The granite facade of GCPD headquarters looked like it was crawling with beetles. Dawn had barely broken, but the broadcast vans had already swarmed in, their blinding headlights weaving together into a dizzying pool of light that illuminated every weather-stained streak on the building's gray columns and stone steps. Microphones, cameras, portable recorders, every device capable of making sound or capturing an image, was raised high under the dim sky, all pointing toward the iron gate behind the fence.
The last time Marco had seen this many people mobbing a building was during a Walmart Black Friday sale. Now it was Gotham Police Headquarters' turn.
"Commissioner! Is the monster real?"
"Commissioner Loeb! What are the casualty numbers?"
"Are there any witnesses? Please confirm the rumors that three crime dens were hit last night!"
"Is it a secret military weapon or a new urban legend?"
"Is he a murderer, Commissioner?"
"Is he a savior?"
The waves of voices crashed against the doors of headquarters again and again. The police line outside the fence was already buckling under pressure, bodies pressed tight against cold iron bars, sweat soaking through the backs of uniforms. Officers stretched out their arms, trying in vain to hold back the unstoppable tide. Orders shouted until throats burned were swallowed by the chaos.
"Back up! Back up! Keep your distance!"
"Push any farther and we'll use force!"
Everyone was shouting. Camera flashes erupted nonstop. The rapid-fire shutters crackled.
"To be honest, I don't understand why they're so excited. The commissioner hasn't even shown up yet."
Marco had barely gotten twenty minutes of sleep after returning to the precinct before the phone rang, ordering him to report immediately to headquarters for potential media questioning. Now he was leaning back against a pillar in the lobby, chair tipped on its back legs, yawning.
He glanced at Gordon standing nearby. As expected, the quintessential boy scout had volunteered for Christmas duty without a second thought.
But seriously, you're a father. Leaving a kid alone in the dark on Christmas night?
If Gotham's CPS wasn't complete garbage, he would've called them on Gordon himself.
"You think Loeb came in this early on his own, or did Falcone shove him out the door?"
Gordon shot him a look, not really wanting to engage. He'd received gifts from Thompkins via Marco. Even if Marco had made some fair points, the whole situation still felt awkward. Pride was a hell of a thing.
"Maybe," Gordon muttered vaguely.
Footsteps clattered behind them. Both men felt a hand slap their shoulders as Loeb hurried past, whispering urgently, "With me."
"Oh wow. Celebrity treatment," Marco grumbled, pushing himself off the chair. He followed, but regretted it the moment they stepped outside.
Walking through those doors felt like stepping into a lightning storm. The flashes were so intense he couldn't keep his eyes open.
"Commissioner Loeb! This way! Over here!"
The reporters went feral. A forest of arms stretched over the fence, microphones nearly jabbing Loeb in the face. Questions pelted him.
"Please describe the scene! Any survivors?"
"Did the 'Shadow' use lethal force?"
"Has the suspect list been narrowed down?"
Loeb stopped halfway up the steps. He raised a hand to quiet them, cleared his throat, and spoke, "Regarding the incident last night, the police are conducting a full investigation. At this time, we cannot disclose further details. We urge citizens to remain calm, provide lawful information, and refrain from spreading unverified rumors that may incite panic. Any form of vigilantism or violence is a violation of the law, and the police will pursue legal accountability—"
"Legal accountability?"
A female reporter cut in immediately, her microphone pointed like a blade.
"Commissioner, are you saying the police have already categorized this 'vigilante' as a criminal? Were his actions last night crimes? And the drug deal he stopped, was that also 'a violation of the law'?"
Loeb's jaw tightened. His eyes darted left and right, and he immediately shifted tactics.
"The officer beside me is Marco Vitale. He tracked the shadow throughout the entire incident last night. For operational details, you may direct your questions to him."
Wait. What?
How the hell did this become my problem?
Marco was instantly blinded by a barrage of flashes. A row of microphones thrust toward his face.
"Officer! Witnesses claim they saw a massive bat-shaped shadow! A driver said someone dented his roof! Those thugs were hung from traffic lights, some were seriously injured, how do you explain that?"
Marco cleared his throat and tapped one of the microphones.
"Uh... well, there's no evidence proving that shadow actually exists. At least, I didn't see it with my own eyes. Even if it did exist, all I can say is... what a piece of work."
He shook his head. For a heartbeat, silence washed over the crowd. Even Loeb and Gordon turned to stare at him.
"Legally speaking, he caused a series of severe injuries and created widespread panic in the city. Some people might think he's fighting crime. But from a law enforcement standpoint, I'd classify his actions as irresponsible and childish. On Christmas Eve, no less, leaving the East End precinct's thirty-thousand-a-year overworked officers to clean up his mess. He's just venting his own frustrations, scattering people and potential evidence everywhere."
