing dress-up in a cave.
He stepped under the stone archway into the east wing, and the world changed. The storm became a distant memory. Here, the silence was a physical thing, thick and swallowing. His flashlight beam cut a swath through the oppressive dark, illuminating swirling galaxies of dust.
Dust accumulation consistent with long-term neglect, his mind catalogued automatically. Floorboards, original oak, subject to thermal expansion. The audible stress is a predictable result of—
Creeeak.
He froze. That wasn't his footstep.
The sound had come from a room at the end of the hall, its door ajar, revealing a maw of deeper blackness. Tim’s heart stuttered against his ribs. Evidence, he told himself, his internal voice sounding thin and reedy. Fact. A loose shutter. Wind pressure differential.
He forced himself forward, one deliberate step after another. His grip on the flashlight was slick with sweat.
A shape peeled itself from the blackness of the doorway. It was tall, its movement a stiff, jerking marionette of a walk. Tim’s breath hitched. He raised the flashlight, the trembling circle of light crawling up a dark form until it landed on a face.
And every ounce of his rational mind, every carefully constructed theorem of courage, shattered.
He screamed.
The face was a horror of ravaged flesh. One eye was a milky, bulging orb; the skin around it a grotesque tapestry of melted tissue, pulled into a permanent, skeletal sneer. It was a visage of pure, unadulterated violence, a thing from a medical textbook or a nightmare.
Panic, cold and absolute, flooded his veins. He spun and ran, his training forgotten, his dignity abandoned. He was just a boy, fleeing a monster. He didn't stop until he burst into his room, slamming the door and throwing the bolt. He stood there, back pressed against the solid wood, his entire body trembling, listening for the sound of pursuit.
There was nothing. Only the frantic drum of his own heart.
The logical part of him knew it had been solid, physical. But the image seared behind his eyes was not of a man. It was a ghost-story given form.
His first, shameful instinct was to call for Dick. But Dick was gone, building his own life in Blüdhaven. To go to Alfred was to confess his disobedience, to see the quiet disappointment in the old man’s eyes. And Bruce… Bruce had given him the mantle. He expected a partner, disciplined and brave. Not a child scared of the dark. The thought of Bruce’s silent, weary judgment was a colder fear than any specter.
He was alone.
So he climbed into the large bed, leaving every light blazing, and pulled the covers over his head. In the small, fabric-smelling darkness he had made for himself, he could almost convince he was safe. He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing his muscles to relax, his mind to go blank. That night, he didn't fall asleep so much as he surrendered to exhaustion, the last defiant act of refusing to be afraid.
—
The morning arrived with a cruel cheer. The storm had scoured the sky to a hard, porcelain blue, and sunlight fell through the kitchen windows, laying sharp rectangles of light on the walls. Tim sat alone at the vast table, his fork tracing meaningless patterns through the congealed mound of pork on fine china. He had not taken a bite. His palate was still in mourning for his pride, which had fled the night before, leaving only the bitter aftertaste of shame.
The quiet click of the door was a gunshot in the silence. He jumped. Alfred stood there, his posture as precise as a folded flag.
“Master Bruce would like to see you in the study,” he said, his tone impeccably neutral. “At your convenience, of course.”
The words were polite, yet they sent Tim’s stomach plunging through the floor. He nodded, a mute, jerky motion, and rose, abandoning the ruined Brawn.
The hallway to the study seemed to have elongated in the night, its perspective warped by dread. He stood before the heavy oak door, his knuckles hovering. He hesitated, listening to the slow, metronomic tick of the grandfather clock down the hall—a sound like a waiting heartbeat—before rapping twice, softly.
“Come in, Tim.”
Bruce stood at the far end of the room, his broad silhouette framed by the enormous window and backlit by the glaring sun. He was the picture of the Wayne patriarch, encased in a sharp dark-blue suit, his hair perfectly slicked back. But when he turned, the illusion fractured. A faint, yellowing bruise bloomed high on his cheekbone, and a fatigue deeper than mere sleeplessness was etched into the lines underneath his eyes.
He gestured to one of the leather chairs facing the desk. “Sit.”
Tim obeyed, perching on the very edge, his back straight, his shoulders wire-tight. He braced for an interrogation, a lecture, the cold weight of disappointment.
But Bruce did not retreat behind the throne of his desk. Instead, he moved around it and sat in the adjacent chair, placing them on the same level.
“I heard… you had an encounter last night,” Bruce began, his voice low and even. “In the east wing.”
Tim held his gaze, a silent admission.
“What did you see?” Bruce asked.
Tim swallowed, the memory flashing behind his eyes. “A ghost,” he whispered. “At the end of the hall. His face… it was…”
Bruce absorbed this, his expression unreadable. After a moment, he let out a slow, measured breath, the sound heavy in the quiet room.
“I’m very sorry, Tim.”
The apology was so unexpected it stole the air from Tim’s lungs.
“I should have known a simple prohibition would be insufficient,” Bruce continued, a faint, self-deprecating ghost of a smile touching his lips. “Telling you not to go, without telling you why… that was my error. I forget, at times, the precision of your mind.” The smile faded. “I forget, sometimes, that you are still a kid.”
Kid. The word pricked, a small, sharp needle of condescension. Tim stared down at his hands, the shame curdling hot in his stomach.
“What you saw wasn’t a ghost,” Bruce said, his voice dropping, pulling Tim’s gaze back to him. “It was Harvey Dent.”
Tim froze. The name landed between them like a heavy stone. Harvey Dent. Gotham’s fallen white knight. Two-Face.
“I know what that name means to you,” Bruce said. “But the man you saw last night… that was Harvey.”
“He was in the house? How did he get past the sensors? Did you capture him?” The questions tumbled out in frantic.
“He has been living here for some time,” Bruce revealed. “Several years.”
Tim blinked, his mind scrambling to rearrange the truth of the manor around this new, impossible fact. A monster lived in the east wing. And Bruce had brought him home.
“But… why?”
Bruce held his gaze for a moment before speaking. “Before the scars, Harvey was my friend. We believed we could save this city together. He was righteous. He believed in the light of the law.” He paused, the memory a tangible weight. “But after the attack… after he was broken… he became something else, and Two-Face took his place.”
Tim knew the public story—the acid attack in court, the descent into madness. But he’d never heard Bruce speak about it before.
