The monstrous bloom slithered back into the bathroom, dragging its bulk toward the cracked porcelain sink. Its petals folded in tight, thorned vines retracting and shrinking as if all that violence had been an illusion. By the time it reached the basin, the rose was no larger than Pamela's hand. It gave a final twitch, then vanished down the drain, leaving the tiled room eerily quiet, as though nothing had ever happened.
Pamela exhaled slowly, steadying herself on the rooftop railing across the street where she and Barbara waited. The moonlight cast pale shadows on her face as she brushed her hair back from her eyes. "All right, Barbara. It's up to you now. Remotely hack into the police station surveillance cameras and delete any evidence of my plant being there."
Barbara adjusted the strap of her bag and pulled her tablet to life, the faint glow lighting her features. A thin smile curved her lips as she glanced at Pamela. "On it, babe."
Pamela stepped closer and pressed a soft kiss to Barbara's lips. The taste lingered, sweet and grounding after the chaos. "You're doing great," she murmured.
Barbara's cheeks flushed, though she tried to mask it with composure. "I know," she muttered, a little too quickly.
The tablet's screen reflected off her eyes as she lifted her hands. Tiny streaks of blue light pulsed at her fingertips—the nanites responding to her command. They crawled across the circuits of the device and spread invisibly through the city's filthy public network. Her breathing slowed, focused, as multiple feeds and nodes flickered into view in her mind's eye.
She shut down the live surveillance feeds on the precinct's lower floors, frying circuits with deliberate overloads. Backup servers blinked and died. Cached logs were overwritten. Frame by frame, she scrubbed the massacre from existence: no vines, no screaming officers, no shredded doors, and certainly no trace of a silver case tied to Joker. When the last data file collapsed into digital dust, Barbara closed her fists and the glow dimmed.
She turned to Pamela with sharp satisfaction. "I took care of the money too. Officially, it was never there. And even if somebody remembers it, no one will know it was connected to Joker or to Harley."
Pamela's eyes softened with approval. "Excellent job, dear."
A metallic rattle came from below. The sewer grate shuddered, and the small Midnight Rose crawled out, damp petals twitching. It waddled to the curb before opening its mouth unnaturally wide. With a wet clank, the silver briefcase marked High-Value Evidence spilled onto the pavement.
Harley leapt forward with a gleeful squeal. "Ooh! Let me!" She snatched the briefcase up and hugged it close like a prized toy.
The rose shrank again and leapt neatly to Pamela's wrist, curling back into her bracelet as if it had never left. Pamela rolled her shoulders, stretching as though she had just woken from a long sleep. "That was a good snack. I feel a lot stronger… and way more vitalized now."
Barbara tilted her head, lips pressing into a faint line. "I wish I could've electrocuted a few people…"
Harley gave them both a skeptical look. "You two are really getting into this whole villain thing. Killing people? Even the Joker only kills occasionally."
Barbara's voice was flat, detached. "I've had enough psychological trauma being kidnapped so much. It's not surprising I've developed some psychopathic tendencies."
Pamela lifted her chin with quiet defiance. "And I was experimented on by an evil scientist. What do you expect to happen after that? We're not exactly morally right anymore."
Harley squinted, one eyebrow raised. "So you've both been severely morally corrupted."
They nodded in unison. Pamela's lips curved in wicked pride. "But I'm proud to say that I morally corrupted and blackened, Barbara Gordon."
Barbara gave the faintest smile. "It's true."
Harley pointed a finger at Barbara, narrowing her eyes. "I swear I can see hearts in your eyes right now."
Color rushed to Barbara's face. "Don't make shit up."
They gathered themselves, slipping into the Unicorn's reinforced frame. The engine purred to life, tires gripping wet asphalt as they pulled away. Behind them, sirens began to rise, but no cameras, no records, and no evidence would tie the slaughter to them. Gotham would only whisper rumors of what happened inside Precinct 24.
Hours later, under a heavy shroud of night, Batman landed silently on the station's roof and slipped inside. The hallways stank of blood and cordite. Bodies lay where they had fallen, drained and pale. He crouched over a SWAT officer's husk, gloved fingers brushing the brittle skin. His eyes narrowed. "It looks like something drained all the essence from this man's body. It almost looks… magical. As if something fed on his life force and soul."
He moved deeper, gaze raking over vine marks carved into concrete, the shredded vault door, the empty pedestal. His jaw tightened beneath the cowl. "Whatever did this was fast. This wasn't random. This was a professional job. And someone knew exactly what to take."
His fist slammed into the wall, cracks spiderwebbing out from the impact. Footsteps echoed in the distance—startled officers whispering. By the time they entered, Batman was already gone, swallowed by the shadows, leaving only the wreckage and unanswered questions behind.
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