The slap snapped through the car like a gunshot.
The woman flinched, her body coiling tight as wire. Her eyes—glassy from the marijuana she'd smoked earlier—blinked rapidly, trying to clear the haze.
"What do you mean, 'dream on'?" she demanded, voice trembling but defiant.
Whether it was the drugs, Downton's cruelty, or the lingering sting of his hand on her leg that finally tipped her over the edge, she didn't know. But something in her snapped. Fear gave way to fury.
She glared at him. "Explain yourself! What's so wrong with spending money on him? Yeah, he spends my money—but at least he tries! Even a cow gives milk if you feed it! What do you give me? Nothing! You won't even spend one night—"
Bang!
The gunshot cut her off mid-sentence. Silence crashed down like a shroud.
Downton turned slowly, a cold smile playing at his lips. He glanced at the woman—now frozen, wide-eyed—and slammed the brakes.
Tires screamed.
The sudden stop threw her against the passenger seat. Before she could recover, he lunged, pinning her down with one hand while the other fired three more shots into the air—bang, bang, bang—just to remind her who was in control.
He yanked the shredded seatbelt free and used it to bind her wrists. Still not satisfied, he rummaged through the glove compartment, under the seats, until he found a pair of sheer black stockings. Without a word, he stuffed them into her mouth as a gag.
Leaning back in the driver's seat, Downton exhaled slowly, as if finally at ease. "Keep talking," he said, voice dripping with mock disappointment. "Why'd you stop? Still picking fights with robbers? Must be nice—being spoiled rotten by your congressman father."
He flicked his wrist, and she slumped against the door, dazed.
Too bored to entertain her anymore, Downton snatched her phone, opened the navigation app, and typed in "Burnley Fashion Shopping Arcade." The route loaded instantly.
Outside, traffic had backed up—six cars deep, horns blaring, drivers shouting. Downton rolled down his window, raised his pistol, and fired three rounds into the sky.
The street fell dead silent.
The drive to Burnley was peaceful—no chatter, no nonsense. That peace shattered the moment police sirens wailed in the distance.
Downton rolled down the passenger window, gripped the wheel with his left hand, and pressed the barrel of his gun to the woman's temple.
Let's see how brave they feel now.
The chase continued, but the squad cars hung back—keeping their distance. Good. The congressman's daughter still had value.
Ten minutes later, unfamiliar with the district's winding side streets, Downton skidded to a stop near the shopping arcade. He yanked open her door, hauled her out by the arm, and dragged her toward the growing line of officers.
He waved cheerfully. "Hey! Look who's back! Anyone miss me?"
His eyes locked onto a man standing just behind the front line—tall, broad-shouldered, not in uniform, but unmistakable.
"Deputy Commissioner Gordon!" Downton called out, beaming. "Fancy meeting you here."
Gordon's jaw tightened as Downton strode forward, the hostage stumbling beside him.
"Downton," Gordon said, voice low and hard. "Let go of Miss Lawrence."
"Lawrence? So that's her name," Downton mused. "Last name, I assume. Cute." He tightened his grip on her hair. "But let her go? Don't be naïve, Jim. I've got one hostage. That's all I need."
He stepped right up to the police line, forcing officers to part. Two recognized him—their hands shook on their holsters.
Ignoring them, Downton pressed the muzzle under Miss Lawrence's chin and spoke directly to Gordon. "Listen. I'm a simple guy. I don't want to hurt her. But she's got a job to do—be a hostage. You know what's at stake. The Wayne estate called you, didn't they? Alfred's been worried."
He leaned in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "So let's skip the heroics. Talk to me like I'm a person, not a monster. Maybe we walk out of this without anyone bleeding. Maybe I even go quietly—back to the station. A little… re-education."
Then, as if to underline his point, he cracked the gun butt against her temple.
She cried out behind the gag, mascara streaking down her cheeks.
But Downton? He just smiled.
Seeing the congressman's daughter crying, Gordon took a deep breath and slowly raised his hands.
"I'm unarmed," he said, voice steady. "Don't make shooting me your first choice. You've got leverage—congressman's daughter, high-profile. That means we can talk. State your demands."
"Demands?"
Downton tilted his head, considering. A slow smirk spread across his face.
"Actually, I've only got one: you and your boys in blue—stay the hell back. Give me space. Don't ruin my shopping."
Gordon blinked. Shopping?
But he kept his voice calm. "Fine. We'll stand down. Just—don't hurt her." He lifted his radio. "All units, fall back. Maintain visual, but keep your distance. Forty meters minimum."
The officers—already tense and wary—didn't hesitate. Within seconds, the perimeter dissolved into a loose, cautious ring, each officer retreating behind cover or vehicles.
Downton watched them scatter, then gave a satisfied nod. He reached up and yanked the stocking from the girl's mouth.
She gasped, coughing, then spun toward the police line. "Don't—don't listen to him! He's not—"
Click.
The cold press of Downton's pistol against her throat cut her off mid-sentence.
"Ah-ah," he murmured. "No spoilers."
She swallowed hard, eyes wide—but said nothing.
"Good girl," Downton said, patting her cheek. "Now, since you're so well-dressed… help me pick something nice. I'm thinking… Dior?"
"D-Dior?" she stammered.
"Yeah. Your dad wears it, right? Saw him on the news last week. Silver hair, red tie, looked like a walking billboard."
She hesitated—then, strangely, relaxed. "Actually… yeah. The spring collection had this amazing double-breasted coat. The cut would suit you."
Downton grinned. "Smart girl. Lead the way."
And just like that, the two strolled into the upscale mall arcade—him with a gun tucked at his side, her chatting like they were old friends.
Inside, Downton snatched a brand-new phone from a display, powered it on, and thrust it into her hands.
"Make me a Twitter. No ID, so keep it simple."
"No problem!" she said, fingers flying over the screen. "I'll even add my number. You'll need someone to text when you're bored."
"Or when I need a hostage to vouch for my fashion sense," he deadpanned.
She laughed—a real, nervous-but-genuine laugh. "Oh, you're gonna trend. Cameras are everywhere." She pointed toward the ceiling, where multiple security lenses tracked their every move. Outside, news vans lined the street, satellite dishes pointed skyward.
Back at his D.C. townhouse, Congressman Lawrence stared at the live feed on his television—mouth slightly open, fingers pressed to his temples.
"This… this isn't a kidnapping," he muttered.
On screen, his daughter adjusted Downton's collar, smiling as she showed him a jacket.
"This is a date."
He sighed. "My daughter just adopted a psycho with a shopping addiction."
And somewhere in Gotham, James Gordon rubbed his temples, already dreading the paperwork—and the press conference.