Gordon loosened his collar, rolled his neck, and tried to shake some tension out of his shoulders before turning toward the window. Outside, Gotham's rain-soaked night pressed against the glass—dark, cold, and endlessly damp.
His colleagues were packing up, tossing him half-teasing farewells on their way out. One of them clapped his shoulder:
"Hey, man, you never should've taken that case. Dozens of disappearances? You'll be stuck digging through files 'til sunrise again."
Gordon gave a weary smile.
"You said it yourself—dozens of missing people. Somebody's gotta take it seriously."
When the last of them left, Gordon brewed himself another cup of jet-black coffee. He'd need it. Tonight, like every other night lately, he was planning to go until his eyes gave out.
The Morrison District disappearances were bizarre. Normally, even in Gotham, when people vanished, bodies eventually turned up. Dumped in alleys. Stuffed in dumpsters. Left as messages. But here? Forty-six gone, and not a single corpse in sight. That was wrong.
Gotham wasn't a city that believed in covering its tracks. Gangs were sloppy; they tossed bodies out of windows and let the cops trip over them. What did it matter? The police had no teeth anyway. But Morrison's missing? Nothing. Like the earth swallowed them whole.
The victims had no clear link. Men, women, workers, drunks—different ages, different lives. The only common thread: they all lived in the Moson District.
At this point, Gordon was still young, just another face in the department—nowhere near the title of commissioner. When no one else wanted to touch this radioactive case, he took it. A hot potato, sure, but he believed someone had to fight for the missing, even if it killed his career.
Hours later, hunched over half-sorted files, Gordon heard a noise behind him. He spun, reaching for his gun—only to find his holster empty.
A massive shadow filled the room. Black suit. Pointed ears. A cape that swallowed the light. The man's frame was huge, blocking out the lamps above.
Gordon's voice was tight, cautious:
"Who are you? What the hell are you doing inside a police station?"
The figure's reply was low, deliberate:
"Think of me as a vigilante. I'm investigating the Morrison disappearances. I know you're the detective assigned. I want access to those files."
Gordon's first instinct was to bark a refusal, but the figure cut him off.
"I have leads of my own. We can share. Or call it a partnership, if you like."
A vigilante? Gordon thought bitterly. The idea was ridiculous. Gotham didn't produce saviors. If someone like this really existed, the city wouldn't be called a cesspit.
Their first meeting was anything but cordial. Gordon and the Bat squared off in the dimly lit station, trading words for what felt like hours. The rookie vigilante hadn't yet mastered the art of disappearing mid-sentence, so he lingered, pushing, negotiating. Gordon dug in. He'd protect those files with his life if he had to.
Eventually, Batman realized his bad luck: out of all Gotham's corrupt cops, he'd run headfirst into the most stubbornly honest one. He couldn't bully Gordon, and he wouldn't hurt him. So, frustrated, he withdrew.
Still, after clearing out the Gutter Gang, Batman's worldview had begun to crack. That night with the beggar had shaken him more than he admitted. He'd saved someone… but not really. The image of those frostbitten legs wouldn't leave him. It made him reconsider his approach—less grandstanding, more ground-level.
And so Moson became his first true battleground. With half the district's population vanishing, this case would be his trial by fire.
And, of course, he had a suspect in mind.
A university professor. A man who roamed blackened alleys at night, always appearing where he shouldn't, disappearing without a trace. Schiller.
Batman thought about confronting him directly, but remembered how their last two encounters had gone. Words were Schiller's weapon, and Batman had lost every round. He decided to wait—gather evidence first, then bring the professor down.
But Gotham has a way of throwing enemies together, whether they're ready or not.
That evening, Batman returned to Morrison, this time breaking into the home of a missing resident, combing for clues. And when he climbed back out through the window, there he was. Schiller. Standing under a streetlamp, black umbrella in hand, staring at the dark stain where the beggar used to sit.
The vigilante's temper snapped. He dropped from the roof and landed in front of him.
"Good evening, Batman," Schiller said smoothly. "You called yourself that last time, didn't you? Then I'll use it too."
Batman's eyes narrowed.
"Don't play games. You know why I'm here."
"Of course. You're here to play savior. To rescue another lost soul. Like the beggar you whisked away to the hospital."
"Morrison's disappearances. Was it you?" Batman's voice was cold.
Schiller shook his head.
"You're the only outsider here. The only one with no reason to be in this district," Batman pressed.
Schiller tilted his head, unbothered.
"Funny. You already have your answer—so why ask? You do this often, don't you? Frame your assumptions as questions. If the answer matches, you smile. If it doesn't, you rage. But that anger isn't about justice, Bruce. It's about not hearing what you want."
Batman's fists clenched.
"Stop talking in circles. You're the only suspect—"
A batarang sliced past Schiller's neck. Then another. The second drew blood, red against his collar.
Schiller stood still, eyes locked on the vigilante.
From the alley's mouth, a voice rang out:
"Freeze!"
Both turned. Detective Gordon stood under the streetlamp, gun leveled, eyes sharp.
"Detective Gordon. A pleasure," Schiller said calmly, though blood streaked his shirt.
Batman tensed, pulling back his weapon. Gordon advanced carefully, shocked to see Schiller wounded.
"You're wrong, Batman," Schiller murmured. "You think I'm the only suspect. But so is he. After all… neither of us belongs here. Only Gordon does."
Batman growled, "I'll find proof."
"Ah, but if you need proof," Schiller countered softly, "how are you different from the police you despise?"
The question hit like a hammer. Batman froze. Proof. Evidence. That was what the cops demanded when his parents were shot in the street. Proof they never found. Proof no one cared to seek.
If he demanded proof, he was no better than them.
If he didn't… what separated him from the criminals?
Once again, Schiller left him in silence, wrestling with a question that refused to let go.
And once again, Batman hated him for it.
Meanwhile, Schiller cursed under his breath. Jonathan Crane had clearly gone off the deep end—ramping up kidnappings after Schiller looted his lab. And now, instead of sleeping peacefully, Schiller was out here babysitting a moody billionaire in a bat suit and cleaning up the Scarecrow's mess.