“Two-Face quickly rose to power, becoming one of Gotham’s most powerful crimelords, at times even rivaling the Penguin. Of course, Cobblepot wouldn’t tolerate that. So he exploited Harvey’s fractured mind. Had himself declared Harvey’s legal custodian. Made him a puppet advisor. And then he brought in Jonathan Crane.”
A cold dread seeped into Tim’s veins. “Scarecrow,” he whispered.
Bruce’s nod was grim. “Crane was not his doctor. He was his torturer. He used fear toxin under the guise of therapy. A continuous experiment.” He said, a shadow passed over his face. “I could not allow it. I fought it in court, used every resource, and eventually… the state granted me guardianship. I brought him here. To contain his threat. To keep him safe. To offer him some peace, if any remains.”
Tim let the truth settle, a heavy, uncomfortable shroud. When he finally found his voice, he kept it low to match Bruce’s tone. “Does he… know? Who you are?”
“In his clearer moments, yes,” Bruce said. “He knows I’m Batman.”
Tim held his gaze then, and in the heavy quiet, something passed between them. Tim looked down at his own hands, then back at Bruce, meeting his eyes with a newfound steadiness. He wanted to be worthy of this trust, of being let into this most sacred of confidences.
“So… what do we do now?” Tim asked, the ‘we’ deliberate and firm.
Bruce’s expression softened. “We continue as we always did. You live. You train. You go to school. But now, if you see him… you need not be afraid. You may even say hello. He appreciates manners.”
Tim gave a single, firm nod. “Okay.”
A small, tired smile touched Bruce’s lips, and a fraction of the weight seemed to lift from his shoulders. “Thank you, Tim.” His hand settled on Tim’s shoulder. “Alfred saved you some French toast. It’s in the kitchen.”
A peace offering. Tim managed a faint smile in return. “Thanks, Bruce.”
He stood, the leather sighing softly as he rose, and crossed the room. At the door, he paused for a single, fleeting second, then slipped out, closing the study behind him.
Bruce did not move. He remained in the chair, the sunlight illuminating the dust motes dancing around him. Outside, the garden lay shimmering, unnaturally green after the rain. The storm had passed, but the house held its memory in the very grain of the wood, in the chill that lingered behind the bright, unforgiving light. He adjusted his tie, a deliberate, anchoring motion, then stood and left the study—alone.
—
The heavy oak door of the study had barely clicked shut before Bruce was moving toward a different, more secluded wing of the manor. The air grew stiller, the light dimmer. He stopped before an unadorned door, this one made of reinforced steel painted to look like wood. A soft chime from a discreet camera acknowledged his presence before the lock disengaged with a hydraulic hiss.
The room within was a scholar’s den crossed with a tactical operations center. Law books and case files were stacked in teetering ziggurats on the floor, while a bank of monitors glowed with financial news tickers and legal documents. In the center of it all, hunched over a sprawling mahogany desk, was Harvey Dent.
The man was a study in erosion. His famous two-toned hair was matted and messy, as if he’d been running his hands through it for hours. A half-unbuttoned dress shirt revealed the stark, mottled skin of his collarbone and a glimpse of the ruined flesh that traveled up his neck. A cigarette rested in a crystal ashtray, its smoke curling in the lamplight to form a hazy shroud around his head. He didn’t look up as Bruce entered, his attention buried in a folio of corporate filings.
“The boy’s been dealt with, I assume?” Harvey’s voice was a dry rasp, laced with a familiar, weary sarcasm. “The new version. You do have a habit of replacing the old ones when they get broken.”
"He's not a replacement, Harvey." Bruce said, his voice hardened slightly as he moved further into the room, the scent of old paper and tobacco meeting him. "He's his own person."
"Aren't they all, at the start?" Harvey finally glanced up, his good eye sharp, the damaged one a clouded, unreadable marble. He took a slow drag from his cigarette. "What did you tell him?"
"The truth. That you're my friend."
"A very generous truth." A bitter smile touched Harvey's lips.
"It's the truth nonetheless." Bruce's gaze remained steady. "What were you doing late last night? You know the rules."
"Work." Harvey gestured with his cigarette at the chaotic spread of paper. "The Penguin's little minions are carving up what he left behind. They're hiring my expertise to make it look legitimate." He exhaled a plume of smoke. "They pay well."
"You're working for them again," Bruce said, disapproval thick in his tone.
"I'm working for their lawyer," Harvey corrected with a pedantic edge. "There's a difference." He took another drag. "Besides, it quiets the voices. The clatter of a keyboard, the rustle of hundred-dollar bills… it’s a wonderful white noise."
“If you need funds for something, Harvey, I can give it to you. There’s no need for this.”
Harvey barked out a short, humorless laugh. "As much as I appreciate the charity, Bruce, I'm not one of your strays. I won't be kept in this gilded kennel on your goodwill alone."
Bruce’s gaze was unwavering. “It’s not a kennel. It’s your home.”
“Semantics.” Harvey’s eyes then traveled over Bruce, taking in the impeccable, tailored suit. A flicker of genuine curiosity broke through his sardonic shell. “Now that’s a rare sight. The famous Bruce Wayne. You barely leave the house these days, unless you’re… otherwise engaged.” He leaned back, the leather of his chair groaning. “So? What’s the occasion? A fundraiser for orphaned puppies? Or is there a lucky lady finally dragging the great Bruce Wayne back into the light?”
“The new interim DA,” Bruce said, his voice flat. “He’s making noise about ‘civic transparency’ from major enterprises. His office wants a preliminary review of our asset portfolios. Apparently, our charitable foundation is a ‘point of interest’.”
Harvey's expression curdled. "Arthur Reeves? That preening opportunist?" He stabbed his cigarette out with more force than necessary. "That guy doesn’t give a damn about corruption. He only cares about sound bites and which side of the camera his good profile is on for his campaign poster. He's hoping for a headline about 'questionable philanthropy'—just enough scandal to make himself look important when he 'clears' the city's favorite son."
"I am aware of the political theater," Bruce replied.
"Be more than aware." Harvey snapped, a flash of the brilliant, righteous DA he’d once been animating his features. "He’ll spin numbers, conflate philanthropy with profiteering, and try to shame you into playing along. Don’t let him. The Wayne Foundation is a 501(c)(3). Entirely separate from the company. Its assets are legally ring-fenced. He can talk all he wants, but without a judge’s warrant, he can’t fish a thing. Don’t give him the satisfaction of playing his game. Make him do the work. Show him you know the rules.”
