"It was probably the summer I turned seven," Jude began. "We went hiking—me and my parents. I was fearless back then. Loved walking along cliff edges, narrow mountain paths. Had perfect balance. Could walk ledges like they were sidewalks."
He leaned back in his chair, getting comfortable.
"This particular day, we were halfway up the mountain when it started drizzling. I stepped out onto this natural stone bridge—suspended over a gorge, completely exposed. I remember looking down at the valley. Rain flowing down the ridges, gathering into tiny streams. They jumped between the rocks like little sprites, all the water eventually joining the river at the base, making this rushing sound—"
"Stop." Drake held up a hand. His expression was pained. "We're not Sherlock Holmes, and you don't need to describe it like you're writing a novel. Can you get to the point?"
Camilla smiled gently, patting Drake's arm. "I think it's lovely. Mr. Jude has a gift for storytelling."
"Fine." Jude waved a hand. "Anyway, I was climbing and I fell off a cliff. Landed in a cave."
He paused for effect.
"There was a Santa Claus inside. Roasting a reindeer over a fire. He told me that if I shared the story of falling into the cave with someone, all their diseases would be cured. Then he flew away on the remaining eight reindeer."
Camilla's smile froze.
"Jude," she said quietly. "I'm Christian."
"Oh." Jude blinked. "Sorry about that."
He shrugged.
"Well, at least now we know Santa Claus is real."
Drake looked at Camilla. His eyes widened.
Jude crossed his legs and started humming, feeling an odd sense of satisfaction.
"The old tree has new sprouts, the dead wood blooms again~"
Hair.
Black strands first, thin as threads, pushing through Camilla's scalp. Then more—growing rapidly, darkening to gold, lengthening. Within seconds, blonde hair cascaded down her shoulders, falling to her waist like a waterfall of silk.
Her body filled out. The skeletal frame softened, flesh returning, muscles rebuilding themselves. Her hollow cheeks rounded. Her sunken eyes brightened. The pale, translucent skin flushed with color—healthy pink, warm and alive.
In less than ten seconds, the dying woman transformed into someone beautiful and whole.
Drake's hands trembled. Tears spilled down his face.
She's so beautiful, he thought. Just like the first time I saw her.
Camilla stared at her hands—smooth, steady, no longer shaking. She touched her hair, ran her fingers through the golden strands, felt the weight and texture of it. Then she leaned into Drake's arms and cried.
Silent tears. Relief and disbelief and overwhelming gratitude all mixed together.
"Half a life of struggling—"
Jude kept humming the song neither of them understood.
Drake held his wife, unable to speak. Words wouldn't come. What could he possibly say?
He'd stayed with her through everything. Watched her hair fall out strand by strand. Watched her body waste away. Watched the light fade from her eyes as the disease consumed her piece by piece.
She'd stayed with him too. Through the job loss, the bankruptcy, the move to Gotham. Through his desperation, his near-hysteria, his failed robbery attempt. She'd almost given up. Almost let go.
But she'd held on.
And he hadn't given up.
And now—
My first Fast Life Recovery is gone, Jude thought, watching them. Drake better find me a really good job.
The next morning, Jude found Drake in the kitchen making coffee.
"How long have you and Camilla been in Gotham?"
"Almost a year." Drake poured water into the machine. "Why?"
"You waited for Victor that whole time?"
"Eight months, actually. Then he disappeared in that accident." Drake's jaw tightened. "I tried contacting the company that funded his research, but they shut down fast. Really fast. So I've been looking for information about Mr. Freeze instead."
"Good thing you didn't find any," Jude muttered.
Drake glanced at him, curious, but didn't push.
"Since you've been here a year," Jude continued, "you must have some connections, right? Channels?"
Drake caught on immediately. "I can try to find you something. But understand—there are no truly honest jobs in Gotham. If you want to survive here, you have to abandon certain moral standards. Compromises are mandatory."
"That's going to be difficult." Jude sighed. "Given my physique, murder aren't realistic options. Given my intelligence and skills, theft and fraud would probably get me caught immediately. I don't want to rely on my face to seduce some wealthy mob boss who likes dismemberment, and I definitely can't make money here with my writing—"
"Okay, okay, stop." Drake waved both hands. "Just... stop."
When Jude had finished the first two sentences, Drake's mental list of possible jobs had been cut in half. By the last two sentences, he was down to maybe three options.
"Let me confirm something." Drake tried to sound diplomatic. "Do you have any other skills? Besides writing?"
Jude tilted his head, thinking. "I can drive. And count."
"...That's it?"
"That's it."
"What about cleaning? Cooking? Basic maintenance?"
Jude gave an awkward but polite smile. "A little. Not much. Enough to keep myself alive."
They looked at each other.
The silence stretched.
"Do you have money?" Drake asked finally.
"Why would I need a job if I had money?"
Drake rubbed his face. "...How about you go find that cave and talk to Santa Claus again?"
Jude coughed, slightly embarrassed. "Okay, fine. I realize my requirements are a bit unreasonable. As long as the work is relatively safe, I'll take it."
Drake thought hard. Ran through every connection he'd made in the past year.
"Waiting tables?" he suggested.
Jude nodded immediately.
Drake exhaled in relief. "Alright. Good. Gotham's different from other cities—every industry, big or small, is controlled by the mob. Protected by them. Sometimes run directly by them. I've made some connections this year. I might be able to get you a job at a restaurant. But you need to understand that no matter what work you do here, there's going to be some connection to organized crime."
"As long as they don't ask me to carry a knife and stab people while I'm serving food," Jude said, "and as long as nobody carries a knife and stabs me while I'm serving food, I think we'll be fine."
Drake snapped his fingers. "In that case, no problem."
He pulled out his phone and started dialing.
The line rang. And rang. And rang.
For a full two minutes, nobody picked up.
Then, finally, someone answered.
"Drake." A rough male voice, gravelly and impatient. "What do you want?"
In the background, Jude heard it clearly.
Bang.
A gunshot.