Dressed in a tight, glossy black suit and wearing a cat‑eared mask, the silhouette walked in perfect silence. No sound, no moves from the cells. Isaac opened his mouth, not sure what to say. His eyes never left that silhouette. The sickly yellow neon never quite reached her.
"Do I-"
With a faint smile, she put one finger on his mouth as she grabbed something from her thigh pocket. It was soft. It wasn't bad.
Isaac finally closed his mouth, and gulped. He felt a bit hot. Did she come for him ? They'd never met before, so why ? do I, daydreaming again?
With one glance, she selected two different sizes claws from the tool. The slightly hooked tips aligned with no resistance inside the door lock. Both inserted, with a flick of her wrist it produced a small 'click'. The door was open. Isaac's heart beat faster. Do I go?
He got up halfway when she crouched down, past him.
"Waky wakey, little princess.", she whispered in the ears of one drunkard. Seeing no reaction, she winked at isaac, who was half‑standing. She pressed tightly a brown cloth over the drunkard mouth and pinched his nose with her other hand.
"hmmadsd ara... hrrrmph", the man grunted eyes wide open. Face against the ground, hands locked from the back, his chest breathed in with difficulty.
"It's okay, its okay"
"Who ?", he tried to look up, but the angle didn't permit him at all.
"Darling, the code."
"What bit-", force pressed on his neck. His vision filled with tiny bright spots. "I cant breath, I can't-", the pressure relaxed a bit. He didn't try to roll on the side, firm legs straddled his back. He was too weak. He took as much air as he could. "1...82...0.. please go..."
"Hmmmm", she purred, finishing the first knot over his eyes with deliberate slowness, ignoring his feebly squirm. "I can get it from Jeremy instead-" The second round tighten, blocking any light. "-but why waste time. Little me, know about, 47 Kane Street, Gotham Dockya-", her knot almost finished when the drunkard made her slipped off his back.
"...no, no... no you can't...", his voice lowered even more. The cloth wettened a bit. Drunk or not, there was things he couldn't let go.
She leaned closer, her voice a velvet blade against his ear. "Try again. Properly. Or I walk out of here and play a bit to the docks myself. Jeremy's chatty when he's scared."
"...leave me... alone.", but the weight on his back stayed, heavy. "15...0..8.", the numbers came out broken, barely a whisper. He curled tighter into a fetal ball, no fight left.
"Darling, if only we understood each other from the start.", the woman didn't glance back. With the same natural grace as she came in, she strolled away, but this time, her hips swung stronger. "Like what you see, kido ?", she left from the front door, blowing a kiss to the perturbed teen.
Watching the open door, Isaac hesitated. He could go. Nobody would stop him. But. He shouldn't. Not now. At most 3 more days before release and he could go. No need to play hooligan and make it worse for his mother. He could wait. Eyes closed, his mind couldn't stop thinking about a certain black suit.
"Fuck", Isaac whispered. Under his skull, it pulsed.
Next morning, the detective leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, eyes locked on Isaac like he was reading a crime scene. Yesterday, he learned about this case. Another wasted teen in this city. First time it seems, but that violence. That violence almost cost too much if not for the dark knight. Justice is not powerless, but they are overwhelmed, overloaded, over everything.
"Sit down. Good. Now look at me.", his finger tapped his arm. Once, twice, thrice, it didn't stop. Isaac sat. The chair too big for him, and cold. The fluorescent light buzzed overhead, harsh and unforgiving. "Rage Juice. Where'd you get it?"
"I don't—"
"Bullshit.", he slammed his palm flat on the metal table. The sound cracked through the room. "Nobody walks around with 3,200 ng/dL of testosterone in their blood. That's three, four times normal. You're not on some miracle supplement. So where the hell did it come from?"
Isaac opened his mouth again. The detective cut him off with a raised hand. He rubbed his eyes—another double shift, another kid who didn't know shit.
"Shut it. Listen. Was it for the high? The power rush? You liked feeling like you could smash anyone who looked at you wrong?"
"I didn't mean—"
"Didn't mean to?", the detective's voice dropped, sharp and mocking. "You almost beat two guys to death with a metal bar. Blood on your hands, literally. For what? To feel like a man? To prove you're not the scared kid who got shot in the head?"
Isaac's fists clenched under the table. His knuckles went white. Blood rushed.
"It was Frank, wasn't it?", the detective leaned in, voice low now, almost conspiratorial. "Your old buddy Frank. The one who turned school into a shooting gallery. He slipped you some, right? "Here, take this—it'll make you strong.""
"No. Frank had nothing to do with it."
"Always the same excuse.", he let out a short, bitter laugh. "You're nothing, kid. Just another junkie following in his loser friend's footsteps. And you know what? I can keep you locked up for the rest of your life if I want. So let's try this again: where did you get the Rage Juice?"
Silence stretched. Isaac stared at the table, throat tight. His head hurt. Some white noise filled his ears.
The detective waited, then slammed the table again—harder.
"Answer me!"
"SHUT UP!", Isaac didn't control himself, he was on his feet before he realized it. The table flipped sideways with a metallic screech. Veins burned under his skin like live wires. "Stop talking", his hands clamped his ears. Warm blood trickled between his fingers. One arm lashed out, knocking the taller detective sideways like he weighed nothing.
On the ground, the detective studied him for a long beat. How was it possible, the effect should have stopped hours ago. That strength... Then he exhaled, the anger draining into something closer to exhaustion—the kind that comes from seeing too many kids like this in Gotham. He gritted his teeth and stood up.
"I don't know. I swear. I don't even remember taking anything.", his voice was quiet, almost lost.