Bruce held his friend’s intense, mismatched gaze for a long moment. The advice was sound, cutting through the noise with the sharp clarity Harvey had always possessed. It was a hopeful reminder of what he hadn’t lost.
"I'll keep that in mind," Bruce said, a small, almost imperceptible smile ghosting on his lips.
Harvey gave a curt nod, the moment of intensity passing as he turned back to his files, the shutters coming down once more. The conversation was over. Bruce turned and left, the reinforced door sealing shut behind him, locking the ghost of a good man away with his demons and his work.
—
The car slid away from the manor, its silence a bubble in the chaotic evening of Gotham. Bruce sat in the back, staring out at the bustling streets without seeing them. The meeting with Harvey, layered over the one with Tim, sat heavily on him.
Alfred’s eyes met his in the rearview mirror. “Master Timothy sought out the French toast with a commendable vigor. I believe he has fully recovered from his frightful encounter.”
Bruce let out a quiet breath, almost a laugh. “He’s resilient.”
“More than most,” Alfred agreed, his tone soft. “He has the makings of an exceptional… associate.” The careful choice of word was not lost on Bruce.
“He’s too restless,” Bruce said. “He reminds me of…”
“Master Dick?” Alfred finished gently “The resemblance is in the spirit, sir. But their engines are quite different. Dick’s fire burned bright and fast, it demanded to be seen. Tim’s a quieter flame, one that seeks the truth in the shadows.” He paused, navigating a turn. “Though I daresay Blüdhaven is proving quite suitable for Dick’s current ambitions.”
Bruce nodded. His departure was a fresh wound, a consequence of Bruce’s own inability to bend. Tim’s arrival felt like a test of whether he had learned anything at all.
“And how is our other resident?” Alfred asked, his voice deliberately neutral as they entered the financial district.
“Defiant,” Bruce said, his jaw tightening minutely. “Working through the night on a case for interests we both know he should avoid.”
“The Cobblepot fallout,” Alfred surmised. “A predictable power vacuum.”
Bruce gave a short nod, then shifted. “And then there’s the matter with Arthur Reeves.”
Alfred’s brows lifted in the mirror. “The interim district attorney, sir?”
“He’s posturing,” Bruce said flatly. “Summoned me for a ‘transparency’ lecture. He wants an audit of the Wayne Foundation. Harvey called him an opportunist. Said he’s fishing. Told me to not give it to him.”
“A rare point of agreement between Master Dent and myself, then,” Alfred said dryly. “Do you intend to follow his advice?”
“Harvey’s always right about the law,” Bruce conceded, watching the monolithic spire of Wayne Tower grow larger. “But his judgment is… compromised.”
“His legal mind, however, remains a precision instrument, even if the hand that wields it is unsteady,” Alfred countered. “He needs the work, Master Bruce. Perhaps more than he needs the sleep you so rightly prescribe. It gives him an anchor.”
The car pulled to a smooth halt at the base of the tower. A small group of aides and security personnel were already waiting under the awning.
“An anchor can also be a weight that drags a man under,” Bruce said quietly, more to himself than to Alfred.
“Indeed, sir. But it is his anchor to hold, or to drop. Our role is merely to ensure the water does not rise over his head.” Alfred met his gaze in the mirror once more. “Good luck with the vultures.”
Bruce reached for the door handle. “Keep an eye on them, Alfred. All of them.”
“It is, as ever, my primary occupation, sir.”
With that, Bruce Wayne stepped out of the vehicle. The car door thudded shut. His posture straightened, his face settling into the bland, agreeable mask. He smiled at the waiting aides and walked into the glare of the public eye.
—
The staff descended like a well-rehearsed flock just as he stepped out of the elevator, their chatter a dull throb in his temples. Bruce moved through them with a pleasant, slightly distracted smile, offering a ‘Good morning, Julie,’ and a ‘The numbers from the Singapore branch look promising, don’t they, Morgan?’ It was a performance of effortless charm.
The performance was interrupted by a calm, familiar voice. "Bruce. May I have a word?"
Lucius Fox stood to the side, a tablet in one hand, his expression was a blend of professional courtesy and quiet concern. He was the only one in the building who ever looked at both "Bruce Wayne" and the man beneath simultaneously.
"Of course, Lucius. Walk with me," Bruce said, his face softening into something more genuine. They stepped into the relative quiet of the hallway leading to the executive suites.
"It's about the Reeves meeting." Lucius said, keeping his voice low. "I took the liberty of reviewing the preliminary brief his office sent over. It's... broad. He's not asking about specific transactions; he's asking for access to the Foundation's entire grant-making history and beneficiary list for the last eight years."
"Fishing." Bruce said, echoing Harvey’s remark.
"With a very wide net," Lucius confirmed. "He's citing 'city-wide stability' post-Porter, but the legal precedent he's leaning on is flimsy. It would be a fight, but we could tie him up in court." He paused, giving Bruce a measured look. "The question is, do we want that kind of public fight? It draws the exact kind of attention we generally avoid."
They reached the door to Bruce's private office. "He wants a show of force," Bruce said, stopping by the threshold. "To prove his new authority."
Lucius allowed a small, dry smile. "My advice? Hear him out. Be the reasonable, public-spirited Bruce Wayne. Express full, enthusiastic cooperation in principle, then let our legal department bury his office in procedural red tape and narrow, targeted inquiries. We give him a victory of words, but not of substance."
It was the smart play. The corporate play. It was why Lucius was indispensable.
"Cooperation as a weapon," Bruce mused.
"The best kind," Lucius replied. "It's very difficult to attack someone who appears to be holding the gate open for you." He glanced toward the door. "Shall we?"
Bruce nodded. The two men walked into the private office together.
Arthur Reeves was already there, standing by the floor-to-ceiling glass that framed the city skyline. He was a man carved from ambition, with a politician's perfect hair and a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Bruce Wayne," Reeves said, his handshake firm and slightly too long. His eyes flicked to Lucius. "And Mr. Fox. An honor. I wasn't aware this would be a technical briefing."
"Lucius is the architect of most of our charitable initiatives," Bruce said smoothly, taking a seat behind his desk. "I find it's best to have the man who actually knows how the machinery works in the room. Please, Arthur, tell us how the Wayne Foundation can assist the city."
