Beneath the north end of Elm Street, where the Narrows met North B, he stood ankle-deep in sewage. His cape dragged through black water as he waited, alone in the dark, flipping through mental notes. Thirty-six dates, three known victims, Iverson, a demon, and rituals.
He had seen strange things in this city. Cruel things. Broken things. But this felt wrong in a way that struck close. It gnawed at him. Made him question the plan, the descent, the tunnels.
Todd's voice crackled in his ear. "These two detectives—do they know my name?"
"No."
"Does Gordon?"
"No."
A click. Static.
Alfred's voice slipped in. "So does this mean you've taken the young sleuth under your wing?"
"No."
A brief second of silence then Alfred cut in, "Do try to contain your emotions, Master Wayne. It's unbecoming."
He ignored him, but questions trickled in. He didn't know what Jason Todd was. Ally? Source? Liability? But, what mattered was simple. He was useful, a pair of eyes in the dark where he couldn't be.
The manhole cover scraped aside. Gordon stepped down, boots splashing. His beige coat dragged, soaking at the hem. He thumbed on a flashlight, its beam caught on a pipe then bounced off the wet concrete, hitting him full in the face.
He winced, raised a hand, his mask was sensitive to direct light.
"Sorry," Gordon muttered, lowering the torch. "How far is the entrance?"
"A few yards," he said, moving past Gordon and keeping the light at his back.
They moved in silence, boots sloshing through sewage. Each step sent echoes across the tunnel. Gordon's flashlight jittered ahead, its beam breaking across the murk. Above them, traffic passed with a steady groan.
"So," said Gordon, "What's your take on the case so far?"
He didn't answer. Not right away. A few more steps, then:
"Iverson and his men built a circle around Bael for ritual sacrifices. In return, they believe the demon made them invisible."
Gordon's brow furrowed. "Why though?"
"The drug runs." He stopped where the current funneled into a narrow hole in the wall. Water gurgled as it drained. "Falcone owns the docks which forced Carter to move product through bridges and tunnels. But the Russians kept stealing it."
He crouched, peered into the opening. "Carter or Iverson pitched a deal, but it was a risk. If Loeb found out Iverson was working off the books, he'd lose more than his badge."
"He wanted to be invisible," Gordon said, angling his light into the tight space.
"I'll go first," he told Gordon, then slid forward and vanished into the hole.
The crawl was tight. He pressed out a breath to squeeze through, shoulders dragging, palms skimming damp stone. Water trickled into a fissure beneath him and disappeared into the dark. He kept moving, until finally pulling himself free of the passage.
Behind him, the flashlight's beam bounced against the walls. When Gordon's head broke through, he reached out a hand. Gordon clasped it and pulled himself up.
"That brought back some unpleasant memories." A rare crack of humor. Especially from Gordon.
They hunched low in the narrow tunnel. Dust clung to the stone, brushing off like ash. They kept south, scanning the walls, the floor, watching for any sign that someone else had passed this way.
At a fork, Gordon stuck to the main path. He veered left, checked a few yards of side tunnel, then slipped back beside him. No words. Just the sound of boots and breath, and the slow press of silence as they moved on.
Then Gordon spoke.
"The whole eye-for-an-eye thing."
He didn't slow, didn't turn. He'd expected this, maybe not here, but somewhere.
"You told me it wasn't revenge. You said it was balance. Evening the scales of justice."
"It wasn't revenge."
A soft click in his ear. Alfred: "Hmm."
His lip curled in annoyance.
"I'd hate to see what it looks like if it ever gets personal," Gordon said.
"I had to act. If I didn't, anyone who spoke to me would be a target. They'd be fair game. It was strategy."
He heard nothing behind him. No footsteps. He turned.
Gordon held the flashlight off to the side, but his eyes didn't move. He just stared with an expression that was flat and quiet.
It hit the same way Freckles looked at him when something he said gave away more than he meant. He didn't like it then, and he didn't like it now.
"Your strategy works on the street," Gordon said, tipping his head toward the ceiling. "But GCPD isn't a street game. It's bureaucracy. Loeb's people cleared their desks on the fifth floor. Internal Affairs is crawling all over Uptown. I don't know if that means Loeb's planning something, or if they're scared. Either way, not all of us can outrun the law."
"I'm aware."
"If this is really about balance, then we have to work together."
"I thought we were," he said, walking.
"I don't just mean you and me," Gordon called after him. "Dent wants in. The guys are a mixed bag, but if you really want to change things, we do it with them. It's the only way this sticks."
He listened, but didn't slow. His eyes kept scanning, his mind already turning the angles. More people meant more risk. More ways it could fall apart.
Then he saw it. A footprint. Small. No more than eight inches.
"Footprints," he said, and Gordon fell silent.
They followed the prints deeper into the tunnel. Two trails of the same feet but walking different directions.
"She must've come this way. Then turned back."
"She?" said Gordon.
"Annh Le. She was barefoot."
The tracks led to a section of wall where they clustered, overlapping in front of a smooth slab of stone. He crouched, ran a gloved hand across the surface.
"It's a door," he muttered.
His fingers found a groove near the top. He pulled. A dull click echoed down the tunnel.
Gordon stepped aside and drew his pistol.
The stone split open.
He went in first. Gordon followed.
The chamber matched the photographs. An open floor, scorched with the blackened symbol of Bael, burned deep into the concrete. At one end, shelves lined the wall filled with melted candles, cracked skulls, streaks of wax hardened like veins. And near the far wall, a steel door sealed with four bolt locks.
Gordon stopped at a shelf stacked with shoeboxes wedged between bones. He pulled one free.
"What's inside?"
"Polaroids," Gordon said. "Same as the others."
"There's another room."
He stood before the door as Gordon's beam lit the steel. The bottom edge was warped, the metal bent inward just enough to leave a narrow gap about eight inches wide.
He crouched, careful to keep his face a few feet back. Through the opening, he saw what looked like a well. Its barred cover had been ripped open. The rusted metal bent outward like something forced its way out.
Then something moved. Fast. Gone before he could follow it.
Gordon stepped forward, reaching for the locks.
"Don't," he said. "There's someone, or something, in there."
Gordon froze. Suspicion crept across his face. He glanced at the door, then raised his voice.
"This is Detective Gordon. I'm not here to hurt you. Is anyone inside?"
Silence.
Gordon lowered his voice. "Meltcher said Nguyen's hand was holding snake skin. Could be an animal."
A loud bang. The door jumped in its frame. Another strike forced a skull to topple from a shelf and roll across the floor. A third strike and dust began to fall in sheets.
"That's not a snake," Gordon muttered.
Then a loud roar.
Gordon covered his ears with his hands, still holding the flashlight.
"We need to move, Jim."
Something slammed repeatedly into the door. The steel rang like a bell, its bolts groaned with each impact.
They backed out fast, dragging the stone door shut behind them. Gordon turned, ready to retrace their path.
"No," he shouted. "Main Street entrance is closer!"
Behind the stone came another crash. Then the sound of metal scraping against stone.
"Run," he said.