Warden Martin Sowerby of Blackgate Penitentiary looked at the subpoena for assistance spread on his desk, then at the police officer in front of him, who had recently become somewhat known within the GCPD.
He felt a constant twitching at his temples.
Although the official public statement was that the police had gunned down a group of terrorists planning an attack on Gotham, senior officers knew full well this was interfering in the Roman's "family business."
And this whole affair, from start to finish, was pretty much caused by the young man standing before him.
Moreover, the officer had genuinely risked his life trying to save the Blackgate guards during the prison van hijacking.
In theory, they should owe him a huge debt of gratitude.
Yet, in the end, not a single guard survived.
"You should know today is Sunday, and even God… forget it, do whatever you want! But remember, don't cause any trouble!"
Sowerby rubbed his neck, dialed the internal line, and an officer immediately rushed in and saluted him.
"Sir!"
"Morrison, take him in and keep a close eye on him. As long as he doesn't plan to incite a jailbreak, blow up the cells, or start some kind of fraternity with the inmates…"
He paused, as if confirming he hadn't missed any terrible possibilities. "Let him see anyone he wants. But whatever you do, don't let anything go wrong!"
"Understood, Sir!"
Morrison saluted again, then extended his hand toward Jay like a straightedge. "Please follow me."
With that, he turned and strode out of the office. Jay quickly jumped up, gave Sowerby a casual gesture that was somewhere between a salute and a wave, and hurried after him.——————————
During his two days of rest at home after returning from the hospital, Jay suddenly received a long-awaited system message.
[Your actions caused 'Fish Mooney's death' to happen prematurely]
[You have changed Fish Mooney's destiny to a minor degree, Skill Point acquired 1]
Huh? It seemed that crazy woman was likely killed by Victor Zsasz, which triggered the settlement.
And an early death only counted as a minor change, meaning she hadn't deviated from her originally destined end.
He was beginning to figure out the system's requirements.
If he merely advanced or postponed a character's turning point, it was a minor change.
If he changed the character's direction entirely, it was a major change.
How stingy! Why can't I get a system that grants me a dimensional space, magical artifacts, or the "Nine Revolutions Divine Art" upon signing in for a few days?
Everyone says all roads lead to Rome. Other people's systems are born in Rome; mine can't even beat the Roman!
After tossing and turning and complaining in bed, he decided to stop dwelling on such bothersome thoughts.
Early the next morning, as prearranged, he took the prepared document requesting assistance with the investigation and headed straight for Blackgate.
He sat behind the desk in the visitation room, listening to the successive clang of two iron gates being pulled open outside.
A middle-aged man, handcuffed and looking numb, was ushered in.
His face was etched with deep lines left by chronic malnutrition and despair. He wore faded, washed-out prison clothes, and his hair was dry and messy.
Morrison expressionlessly pushed him towards the desk, then backed out.
With another series of loud clangs, the outer door was locked.
Jay gestured to the chair opposite him.
The middle-aged man stared blankly at him, shuffling forward a few steps with timid uncertainty.
The man reached out to touch the back of the chair, looked up at him again, and finally, tentatively, slowly sat down.
"I am an officer with the Gotham Police Department's East Precinct. Time is limited, so I won't beat around the bush."
Jay pushed the coffee on the table toward the middle-aged man.
"You were sentenced to ten years for second-degree murder and have served five years here. But I recently reviewed the old files and, based on…"
He took out a notebook from his inner jacket pocket and flipped it open.
"Based on your life trajectory before the incident, the evaluations others gave you, the crime scene investigation report, the integrity of the evidence chain, and the process of your arrest and trial—it's full of inconsistencies and illogical flaws.
Therefore, I believe there's a high probability you were wrongly convicted."
"You've been appealing for years. But they all sank without a trace, ignored by everyone. Approximately seven to nine months ago, your appeals gradually stopped."
Jay looked at him seriously. "So I'm here today to ask you, Otis Flannegan, do you still want to appeal your case?"
The middle-aged man froze, staring intently into Jay's eyes.
In those cloudy pupils, a storm seemed to be brewing, churned with deep-seated fear.
Time seemed to freeze for over ten seconds. He slowly lowered his head, resting his face on the desk, buried between his arms.
His shoulders and back suddenly began to tremble, the convulsions growing steadily worse.
Finally, the suppressed whimpers in his throat gave way to tearful, heartfelt sobs.
Jay didn't stop him, allowing him to vent.
Before transmigrating, he knew this villain who could control rats, even mixing him up with the Pied Piper of Hamelin once.
Although he wasn't sure if he could recruit this potential metahuman to his side, Otis's murder case was genuinely a miscarriage of justice!
If he could help him overturn the conviction, he would not only save an innocent soul but also plant a favorable piece on the Gotham chessboard for himself.
It was a win-win situation.
His gaze swept over the corner of the wall. Several rats poked their heads out of the shadows, sensing the tremor in Otis's emotions, anxiously sniffing the air.