Reeves launched into his spiel about power vacuums and illicit capital, his eyes fixed on Bruce. He tapped the folder on the table. "...a proactive measure. Transparency, you understand."
Bruce listened, his expression one of engaged concern. When Reeves finished, Bruce nodded thoughtfully. "Arthur, it's a bold initiative. Gotham needs bold thinking." He turned to Lucius. "Lucius, can the Foundation facilitate the District Attorney's transparency goals?"
Lucius steepled his fingers. "It's a complex question, Mr. Reeves. The Foundation is a web of trusts, some public, some private, governed by a myriad of donor restrictions and international privacy laws. A blanket audit, as you describe, would be legally impossible without violating the rights of thousands of individual donors and beneficiaries." He offered a congenial smile. "However, what we can do is work with your office to define specific, credible threats. If you have intelligence linking, say, a particular grantee to money laundering, we have a robust internal audit team that can investigate with the discretion required by law. We can provide you with summarized, anonymized data flows. We want to help, but we must do so within the legal framework that protects the very people we're trying to serve."
It was a masterclass. Lucius had taken Reeves's broadside and parried it with an offer of cooperation so wrapped in legalistic complexity that it was effectively a refusal.
Reeves's smile was thin. "That sounds like a 'no', Mr. Fox."
"It's a 'let's do this correctly,'" Lucius corrected gently. "We share your goal, Mr. District Attorney. We simply want to ensure the method doesn't cause more collateral damage than the crime it seeks to prevent."
Bruce saw the moment Reeves realized he was outmatched. He had come to pressure a billionaire and found himself facing a master of corporate law and finance. The politician's eyes narrowed slightly, shifting his focus back to Bruce.
"A very cautious approach," Reeves said, a threat undercutting his voice. "I hope that caution doesn't seem like obstruction, Mr. Wayne. The public mood is for action."
"And the Wayne Foundation has always acted," Bruce said, standing, signaling the end of the meeting. His smile was back, cool and polished. "We'll have our general counsel contact your office first thing tomorrow to begin the... collaborative process Lucius outlined. Thank you for your vigilance, Arthur."
Reeves had no choice but to stand. He knew he'd been outmaneuvered. "I'll expect the call." He gave a curt nod to Lucius. "Mr. Fox."
The door clicked shut behind him. Bruce let out a slow breath. He looked at Lucius. "Well?"
Lucius picked up his tablet. "He's dangerous. Not because he's smart, but because he's ambitious and now he's embarrassed. He'll be back, and next time, he'll come with a subpoena instead of a suggestion."
"Then we'll be ready," Bruce said, his gaze drifting back to the neon-lit city. The Wayne Foundation was secured for now, but the storm Reeves represented was just gathering.
Gotham’s political landscape had been in turmoil for several weeks, after a series of scandals that had erupted into public view. A cabal of councilmen and city officials had been expelled in disgrace, but the most prominent casualty was District Attorney Janice Porter. For years, Porter’s corruption had been one of Gotham’s worst-kept secrets, a constant drip of backroom deals and whispered favors. Her downfall had created a vacuum, and into that void had stepped Arthur Reeves, a man whose sudden, fiery campaign for justice felt a little too convenient. He had, after all, built a quiet, unremarkable career comfortably within Porter’s shadow. His grand promises now felt less like a practical plan and more like a performance for a furious public. Bruce wasn’t ready to write the man off as outright corrupt, but he certainly didn't buy the act.
A sharp, insistent chime from his private terminal cut through his thoughts. His eyes flicked to Lucius, before pressing the speaker button.
“Master Bruce? I have a Priority Two alert from the Founders’ Island industrial sector. A silent alarm was tripped at the old Axion Chemical storage facility. GCPD are en route, but their ETA is ten minutes. The security feed shows… well, you should see for yourself.”
Bruce and Lucius exchanged a glance. A silent alarm at a decommissioned chemical plant. It was exactly the kind of place someone would use for an off-the-books operation. “Pull up the feed on my screen, please, Alfred,” Bruce said, his voice all business.
The monitor on his wall lit up, showing a grainy, green-hued image from a security camera. Figures in dark clothing were transferring heavy, unmarked drums from a warehouse bay into a fleet of unmarked trucks. They were armed, their movements efficient and professional. This wasn't a random burglary; it was a military-style extraction.
“Axion has been defunct for years,” Lucius murmured, stepping closer. “Those drums shouldn’t be there. And those men don’t look like scrap thieves.”
“No,” Bruce said, his eyes hardening. “They don’t.” He turned to Lucius. “Delay the GCPD. An anonymous tip about a false alarm across town. I need a head start.”
Lucius nodded, already tapping on his tablet. “Consider it done. Be careful, Bruce.”
—
Ten minutes later, the only light in the vast, echoing warehouse came from the headlights of the trucks and the weak glow of a single work lamp. The air was thick with the smell of rust, oil, and something acrid and chemical. The rhythmic thud of drums being loaded was the only sound.
It was the perfect place for a bat to hide.
A black shape dropped from the steel rafters high above, landing behind the lead truck without a sound. By the time the two men loading it registered the movement, it was too late. A Batarang hissed through the air, severing the truck’s main battery cable with a spark. The headlights died.
“What the—?” One thug managed, before an iron-like fist connected with his jaw. He crumpled.
The second man fumbled for his sidearm. A black-gloved hand caught his wrist, twisted, and the gun clattered to the concrete. A sharp blow to the back of his neck sent him to the ground, unconscious.
The rest of the crew, five strong, spun around, raising their weapons. They saw a silhouette, a monstrous caped shadow framed against the dim light, white eyes glaring from a cowled face.
“He’s here! Open fire!” one yelled, his voice cracking with panic.
The scream was swallowed by the deafening roar of gunshots. Muzzle flashes spat strobing bursts of light that cut through the darkness, illuminating the warehouse in frantic, blinding snapshots.
Batman was already moving. He vanished behind a stack of crates as bullets ricocheted off the metal. He used the darkness, the labyrinth of storage, his every move silent and precise. He took them down one by one: a grapple line to snatch an assault rifle and pull its owner off his feet; a smoke pellet to disorient two others before disabling them with nerve strikes; a well-thrown bolas to entangle the legs of a man trying to flee.
