The workbench was a mess of order, folders stacked, notes fanned across. At the far end lay Todd's collection of missing persons reports. Twelve had been pulled from Gotham's Vanished Persons Network, ten scrawled by hand from faces he'd met in Little Saigon. Todd didn't have a solid link, but followed the pattern; gone on weekends, all petite, all Asian, all quiet types.
Bruce hunched over a dissected white mouse, its insides pinned open with long post-mortem needles. He scratched notes into a pad.
A timer buzzed.
At the edge of the bench, an overhead lamp spilled its cold glow over a scatter of vials and stained glassware.
Bruce moved in, eyes on the short vial. His gut said the liquid inside would echo what killed Annh Le. But guessing wasn't enough. He reached for a lined rack of assay tubes, thumbed through the strips like pages. Each one was rigged to light up for plant-based toxins: alkaloids, saponins, tannins. He fed in the sample, drop by drop.
He waited.
Nothing. No shift in color. No sediment clouding the bottom. No faint glow beneath the UV lamp. Dead silence. Not botanical.
He went again, faster now. A species-specific precipitin test. He cracked open a fresh microplate, slotted in wells prepped with canine, feline, rodent antisera. Dosed each one with the sample. Watched.
Clear. Every one of them. No reaction, no trace.
He sat back, the air heavy in his chest. Only one route left. Even though it was was unlikely, he had to test it. He pulled a vial marked for human antiserum, drew up a new tube, hands steady. Introduced the reagent.
The reaction was immediate. Clouding and clumping. Positive.
He stared. "Not possible."
Still watching the tube, he reached for a dropper of iodine. One drop.
The mix bloomed dark blue.
Starch had broken down. Amylase was present which meant saliva.
He set up one last assay, hunting for endogenous alkaloids. The reaction came fast, violent. The liquid turned a rusted orange, like dried blood in rain. It was a toxin born from a human, but how was that possible?
He poured the rest into a centrifuge tube, keyed the spinner. Two minutes later, it split. Clear ethanol floating above a thick, viscous sludge. The smell hit first. Sour and mucosal.
The alcohol hadn't preserved it. Only stretched it thin.
Bruce crossed to the console. A small monitor glowed above the keyboard, larger screens stuttering in the dark behind him. He entered the data. Names. Timestamps. Chemical traces.
Behind him, footsteps approached. A tray rattled with dishes.
"Oh dear," Alfred said softly. "I see Mickey didn't make it."
Bruce typed harder, offering no reply.
"I take it you've found the dosage?"
No answer.
Alfred set the tray on the bench and leaned in, reading the screen over Bruce's shoulder. "Meticulous as ever, Master Wayne."
Bruce's fingers stilled. The phrase hung in the air. Then he stood, letting Alfred continue.
"Poison of human origin?" Alfred murmured.
Bruce lifted the teapot, poured into a cup, took a sip and grimaced. "Chamomile?" He set it down with a sharp clink. "I hate tea."
"I'll overlook that heresy," Alfred said, calm as stone. "Chamomile has no caffeine. I assume you'll be retiring for the morning."
Bruce's gaze slid to the pinned mouse. "Eighty to a hundred milligrams. Same as a rattlesnake bite. Though this sample's diluted."
"But we can assume that's what Ms. Le received," Alfred said.
"I'll have to make a stop in Buxton," Bruce said, dropping into the chair before the console and resumed typing.
Alfred checked his pocket watch. "So you're hopeful he won't sever ties after your…message."
Bruce's fingers froze. "No. But he should know what was found."
The keys clattered again.
"You underestimate Detective Gordon's gift for rationalizing. He understands rules are sometimes meant to be broken. Otherwise why would team up with a vigilante."
Bruce shifted the subject. "The two men at Pham's place were Robert "Bobby" Iverson and William "Billy" Westcox from Vice. They were involved somehow, and have likely burned any evidence."
"You know what might've helped with that?"
Bruce shot him a look.
"No," he said flatly, eyes back on the screen.
Alfred's mouth curved. "He held his own against you in a fight."
Bruce didn't answer.
"You're both reckless. Disciplined. Aware of the cost. And foolish enough to continue. He's useful."
Bruce typed on.
"These talks, Master Wayne," Alfred said softly. "They're the highlight of my mornings."
Bruce ignored him.
"Consider last night's lesson," Alfred went on. "Not only the losses. The wins too. Gotham's rot runs deep. Your hands alone won't dig it out."
"This isn't sport. It's risk. I'll stake my life. But no one else's."
"Hm." A faint note of judgment colored Alfred's reply.
Bruce's head lifted. "What?"
"Your sources?"
"I don't ask them to bleed for me."
Alfred coughed softly. Cleared his throat.
"She's not like the others."
Alfred smiled. "They never are, sir."
"You know what I mean. Freckles does what she wants, even when I caution against it."
"And Gordon?"
Bruce leaned back. "What about him?" The irritation was clear.
"My point is this: Everyone who works with you risks something. Even if it's just talking to you—that's risk enough in this city."
Alfred's words hit a nerve he couldn't ignore. But the hesitation ran deeper than risking someone else's life, it was about trust. What did he really know about Jason Todd?
"Being my eyes and ears isn't the same as knowing my name. That's a thread that could unravel everything."
"It's a risk, yes, but sometimes they are necessary."
"I can't risk trusting the wrong person."
"Detective Gordon took that gamble."
"He didn't have a choice."
"There's always a choice. Even when the last option is retreat. He could've let himself be run out of Gotham. Instead, he worked with you. And if this had come out under the previous A.D.A., Gordon's situation would be much more dire."
Alfred turned toward the staircase and disappeared.
Bruce stared at the console. He knew Alfred was right at least about Gordon. The last few nights clawed at him.
Every misstep, every failure.
He glanced at his watch, jaw tight.
Then ducked his head and typed faster.