The near-breakdown weeping lasted for about a minute before gradually being replaced by sobs mixed with dry retching.
His body continued to heave violently, as if trying to cough out his internal organs.
Jay tapped the table and tossed two tissues across.
"Hey! Don't get carried away. To be honest, I don't actually have evidence to prove you're not the killer…"
"I'm not, I didn't kill anyone. The little guy was stabbed twice, clutching his stomach, bleeding so much… he ran towards me… then just suddenly collapsed in front of me. I…"
Otis violently lifted his head and shouted hysterically, "I can't forget that scene every night and day, the blood… blood everywhere… It wasn't me! I didn't kill him…"
His voice gradually softened, dissolving back into muffled weeping.
"Enough. Are you going to waste your time sniveling like a coward?"
Jay lightly slapped the table. "You need to think carefully. If the appeal fails, you could face retaliation. For example, an extended sentence or an even tougher time inside. I won't be able to protect you then. Consider it yourself."
"I want to appeal! I want to appeal, Officer!" Otis suddenly stopped crying.
His voice wasn't loud, but it was exceptionally firm. "Regardless of success, I won't regret it. I absolutely won't regret it either way! I… I will always be grateful to you, Officer."
"Save the thanks for later, this is going to be a big challenge."
Jay snorted. "When you go back, keep your mouth shut. Don't say anything to anyone—and I mean anyone! I will come back in a few days to take you to the precinct to restart the investigation."
"I understand! Thank you, thank you!"
Otis watched Jay press the call button on the desk.
With a shrill buzzing sound, the iron door behind him clanged open, and Morrison walked in.
"Let's go, Flannegan. Get back to your cell."
Otis visibly flinched, reverting to his initial numb, timid appearance, carefully following the guard.
Just as he was about to step out of the room, he suddenly turned around and bowed deeply towards Jay.
Afterward, he quickly straightened up and followed Morrison without looking back into the deep corridor outside.
The sounds of their footsteps and handcuffs gradually faded.
"Damn it, what was that for?" Jay slapped his forehead. "I just told you to keep it a secret! Shit!"
——————————
Early Monday morning, Jay put on his freshly laundered black uniform and looked seriously at his reflection in the mirror.
Although the landlord's mirror was too short for him to see above his neck, his sturdy build and upright posture clearly showed he was no ordinary man.
"Bad morning, Gotham!" He nodded at his unseen face above the mirror.
A new week, surely bringing new troubles.
When he fought his way out of the crowded bus and arrived at the precinct, he found Chief Bob standing by the entrance. Judging by the cigarette butts on the ground, he seemed to have been waiting for a while.
"Sir? You didn't come specifically to welcome me, did you? I don't think I'm late?"
Jay checked his watch, relieved. "Still fifteen minutes to spare."
"Follow me."
Bob said quietly, leading him toward the parking lot. "Loeb called me first thing this morning, saying Falcone wants to express his gratitude to the police department, and he specifically requested your presence."
They arrived at Bob's Taurus. Bob tossed the keys to him and got into the back seat himself.
"You'd better watch yourself today. Brown from the West Precinct has also been asked to bring people along. You refused his request last time… Hey! Hey! Shift gears gently! This is my new car!"
Bob opened the car window a crack, letting the smoke drift out. "You rejected his demand last time. I guess he wants to make an example of you in front of the entire department?"
"Who cares? I'm hardly famous anyway. He wouldn't start a public shouting match with a small-time cop, would he?"
Jay turned the steering wheel to the maximum, and the car pulled out of the parking lot gate.
Traffic was heavy at this hour. It took nearly an hour of inching forward before they finally crawled up to the Central Precinct entrance.
Jay parked the car and followed closely behind Bob.
The East Precinct Chief was in his element here. He swaggered with his gut, hugging some and shaking hands with others. Whether it was a Captain, a Commissioner, or a Deputy Chief, or even a Sergeant leading a small squad, he could exchange enthusiastic words with them all.
"Hey! Gillian!"
"Hi! Bob!"
The two Chiefs swung their arms up and down, shaking hands vigorously like long-lost friends.
"Let me take a look. This is the man Mr. Falcone personally requested to see." Loeb scrutinized him.
Jay immediately snapped to attention and raised his hand in a perfect salute.
"Second Grade Officer Jay of the Gotham Police Department's East Precinct salutes you!"
"No need to be so formal, the time hasn't come yet." Loeb patted his arm, then looked at Bob. "He's a good lad, right?"
"Couldn't agree more." Bob took another cigarette from his pack and lit it, asking in a low voice, "What's the Roman planning with all this fanfare?"
"Nothing much. Just that Mr. Falcone is going to donate another $500,000 to the police department for their excellent work." Loeb said smugly. "Hi, Arthur!"
Arthur Brown, Chief of the West Precinct, joined them.
The three men walked toward the precinct lobby seemingly as close friends, yet Jay noticed the unpleasant look on Bob's face.