In under a minute, the only one left standing was the man who had given the order, backing away toward a sealed exit, firing his pistol wildly.
Batman emerged from the smoke, walking calmly through the chaos. A flick of his wrist sent a Batarang spinning, knocking the gun from the man’s hand. He closed the distance in three strides, grabbing the man by the front of his jacket and slamming him against the corrugated metal wall.
“Who do you work for?” Batman’s voice was a low growl.
The man, a scarred brute with a broken nose, spat at him. “Go to hell, freak!”
Batman’s grip tightened on the man’s throat, cutting off his airflow. He leaned in, the white lenses of his cowl inches from the thug’s terrified eyes. “The drums. What’s in them? Precursor chemicals for Smythe’s operation? Or is it what’s left of Penguin’s drug trade?"
The thug gasped, clawing at Batman’s arm. “Not… not Penguin! It’s… it’s the Mask! We work for Black Mask!”
He knew the meaning of that name. Roman Sionis. It made a brutal sense. While the GCPD and Batman were focused on the Cobblepot power vacuum, a colder, more sadistic predator was already making his move.
Batman’s grip didn’t loosen. His white gaze swept over the stacked drums. Each one was professionally labeled with stenciled pharmaceutical codes and the logo of a defunct Gotham chemical company. “Black Mask isn’t in the chemical business. What is this?”
“I don’t know! I swear! We just move the stuff! The orders come down, we load the trucks for delivery. That’s it!”
Batman released him, letting him slump to the ground, choking. “Open it.”
Trembling, the man found a pry bar. He worked it under the lid of the nearest drum. With a groan of protesting metal and a sharp hiss of breaking seal, it popped open. The acrid chemical smell intensified, burning the nostrils. Inside was a thick, dark industrial grease.
“It’s just grease!” the thug insisted, his voice desperate.
Batman shoved him aside. He plunged a gloved hand into the viscous muck, feeling past a false bottom. His fingers closed around a heavy, vacuum-sealed brick. He pulled it out, wiping away the grease to reveal a brick of a shimmering, iridescent pink powder. It glowed faintly in the dim light, like crushed opal. The grease was a mask—its strong petroleum stench would overwhelm the senses of any K-9 unit, making whatever inside untraceable by dogs on the docks.
“Pink Elysium,” Batman growled, naming the newest and most vicious designer drug to hit Gotham's streets. He’d only seen it in lab reports; this was his first field sample. From his utility belt, he produced a small, forensic sample vial. He carefully sliced a corner of the brick, collecting the glittering powder before sealing it away. A quick check of two more drums confirmed the same setup: chemical grease on top, multiple kilos of P.E. hidden beneath.
He turned back to the cowering thug. “Where is it going?”
“I don’t know the final stop! We get a text with the location before the drop. It’s a dead-drop system!”
In a flash of movement, Batman was on him. With one hand, he wrenched the thug's arms behind his back, and with the other, he pulled a plastic zip-tie from his belt, securing the man's wrists. Before the thug could even process it, Batman dipped into his jacket pocket and pulled out a cheap, pre-paid cell phone. He pocketed the phone, then swept his gaze over the unconscious forms littering the concrete.
“The police will be here soon. Tell them everything you just told me. It will go easier for you than if Roman Sionis thinks you talked to me first.”
The man’s face went pale with a new kind of fear. Batman held his gaze for a moment longer, then released him, letting him slump to the ground. He turned, his cape swirling around him as he melted back into the darkness of the warehouse. The GCPD sirens were finally wailing in the distance.
—
The grand silence of Wayne Manor was a stark contrast to the chaotic buzz of Gotham Academy. Tim Drake shoved the heavy oak door shut with his shoulder, his backpack slumping to the marble floor with a thud that echoed in the foyer. He made a beeline for the kitchen, the only source of light and life.
He found Alfred at the large central island, not cooking, but meticulously polishing the grand silver service, a task he reserved for moments requiring intense focus or patience.
“Hey, Alfred,” Tim said, his voice flat.
“Master Timothy,” Alfred replied, not looking up from a heavily ornate teapot. “I trust the scholarly trenches were survivable? I’ve left a plate of sandwiches for you in the cooler.”
Tim leaned against the counter, ignoring the offer. “Is Bruce back? I aced my physics test. I was thinking I could help him calibrate the new trajectory sensors on the grapple…”
Alfred finally set the teapot down and picked up a cream jug, his movements slow and meticulous. “I am afraid Master Bruce is already in the field. He departed while you were at school.”
Tim deflated, his shoulders rounding. “Right. Of course he did.”
“Your education takes precedence, Master Timothy,” Alfred said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “There will be many nights for trajectory sensors. Your opportunity to master Newton’s laws, however, is finite.”
“It’s not about the sensors,” Tim snapped, then reined it in, frustration simmering. “It’s that he doesn’t tell me. He just… goes. He doesn’t trust me.”
"Master Bruce trusts you implicitly," Alfred corrected, picking up a cloth and beginning to polish the matching cream jug. "It is, perhaps, your safety he does not trust the world with."
"It feels the same from here," Tim replied. He watched the methodical, calming motion of Alfred's hands. "He just... he holds back with me. I see it. The way he explains things, the way he watches me on patrol. It’s like he’s waiting for me to mess up."
“He is waiting,” Alfred said, his voice softening a degree. “But not for a mistake. He is waiting for a ghost. And the moment he sees you stumble, for a single second, he will see that ghost instead of you. It is a burden of his history, not a judgment of your potential.”
Tim understood. Jason. The name was a phantom limb in the Manor, an ache everyone felt but no one mentioned. He sighed, the fight going out of him. “It’s just… he trusts him. Harvey. And he’s a literal psychopath who flips a coin to decide if you live or die. How does that make sense?”
Alfred paused his polishing. “Harvey Dent is a known quantity. The risks he presents are calculable. The risk of losing another boy… that is a calculation Master Bruce refuses to make.” He looked toward the east wing. “As for Mr. Dent… he has been a part of this household’s peculiar tapestry for many years. He and Master Bruce argue like philosophers debating the end of the world. But he is… a confidant, of a sort.”
“A confidant? He’s Two-Face!”
“He is also a man who appreciates a challenging game of chess,” Alfred said, a faint, dry smile appearing. “His strategic mind is still formidable. It is one of the few things that quiets the… internal debate. I find playing against him forces me to be five moves ahead at all times. It is excellent practice.”