But just as he finished, a completely different voice shouted from the outer edge of the crowd.
"He's not human! He's a shadow! A living shadow!"
Every head snapped toward the voice. In the corner stood a homeless man reeking of sour rot, pulling a filthy blanket tighter around himself. His whole body trembled violently. His murky eyes still held the terror of lingering nightmares.
"I saw him! Behind the warehouse... darker than a shadow! Huge! He leaped down from the top of the wall in a single bound! Those guys with guns... with knives... they screamed like rats in boiling water! I heard... I heard bones breaking! Crack! Crack! And metal... metal wailing! He tore things apart... like ripping open wrapping paper! He... he looked at me once... Those eyes... my God... those weren't human eyes! They were a monster's! A monster crawled out of hell!"
His voice cut off abruptly, as if strangled by the very horror he was describing. Only ragged, terrified breathing remained. His words hit the crowd, instantly provoking gasps and an explosion of frenzied flashes.
"Officer, is what he said true?"
"Officer, how do you explain that what he described is completely different from your statement?!"
Marco let out a laugh. "The witness is right there. If you trust him so much, why are you asking me? Go ask him."
Some reporters hesitated and shifted toward the homeless man. Most of them, however, seemed to decide the police were still marginally more credible than a street person. But by the time they turned back, Marco had already shoved the microphone back into Loeb's hands.
"The law draws a clear line!" Loeb continued. "No individual, regardless of motive, has the right to place themselves above it and use violence at will! The Gotham Police Department is fully capable of maintaining—"
Just as he was delivering his righteous speech, someone in the very front of the crowd moved.
It was a teenager. Thin as a reed that might snap in the wind. He wore an oversized T-shirt that hung loosely on his frame, and his face was lit by a wild, feverish fire in his eyes. He'd been standing there silently all along.
And at this moment, that inner fire erupted.
He let out a hoarse cry, grabbed the collar of his washed-to-gray T-shirt with both hands, and tore it apart with all his strength.
Riiiiip!
The sound of tearing fabric sliced through every other noise. The boy's chest was exposed to the cold air and countless stunned, horrified stares.
And in the center of that bony, heaving chest, a symbol was branded into his skin.
It was so fresh the surrounding flesh was still red and swollen. Tiny blisters and seeping fluid were visible around the edges. The lines were rough and simple, yet carried a violent, unnerving power, two sharp ears thrust upward, and a pair of massive wings stretched to both sides. The deep crimson edges blended irregularly into his skin.
A bat.
Time froze.
All sound vanished. Only the camera flashes continued by instinct, firing in rapid succession. Each burst of light struck the brand, making the dark red bat emblem sharper.
The boy stood with his chest thrust forward. His eyes locked onto the officers on the steps.
Marco felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up.
This wasn't just some random punk showing off. This kid believed. You could see it in his eyes, that fanatic devotion people only got when they found something worth dying for.
And he'd branded himself. He'd taken something hot, probably a coat hanger heated over a stove, and pressed it into his own flesh. The smell of burned skin probably still lingered in whatever shithole apartment he'd done it in.
Loeb stood frozen, blood rushing to his head before draining away. The rest of his prepared speech died in his throat.
For a moment, he looked like a man staring into an abyss. And that abyss was being torn wider by this one kid with a bat burned into his chest.
"The... the investigation is ongoing," he stammered. "We will... uh... we will apprehend this lunatic as soon as possible. Detective James Gordon will take over this case."
Then he turned and practically fled toward the building.
The moment he turned, the long-awaited rain finally began to fall. Sparse drops quickly formed a sharp curtain, striking the stone steps, the brims of officers' hats, the microphones and camera lenses held high, and the faces in the crowd.
The rainwater pooled quickly, streaming down the steps, washing over dust and crushed paper cup fragments. The murky flow passed over the large GCPD emblem embedded in the ground, over the scales of justice, the city's watchtower, and the encircling olive branches. The vibrant colors blurred and ran. Under the sky, only a distorted, dark outline remained, smeared by the rain.
Gordon accepted the microphone in a daze, instinctively looking to Marco, who took the mic from his hand.
He cleared his throat and addressed the crowd.
"Under Detective Gordon's leadership, the East End precinct will fully cooperate to uncover the truth as soon as possible. However, the East End precinct is severely underfunded and understaffed. Recently, multiple officers have been injured in the line of duty. With our current resources, we can't handle further high-intensity criminal activity of this nature."
Rain dripped from the brim of his cap. He wiped it away and looked directly into the nearest camera.
"We don't want taxpayers' money wasted on ineffective policing. But we also don't want officers armed with only batons and pistols to die for nothing chasing shadows." He shook his head slowly. "Police lives matter too."
Every eye was locked onto him.
And on his face, clear as day, was written a single message:
The East End precinct needs money.