The museum's Egyptian wing was Selina's favorite hunting ground—priceless artifacts behind glass cases that were more for show than security. Tonight's target was a golden scarab, small enough to pocket, valuable enough to pay rent for six months.
She'd disabled the motion sensors and was working on the case lock when she heard it—a sound like rope creaking in wind. It was coming from the medieval armor exhibit in the next room.
Every instinct told her to grab the scarab and run. But curiosity had always been her weakness.
She moved silently toward the sound, staying in the shadows between display cases. The medieval hall was darker than the Egyptian wing, lit only by emergency lighting and the glow from the city beyond the tall windows.
That's when she saw him.
A figure in a white mask and black suit, standing perfectly still in the center of the room. At his feet lay the body of a security guard, neck bent at an impossible angle. Above them both, hanging from the decorative rafters, was another body—Dr. Marcus Flemming, the museum's head of acquisitions.
Selina had met Flemming at gallery openings. Pompous, arrogant, but seemingly harmless. Apparently, she'd been wrong about the harmless part.
The masked figure—Saguro, she realized—hadn't noticed her yet. He was arranging something at the base of the hanging body. A note, like the others she'd heard about.
She started to back away, but her foot caught the edge of a display case. The sound was barely audible, but Saguro's head turned toward her hiding spot with mechanical precision.
For a moment, they stared at each other across the darkened hall. Then Saguro smiled—she could somehow sense it despite the mask—and took a step in her direction.
Selina ran.
She'd mapped every inch of the museum during her reconnaissance, but terror has a way of scrambling memory. She took a wrong turn, then another, finally bursting through a fire exit into the alley behind the building.
Her motorcycle was two blocks away. She ran through shadows and side streets, expecting at any moment to feel a rope around her neck. But when she reached her bike, she was alone.
As she started the engine, she glanced back at the museum. There, silhouetted in a fourth-floor window, stood Saguro. Watching her.
...
Batman arrived at the crime scene before the police cordoned it off, entering through the same window Saguro had used. The medieval hall smelled of death and something else—a faint trace of expensive perfume.
Dr. Flemming hung from the rafters, the same professional knot work they'd seen before. But this time, there were differences. The security guard's neck was snapped, indicating Saguro had been interrupted. And the note left at the scene was longer, more detailed.
Batman photographed everything before the police arrived, paying special attention to scuff marks on the floor and a small piece of fabric caught on a display case. Black leather, the kind used in high-end clothing.
The perfume lingered near the emergency exit—Chanel No. 5, a scent he recognized. Selina had been here.
Commissioner Gordon arrived as Batman was finishing his documentation. "Anything useful?"
"He was interrupted," Batman said, showing Gordon the evidence. "Someone else was in the building. They escaped through the fire exit."
"Another thief?"
"Probably." Batman pocketed the fabric sample. "But whoever it was got a good look at our killer. That might be useful."
Gordon examined Saguro's note, written in precise block letters: "DR. FLEMMING SOLD STOLEN ARTIFACTS TO PRIVATE COLLECTORS, PROFITING FROM CULTURAL THEFT. HE CHOSE MONEY OVER ETHICS. JUSTICE SERVED."
"He's escalating," Gordon observed. "More detailed justifications, more elaborate crime scenes."
"And more personal." Batman looked up at the hanging body. "This isn't just about cleaning up crime anymore. He's judging people based on his own moral code."
"Any idea what that code is?"
Batman was quiet for a moment, studying the scene. "He sees himself as righteous. Judge, jury, and executioner rolled into one." He turned to Gordon. "The dangerous thing about people like this is that they always believe they're the hero of their own story."
"Can you stop him?"
"I can try. But first, I need to find out who interrupted him last night. They might be the key to understanding how he operates."
As the sun rose over Gotham, Batman disappeared into the shadows, leaving Gordon to deal with the media circus that would inevitably follow. Another body, another message, another reminder that justice in Gotham came in many forms—and not all of them were gentle.