Facing the teen, he directed to the exit. "You're lucky I'm not in the mood to beat the truth out of you tonight.", his left hand couldn't move, everything from the elbow down was on fire. "But believe me: if you keep lying, it won't be three days in holding. It'll be the rest of your goddamn life."
The door slammed shut behind him.
Another policeman escorted Isaac back to his cell under the flickering light, alone with the echo of the questions—and the nagging feeling that maybe he really didn't know where the rage had come from. He never was that strong. Something never left now, an itch somewhere behind his brain.
Later, when the light faded out but the work never stopped, the detective limped out of the interrogation room, left arm hanging useless at his side, pain throbbing from elbow to shoulder. No partner to tag in, no relief shift waiting in the bullpen. Just him, the ache, and the endless grind of a city that never slept and never healed.
Just another night in Gotham.
The third day dragged like wet concrete. The cell block smelled of bleach and old piss, the same fluorescent hum that never quite shut off. The 'little princess' was released yesterday, avoiding Isaac's gaze. For hours, he counted the gunshot from his cell, no less than twenty three and it was here, near the police station. What a city.
Meals came on trays through the slot—gray protein sludge, bread that tasted like cardboard. He ate mechanically, not because he was hungry, but because there was nothing else to do. After the last interrogation they'd isolated him. Too violent, they said. Too stressed. Funny thing: the stress had faded. Something else remained.
Emma had come twice. Work or not, her son took priority.
The first time was yesterday, after the first interrogation. She'd sat on the other side of the scratched Plexiglas, eyes red-rimmed, voice cracking through the phone receiver.
"I talked to the lawyer. They're dropping the worst charges—self-defense on the street fight, no priors. But the assault on the detective... that's still hanging." She'd pressed her palm to the glass. Isaac had matched it, fingers trembling.
"I'm sorry, Mom."
"Don't be sorry. It wasn't... truly your fault."
He'd nodded, throat too tight to speak. Was it truly, not his fault? That swing never was this strong. Nor this fast. Nor him.
She left promising to be back today.
She was.
Mid-morning, same booth, same scratched glass. This time she looked smaller, like the city had carved another piece out of her.
"They ran more tests," she said quietly. "Your levels are coming down. The doctor said it's flushing out—whatever it was. But they want to keep monitoring."
Isaac stared at her hand on the glass.
"Did they say what it was?"
Emma hesitated.
She looked away.
"Some kind of... supercharged steroid. Rage Juice, they called it. They think it was in something you ate or drank. But you don't remember, right?"
"No."
He didn't. Not really. That day blurred, the school, the theft after he saw that girl near the old church. Quite pale. Pretty. Those violet eyes...
Emma's voice dropped. "They asked if I knew anyone who might've given it to you. I said no. But Isaac... if it was Frank—"
"It wasn't.", his face hardened. Why do they always bring him up. He almost killed him. How could he possibly have gotten it from Frank. Familiar noise filled his ears.
She searched his face. Saddened.
"Okay. I believe you.", a lie, maybe. Or hope. She always chose hope. "Seven more hours, then you're out. I'll be waiting outside.", she left before the guard knocked on the door.
He nodded again. The glass felt colder this time.
They didn't give him long to breathe.
Moved from here to there.
The last interrogation came right after. Same detective—arm in a sling now, face bruised from whatever fight he'd broken up last night. He didn't slam the table this time. Just sat, tired, voice flat. Soon this case will be history. No longer his problem, at least for a while.
"Levels are dropping. 1,800 ng/dL this morning. Still high, but not homicide high. Doctor says you're clean enough to walk.", the detective rubbed his good hand over his face. Another night like yesterday and he would force that doctor for a leave. Where did all that overtime money go every month? Not in his pocket.
Isaac waited.
"I've seen kids like you before.", he paused. Many faces blurred over the teen. Many fates he encountered. "One bad day, one bad hit, and it spirals. You're not there yet. Don't go there.", no threats this time. Just exhaustion.
Isaac almost said something. Almost asked about the itch that hadn't left—the pressure behind his eyes, the way his fingers sometimes twitched like they wanted to bend steel. Or what are the side effect of the Rage Juice. How the other cases looked like.
He didn't.
He wasn't a junckie.
That wasn't his fault.
That stuff, those actions, they weren't him.
The detective stood. "Paperwork's processing. You're out by 16:00. Stay out of trouble, kid. Gotham's got enough ghosts already."
They didn't even let him sit back in the cell.
They left him in the waiting room.
An empty 'room'.
For two hours.
The medical exam was last. Another test, another sample taken, another process. A bored doctor in a white coat, two orderlies watching from the door like he might flip the exam table too. Blood draw. Vitals. Reflexes. The doctor frowned at the tablet.
"Testosterone's at 1,200 now. Still elevated, but trending normal. No metabolites left—whatever ester it was, it's gone fast. Too fast.", he looked up.
"You feel anything off? Headaches? Rage spikes?"
Isaac thought of the itch. The way his pulse had roared when the detective pushed too hard. The way the metal bar had felt light in his hand that night in the alley.
"No"
The doctor shrugged. "Fine. You're cleared.", he signaled the orderlies the end of the exam. No accident this time. He hoped the day would stay quiet.
They walked him back to his cell.
Back in the cell, waiting for release. Isaac pressed his forehead to the cool wall. Closed his eyes.
He pictured the Church of Blood—the crimson scapulars, the old monk with the bread, the girl with violet eyes who'd stared at him. Did he look good?
He pictured Emma waiting outside the gates in three hours, tired smile, car keys in hand.
He pictured Frank's face the day of the shooting—blank, distant, shotgun smoking.
Wherever you are, I'll find you.