He could guess the reason.
Bob had spent so much effort for weeks only to skim less than $200,000.
In contrast, Central Precinct had done nothing and inexplicably received a $500,000 donation, at least half of which would undoubtedly end up in Loeb's own pockets.
Such a vast gap in their corruption careers—how could the proud Chief Bob feel good about that? After all, watching others make money is often harder than losing your own.
A small stage was set up in the center of the lobby. A circle of chairs was placed close to the stage.
Most of the police department staff had been called in, scattering around the edges. Jay saw Nygma walking down the second-floor stairs carrying a stack of files. The two exchanged a wave and smiled at each other from a distance.
James Gordon was by a pillar in a corner on the first floor. Jay waved to him, but Gordon ignored him.
Technical staff were still making final adjustments to the microphone on the stage, occasionally emitting intermittent static electricity squeaks.
He stood behind Bob, retreating a few steps to avoid the height difference between the three Chiefs and himself looking overly comical.
Just then, the crowd at the entrance stirred, then parted.
A thin, skull-like bald man walked in the lead, followed by a steady-gaited, tall old man and four bodyguards.
"Mr. Falcone!"
Seeing the group, most of the officers present showed fear. Loeb, Bob, and Brown rushed forward to greet them.
The two sides exchanged pleasantries, while Victor Zsasz's gaze fixed on Jay's face, his eyes revealing unrestrained excitement.
Being stared at with such fervent intensity by a man made Jay feel extremely uneasy.
You pervert. If my "Justice from Above" cooldown wasn't active, I'd at least let you know what you're dealing with.
Fortunately, Loeb and Falcone stepped onto the stage together at that moment.
"Alright, let's begin! Thank you, Mr. Falcone, for coming to the Gotham Police Department…"
Loeb gave a brief speech on stage, then posed smilingly with Falcone, holding the large envelope containing the $500,000 check for the flashing cameras.
After the applause and fake cheering ended, Falcone suddenly took the microphone.
"Here, I would also like to thank one specific officer.
Although he has only recently joined the force, he has proven far superior to other veteran officers.
He alone stood up to the mob's elite squad.
To express my encouragement and gratitude, I will personally present him with a $50,000 bonus.
He is—Officer Jay of the East Precinct!"
In that instant, silence fell upon the scene. Only the dagger-like stares of jealousy, hatred, contempt, and disdain pierced Jay from all directions.
He slowly stood up. Only when led by Loeb and Bob did scattered, sparse applause slowly start around them.
The old dog, playing this trick on me, huh?
Jay climbed the stage in a few steps and, together with Falcone, displayed the pre-prepared check for the reporters to photograph. Falcone then thrust the microphone into Jay's hand.
"We now leave the time to our young hero."
He smiled and walked off the stage, sitting beside Loeb.
Whether Jay accepted or refused, the seeds of isolation were sown. He would find it very difficult to find support within the police department now.
"Ahem… I would like to thank all the leaders and colleagues of the Gotham Police Department, as well as Mr. Falcone, for this opportunity."
Jay cleared his throat, looked around, and spoke slowly and clearly.
"Indeed, I have achieved some success, but these achievements are not something I could have accomplished alone."
"First, I must thank Commissioner Gillian Loeb of the GCPD and Chief Bob McGinnis of the East Precinct.
Without their wise leadership and decisive command, this operation would not have yielded such significant results. In their daily work, they continuously…"
"Secondly, I must thank all my colleagues in the GCPD Central Precinct, the branch precincts, and the SWAT team.
Your dedication and effort are my strong backing, which gave me the courage to face the terrorists' guns without flinching.
I must especially thank Detective James Gordon of Central, who charged ahead, brave and fearless, and timely opened the way for subsequent support.
I also thank the SWAT team for arriving promptly and capturing the criminals in one sweep…"
"Third, I must also thank the generous citizens of Gotham City.
If not for their disregard for danger, helping to report crimes, provide cover, and move the injured, the casualties this time could have been much higher.
This also indirectly proves the police-community unity that our precinct leaders constantly emphasize…"
"Finally, I must thank the renowned philanthropist, Mr. Falcone.
His support for the police department greatly guarantees and maintains order in Gotham City.
I want to say that he has always been an elder I respect and a role model I learn from."
"Therefore, I wish to follow Mr. Falcone's example and donate this $50,000 to be used as a family support fund for the injured and fallen officers of the Gotham Police Department.
At the same time, we welcome more kind-hearted people to join in and provide solace to the officers and citizens who have been injured in the fight against crime."
As soon as he finished speaking, the hall erupted in genuine thunderous applause, mixed with the continuous flash of camera shutters, fervent and long-lasting.
Falcone initially sat there dumbfounded, his face ashen, unable to utter a word.
But after a moment, he let out a bitter laugh, shook his head, and applauded along with everyone, asking Loeb:
"This boy looks like a bear on the outside, but how is he as cunning as a fox?"
——————
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