Tim considered this. A mission, but a different kind. A way to understand the strange ecosystem of the Manor, and maybe, to prove something to Bruce. “So, what? You think I should just… go challenge Harvey Dent to a chess match?”
“I think,” Alfred said, placing the brilliantly polished cream jug back on the tray, “that if you are seeking to demonstrate maturity and strategic thinking, there are worse ways to spend an evening than engaging a former district attorney in a battle of wits. It would certainly be more productive than sulking in the cave.”
Tim couldn’t help a small, genuine smile. “Sulking is a strong word. I prefer ‘tactically waiting.’” He pushed off the counter. “Okay. Fine. But if he flips the coin on me, I’m blaming you.”
“A perfectly acceptable arrangement, sir,” Alfred said, picking up the teapot once more. “Now, the sandwiches await. And I believe there is a history essay on the War of the Roses with your name on it. The real world of Gotham will still be there when you are done. It is regrettably persistent.”
—
The library was one of the quietest rooms in the manor, a cavern of leather-bound books and dark shadows. The only light came from a single green-shaded lamp on a large oak table, illuminating a chessboard set with pieces carved of ivory and ebony, already poised in the middle of a match.
Harvey Dent sat on one side, the left side of his face, the good side, turned toward the door. He was staring at the board, not as if studying the shapes and colors, but as if waiting for an invisible opponent to finish their move. A simple, unweighted coin sat on the table beside the board.
Tim hesitated in the doorway, his heart thumping a little too fast. This felt more intimidating than facing down a gang of street thugs.
Harvey didn’t look up. “If you’re here for a book, pick one and leave. If you’re here to stare, take a picture. It’ll last longer.” His voice was a low rasp, but it was the voice of the district attorney, not the growl of Two-Face.
“Alfred said you play chess,” Tim said, stepping into the circle of light.
Harvey’s head lifted slowly. His good eye fixed on Tim. The scarred, ruined side of his face was cast in shadow. “Alfred talks too much. And you’re the new kid. Robin.”
“Tim,” Tim corrected, pulling out the chair opposite. “And I play.”
A flicker of something—amusement, annoyance—crossed Harvey’s face. “Do you.” It wasn’t a question. He gestured a scarred, gloved hand at the board. “It’s your move. White.”
Tim sat down, his eyes scanning the board. It was a standard opening position. He reached out and moved a pawn, e4.
Harvey responded instantly, mirroring the move with his own pawn. e5. “So. Bruce send you in here to check on me? See if I’ve redecorated with bullet holes?”
“No,” Tim said, watching as Harvey developed a knight. “I came on my own. Bruce is out.”
“He usually is,” Harvey grunted. He moved with an aggressive confidence. “Leaves the rest of us to our… distractions.” He captured one of Tim’s center pawns with his knight, a bold, early attack. “Your king is exposed.”
Tim didn’t flinch. He’d seen this coming. He moved his bishop, pinning the knight to Harvey’s king. “Looks like your knight is trapped.”
Harvey stared at the board. For a second, his head tilted, as if listening to a voice only he could hear. A muscle in his jaw twitched. He didn’t touch the coin. Instead, he sacrificed the knight, launching a furious counter-attack with his queen. “Traps are a two-way street, kid.”
The game accelerated. Harvey’s play was brilliant but reckless, full of the strategic cunning of a man who knew how to bend the rules to his advantage. Tim’s was more methodical, anticipating the attacks and shoring up his defenses. He was playing not to win, but to prevail, to understand.
After a particularly aggressive pawn push from Harvey, Tim finally worked up enough courage to break the silence. “Why do you stay here? In the manor, I mean. You’re not a prisoner.”
Harvey didn’t look up from the board. “Where would I go? My apartment has new tenants. The asylum is… disagreeable. Here, I have a roof, three meals a day, and a world-class sparring partner in Bruce’s guilt. What more could a man ask for?” He moved his bishop, threatening Tim’s queen. “My turn. Why do you do it? Put on the pixie boots and jump off buildings?”
Tim slid his queen to safety. “Someone has to. To help people.”
“Help people,” Harvey repeated, the words laced with a cynical rasp. “You can help people by becoming a doctor. Or a social worker. You do this for the thrill. For him.” He captured a knight, his gaze sharpening on Tim. “So why are you here, with me, when he’s out there? Shouldn’t you be suited up? Or did you get benched for poor performance?”
Tim’s shoulders tightened. “I have school tomorrow. He… he doesn’t take me on weeknights.”
Harvey let out a sharp, genuine bark of laughter. “Of course he doesn’t. Batman will throw a kid at the Joker, but God forbid that kid skip fifth period. The man’s priorities are a special kind of insane.”
“It’s not that,” Tim defended, his voice tightening with frustration. “I don’t get to face the Riddler, let alone the Joker. I’m only allowed on patrol. Crowd control. Sometimes I get to run comms.”
“Why?” Harvey pressed, leaning a little closer. “If you’re his partner, why are you benched for the big leagues? You’re clearly not stupid. You’re holding your own.”
The question hung in the air, the truth of it pressing down on Tim. He stared at the board, the intricate dance of pieces suddenly feeling like a cage.
"He doesn't trust me," Tim said quietly, during a lull as Harvey considered a complicated bishop sacrifice.
Harvey let out a short, harsh laugh. “Join the club.” His good eye met Tim’s. “He thinks I’m a loaded gun. He thinks you’re… what? Glass? He’s waiting for one of us to blow up. The difference is, I already have.” He executed the sacrifice, a devastating move that ripped open Tim’s defenses. “Check.”
Tim studied the board, his mind racing. The position was bad. Almost hopeless. He saw a sequence, a desperate series of moves that would prolong the game but likely end in defeat. He started to reach for his rook.
“Don’t,” Harvey said, his voice low.
Tim froze.
“You’re looking at the obvious counter. The safe move. It’s what your opponent wants you to make.” Harvey leaned forward, the lamplight catching the terrible scarring. “But it’s a loser’s move. It just delays the inevitable. Look harder.”
Tim’s eyes darted across the board, past the immediate threat of the queen, past the material he was about to lose. And he saw it. A tiny, almost invisible thread of a chance. A sneaky check with his own knight that would force Harvey’s king into the open.
He moved the knight. “Check.”
