I'm not there.
That's the truth.
I never am.
The warehouse exists only as a collection of camera angles, thermal overlays, sound feeds, and GPS dots moving across my screen.
That's how I like it.
Distance is control.
My proxy sits in the helicopter — face hidden, voice modulated, body language practiced so well even trained officers can't read it.
They think they're being supervised.
They don't realize they're being played like pieces.
The rotor blades thunder through the night.
"Target in visual range," a pilot announces.
Their feed becomes mine.
Green crosshairs float over white skin and fluorescent hair.
There he is.
The anomaly.
The wound in Gotham's sanity.
"All ground units," I say through the proxy's system, voice filtered, calm, and absolute. "You are now operating under Emergency Black Protocol."
Some hesitation.
Good.
Fear makes them obedient.
Roadblocks snap into place. Snipers align. Tactical teams move exactly where I want them.
The Joker thinks it's chaos.
But chaos is just a failure to see the pattern.
And I see everything.
I watch him dance between stacked crates, laughing as if the world is a stage.
Not a human.
A malfunction wearing skin.
"Helicopter, tighten your orbit," I instruct. "Keep pressure. Don't engage."
He looks up.
He can't see me.
That bothers him.
Good.
"Tighten the net," I say softly. "I want him exhausted."
No bloodlust.
No theatrics.
Just inevitability.
Gas dispersal units activate. Non-lethal compound, optimized.
He stumbles.
Coughs.
Laughs anyway.
"They've got a new boss now!" he wheezes.
Finally, tactical teams close in.
Shock cuffs.
Neural dampeners.
Reinforced restraints.
They drag him to his knees.
He's still smiling.
He always is.
Fake.
Broken.
Predictable.
My proxy steps forward.
Kneels slightly to his level.
Says exactly what I told him to say.
"You've been contained."
Not "arrested."
Not "saved."
Contained.
Big difference.
On my screen, his vitals stabilize.
No more movement.
No more running.
I sit back in my chair.
Still unseen.
Still untouchable.
Jim Gordon's voice cracks in over a secure line.
"You weren't there."
"No," I reply.
"But you felt like you were."
He exhales.
"…Who are you?"
I don't tell him my real name.
I never will.
"You can call me L."
Silence.
Then:
"…God help Gotham."
I close the feeds one by one.
The room goes quiet.
The helicopter turns back toward the city.
And me?
I never stood up.
I never left my chair.
I never got my hands dirty.
That's the point.
I don't need to touch chaos.
I control it.