Harvey stared. A slow, grim smile spread over the functional half of his mouth. It was a terrifying sight, but it held a shred of respect. “Huh.” He moved his king, the only move he could. The game was still his, but the momentum had shifted. The simple victory was gone.
“He’s afraid,” Tim said, pressing his small advantage. “Not of you. For me.”
“It’s the same thing,” Harvey said, his voice losing its edge, becoming almost weary. He captured the knight, but in doing so, left his own back rank vulnerable. “Fear twists everything. Makes you see threats where there aren’t any… and miss the ones staring you right in the face.” He looked from the board to Tim. “You’re not like the other one. The loud one. You’re quieter. You watch.”
“I learn,” Tim said. And he made his move. An unassuming move with his remaining rook that left Harvey’s king with nowhere to run. “Checkmate.”
Harvey Dent looked down at the board. He studied it for a full minute, tracing the lines of defeat. He didn’t seem angry. He seemed… impressed.
Then, his hand twitched. It hovered over the coin on the table. His breathing hitched.
“He got lucky,” a guttural voice snarled from the same mouth. It was Two-Face. “A fluke! We should flip for it! See if his luck holds!”
Tim’s blood ran cold. He stayed perfectly still.
But Harvey’s gloved hand slammed down on top of the coin, pinning it to the table. He squeezed his eye shut, fighting an internal war. After a long, terrifying moment, he opened his eye. The rasp was back, but it was strained. “Get out.”
Tim stood up slowly, not taking his eyes off Harvey.
“It was a good game,” Harvey managed to say, each word a struggle. “Now. Get. Out.”
Tim didn’t need to be told twice. He turned and walked quickly out of the library, his heart hammering in his chest. It felt like more than just a game of chess. It felt like he’d looked directly into the abyss at the heart of Wayne Manor. And for a moment, he’d seen the man, Harvey Dent, fighting to keep it closed.
—
The cavern stairway was a tomb, its silence broken only by the groan of ancient pipes and the weary scuff of Bruce’s boots. As he emerged, the scent of damp earth and ozone were still clung to his cape. He shed the cowl and gloves, running a hand through his hair, still wet with rain and sweat. The clock read 3:17 A.M. Silence should have reigned.
But a sliver of light fell from under the library door, drawing him in like a moth.
He found Harvey exactly where Tim had left him, though the chessboard had been cleared. In its place sat a crystal decanter of amber whiskey and a single glass, half-empty. Harvey wasn't looking at it. He was just staring into the fireplace, watching the flames curl and snap, their reflection dancing across the ruined half of his face.
"Picking out patterns in the fire, Harvey?" Bruce's voice was gravel, worn down by the night.
Harvey didn't turn. "Looking for a little consistency, Bruce. It's in short supply. I heard the cave door. Bad night for the city's guardian angel?"
"Gotham’s always having a bad night." Bruce moved into the room, his eyes scanning the space, noting the two chairs pulled askew from the table. "You had a visitor."
"Your new protégé. He plays a mean game of chess. Better than you, in some ways. Less... predictable." Harvey finally looked at him, his good eye sharp. "He didn't tell you he was coming to see me, did he?"
Bruce didn't answer. He retrieved a second glass from a side cabinet, the crystal chiming softly in the heavy quiet. He poured a finger of whiskey for himself, then topped off Harvey’s without asking. "He's resourceful."
"He's a kid trying to impress a father who's never in the room," Harvey countered, his voice losing its edge, becoming almost cynical. "He thinks you don't trust him. He's right, of course. You don't. You can't. Your savior complex doesn't allow for trust, only for calculated risks." He picked up the glass, taking a slow sip. "It must be exhausting, building pedestals for people just so you can have the full, dramatic view when they fall off."
The barb landed with practiced precision. Bruce took a drink, the burn a familiar comfort. "I don't recall asking for a psychological profile."
"It's a free service. For residents only." Harvey leaned back, studying Bruce. "So, what was it tonight? A warehouse robbery? A weapon shipment? Don't tell me—a kidnapping. You do love a good kidnapping. Lets you play the grim rescuer to the hilt."
Bruce placed his glass down with a quiet click. "Axion Chemical. Black Mask's men were moving product.”
"Sionis is moving up. Cobblepot used to keep him penned in the Diamond District, moving counterfeit jewelry and shaking down his own social circle." Harvey took a sip. "What’s the product?"
"A new drug. They’re calling it ‘Pink Elysium.’”
Harvey's eyebrow quirked. "A bit poetic for Sionis. Designer hallucinogen?"
"My analysis suggests it's a oneirogen. It doesn't just cause hallucinations; it induces a state of controlled, euphoric dreaming. Users report vivid, perfect fantasies tailored to their deepest desires. A world without pain, without failure."
Harvey let out a low whistle. "A personalized paradise in a vial. That's... insidious. What's the catch?"
"The dreams are a trap," Bruce said, his voice low. "The more you use it, the more your waking life feels like a pale imitation. Reality becomes the nightmare. Users stop eating, working, connecting. They just... dream. Until they waste away, chasing a ghost. Or until they'll do anything for their next dose."
"A slavery contract,” Harvey mused, almost to himself. "Penguin dealt in established markets. Guns, girls, old-fashioned vices. Sionis... he's creating a new one. He's not just filling a vacuum; he's building a new empire from the ground up." He shook his head, a grim respect in his eye. "He always was more ambitious than Cobblepot. And far more cruel.”
He finished his drink and set it down with a sharp tap. "But that's not the only thing that kept you occupied all night, is it? I can see it. There's something else."
Bruce was silent for a beat too long. Harvey knew him too well. He slid an evidence photo from his cape and placed it on the desk. It showed a crime scene, grotesquely staged. A victim, posed on a park bench, their head tilted back as if gazing at the stars. A small, old-fashioned oil lamp sat glowing on the ground beside them.
"His third," Bruce said quietly. "The press is calling him 'The Lamplighter.'"
Harvey picked up the photo, his dual-focused mind wrestling with the image. "He leaves a lit lamp at every scene. Why?"
"He's illuminating something. Or someone." Bruce tapped another photo, a close-up of the victim's forearm. A small, neat symbol was carved into the skin: a stylized, weeping eye. "This was under the sleeve. It wasn't on the first two victims. He's escalating. Communicating."
"And the connection between the victims?" Harvey asked, his lawyer's mind latching onto motive.
"None. A dockworker, a socialite, a priest. No overlapping circles, no known enemies in common." Bruce’s jaw tightened. "He's choosing them at random, or based on a criteria we can't see. He's not angry. He's... methodical. Ritualistic."
Harvey leaned forward, his voice dropping. "And you think Sionis's new drug and a psychopath who carves symbols into his victims are connected?"
"I don't believe in coincidence, Harvey. Not in this city." Bruce gathered the photo. "Sionis is creating a placid, obedient herd. The Lamplighter is culling individuals with a message I can't yet read. Two different kinds of poison, both spreading through Gotham's veins at the same time."
Harvey was quiet for a long moment, processing. Then he let out a short breath, almost amused. "So it’s official then. Gotham welcomed two new predators. You've really got your work cut out for you, playing whack-a-mole with the city's psychosis."
"I'm not playing a game, Harvey."
"Aren't you?" Harvey challenged, leaning forward again, the firelight carving his face into stark planes of light and shadow. "You build this... fortress. You collect broken things—orphans, disgraced lawyer... You surround yourself with the very damage you're supposedly fighting to prevent. Why? Because you think you can fix us? Or because you need us to be broken so you always have a reason to be the one holding the glue?"
The question hung in the air, vicious and honest. Bruce looked away, toward the fire. He couldn't answer it.
The silence stretched, becoming something softer. Harvey leaned back, swirling the whiskey in his glass.
"Speaking of broken things... I saw the society pages. Veronica Vreeland? Again?" He let out a dry, rattling laugh. "What is this, the third act? She's about as deep as a shot glass, Bruce. A trust-fund lawyer who's never seen the inside of a courtroom. All glitter and no gold. It doesn't suit you. The vacuous redhead act."
Bruce gave a noncommittal grunt, taking a sip. "She's... lively."
"Lively," Harvey snorted. "She's a distraction. A very expensive, very public one." His good eye narrowed, the gaze turning penetrating. "Let's be honest. We both know your type. She doesn’t fit the pattern."
Bruce met his gaze, a flicker of warning in his eyes. "And what type is that, Harvey?"
Harvey's smile was a twisted, knowing thing. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial rasp. "Beautiful, broken, and catastrophically dangerous." He huffed, looking incredibly pleased with himself. "Selina. Talia. Hell, even that archaeologist... what was her name? The one with the dagger collection. You don't want a partner, Bruce. You want a puzzle you can never solve. A fight you can never win. It's why the pretty socialites never last. They're not a threat. They don't sharpen your edges."
The air grew thick. The pretense of discussing cases and social lives evaporated, leaving something raw and decades-old in its place. Bruce didn't deny it. He just stared at Harvey, at the living, breathing embodiment of his own definition.
“Maybe I just have a thing for lawyers," Bruce murmured, his voice low.
Harvey let out a sharp, genuine laugh. It transformed his face, for a second making the scars seem less a horror and more a part of a complex, tragic whole. "Too late for that, Bruce. The bar's been disbarred. Literally."
He reached for the decanter to refill his glass, but his gloved hand brushed against Bruce's bare one. The contact was electric. Both men froze.
The careful distance they maintained, the walls of argument and history, crumbled in that silent, darkened room. Bruce didn't pull away. He turned his hand, his fingers gently closing around Harvey's wrist. The leather of the glove was cool, but the pulse beneath it was racing.
Harvey’s good eye widened slightly, the bravado melting into something vulnerable and shockingly open. "Bruce..."
That was all it took. Bruce stood, pulling Harvey up with him. The movement was swift, inevitable. They were chest to chest, the height difference negligible, the tension that had simmered for months finally boiling over.
It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was a collision—a desperate, hungry press of lips that tasted of expensive whiskey and shared ruin. Harvey's hands came up, one gripping Bruce's shoulder, the other tangling in his hair, pulling him closer as if trying to bridge the chasm between his two halves. Bruce’s arms wrapped around him, holding him together as much as he was holding him close.
When they finally broke apart, breathing ragged, foreheads resting together, the only sound was the crackle of the fire.
Harvey let out a shaky breath, a ghost of a laugh. "Well," he rasped. "That's one way to end an argument."
A faint, real smile touched Bruce's lips. "We weren't arguing."
"No," Harvey agreed, his voice soft. "I guess we really weren't."
Bruce captured his lips again, deeper, more assured this time. The initial shock gave way to raw, consuming need. He crowded Harvey backward until the small of his back met the solid edge of the oak table. The decanter rattled precariously. Bruce paid it no mind. His hands roamed over the tense muscles of Harvey’s shoulders, down his spine, gripping his hips to pull their bodies flush.
A low, ragged groan escaped Harvey, a sound Bruce hadn’t heard from him for a while, stripped of anger and pain, leaving only want. Bruce buried his face in the crook of Harvey's neck, his lips tracing the jagged, sensitive line where scarred tissue met smooth skin. Harvey shuddered, his head falling back.
"God..." It was a plea, a confession.
Drunk on the taste of him, on the feel of this long-denied honesty, Bruce slid a hand down Harvey's thigh, hiking it higher until it hooked around his hip. The shift pressed their erections together, a jolt of frictionless heat that made them both gasp. Bruce ground against him, slow and deliberate, until Harvey clawed at his shoulders, his breath coming in sharp, uneven pants.
"Off," Bruce growled, pushing him back onto the table, fingers fumbling with the buttons of Harvey's waistcoat and shirt. "I need to feel you.” He shoved the fabrics aside, exposing the pale, scar-strewn terrain of his chest, and lowered his head, mouth tracing a wet, burning trail down the taut line of his stomach.
And then, as he looked up, his gaze, hazy with desire, swept past Harvey's shoulder—towards the door.
It was slightly ajar.
There, in the shadowy crack, was a sliver of a face. Tim’s face, pale and stunned, his eyes wide with confusion.
Their eyes met for a single, suspended second.
Bruce froze, his body going rigid.
Sensing the sudden shift, Harvey followed his line of sight. A low, guttural sound, half-snarl, half-sigh of frustration, escaped him. "Damn it."
In an instant, Bruce was across the room, yanking the library door fully open. The hallway beyond was empty and dark, a yawning mouth of silence.
But on the dark wooden floor, just outside the threshold, lay a single, small, white rook. Toppled on its side.