The snow in Gotham seemed endless.
Since December, it had fallen without pause—sometimes heavy, sometimes light, but always present. A month of continuous snowfall had buried the city under layers of white that turned grey within hours, stained by soot and sin.
December 31st. New Year's Eve.
The sun had long since sunk below the horizon, abandoning Gotham to the darkness it deserved. But in one office window high above the frozen streets, light still burned.
District Attorney Harvey Dent sat at his desk, surrounded by case files and incident reports, his face illuminated by the warm glow of his desk lamp. Snow drifted past the window behind him, each flake briefly visible before vanishing into the night.
"Harvey, Harvey," he muttered to himself, pen scratching across a legal pad. "If you had half a brain, you'd know it's time to go home and be with Gilda."
His butt remained firmly glued to the chair.
The file in front of him detailed a money laundering operation—three shell companies, two dummy accounts, and one very nervous accountant who'd decided cooperating was preferable to cement shoes. Harvey's pen moved across the page, connecting dots, building cases, constructing the elaborate prosecutorial architecture that might, possibly, survive Gotham's corrupt legal system long enough to actually put someone behind bars.
Maybe.
Probably not.
But he had to try.
The office door opened without warning.
A young man poked his head through—early twenties, blond hair neatly parted, white shirt pressed crisp despite the late hour, black slacks that somehow still held their crease. He wore round, wire-rimmed glasses that gave him a distinctly scholarly appearance. Nervous energy radiated from him like heat from a radiator.
"I hope—" He hesitated in the doorway. "I hope I'm not disturbing you, Mr. Dent?"
Harvey glanced up, recognized his newest assistant, and felt a smile tug at his mouth despite the exhaustion.
"Working late again, Vernon?" He set down his pen. "All this extra effort isn't going to help you get a promotion, you know."
"But you work late too, sir." Vernon stepped fully into the office, closing the door behind him with careful precision. "You've been working this late every day for the past week since I arrived at the District Attorney's Office."
Fair point.
Though Harvey's current schedule represented a significant improvement over his previous habits. Before Christmas—before Gilda had broached the subject of having a child, before the house had been repaired and restored—he'd been working until two, three in the morning. Stumbling home in the pre-dawn hours, collapsing into bed fully dressed, waking to do it all again.
Now he left by eight or nine PM. Almost reasonable hours. Almost healthy.
Progress, he told himself. You're making progress.
The reasons for tonight's late stay were threefold: First, Gotham's crime rate ensured the work was genuinely endless. Second, it was New Year's Eve—time for year-end summaries, case reviews, statistical compilations that the bureaucracy demanded. Third, and perhaps most pragmatically, Harvey wanted to save money for the future.
A child required resources. Stability. Security.
All things in desperately short supply in Gotham City.
"You know what's happening tonight, Vernon?" Harvey stood, reaching for his windbreaker draped over the chair back. "Even the Falcone family and the Maroni family—the two most viciously feuding criminal organizations in Gotham—have put aside their differences for New Year's Eve. They're celebrating together right now. Wine, toasts, pretending to be civilized for one night."
He shrugged into the coat, buttons clicking into place.
"If even the gangs are looking forward to the future, who in this city isn't?" Harvey turned off the desk lamp with a decisive click. "Life is all about having something to hope for, son."
Vernon absorbed this with the earnest attention of someone still young enough to believe in philosophy.
"Look, Vernon—" Harvey moved toward the door, gesturing for the younger man to follow. "Do you understand what I mean? You should look at everything from two different perspectives."
Two perspectives.
The phrase hung in the air between them, weighted with unintentional irony that Harvey didn't notice. Vernon nodded slowly, processing the advice with the seriousness it apparently deserved.
Harvey clapped him on the shoulder with genuine warmth. Vernon reminded him of himself five years ago—still idealistic, still untainted by the borough's pervasive corruption, still capable of shock when discovering just how deeply the rot penetrated. Most assistants learned quickly to play the game: make deals with mob lawyers, turn blind eyes to convenient evidence gaps, cash the occasional envelope of unmarked bills.
Vernon hadn't learned those lessons yet.
Maybe he never would. Maybe he'd be one of the rare ones who held the line.
Harvey had high hopes for every young person who walked through these doors. They all had the potential to become Gotham's second or third White Knight. Someone had to carry the torch when Harvey—
When Harvey what?
Fell? Failed?
He shook off the thought.
"Today is New Year's Eve, son." His smile felt genuine, if tired. "Time to go home, spend time with thr wife, and hope that next year will be better than this one."
They walked together toward the elevator in the corridor, Vernon's footsteps slightly hesitant, Harvey's confident despite the exhaustion pulling at his bones.
Harvey pressed the elevator call button. The mechanism rumbled somewhere in the building's ancient infrastructure.
"Uh, yes, sir—" Vernon's voice carried an unusual strain. "But there's something here I need to show you. Something about the Roman case. I've been reading through old police reports, and—"
"I'm sure those reports can wait until next year, Vernon." Harvey waved a dismissive hand, the gesture almost paternal. The elevator dinged, doors beginning to slide open. "Which is, what, twelve hours from now? You can show me then."
But Vernon didn't move.
Didn't follow Harvey's usual pattern of obedient acquiescence.
"Sir." His voice firmed. "This is very important."
Harvey paused, one foot already in the elevator. Something in Vernon's tone—
"I've discovered a connection," Vernon said carefully, precisely, like a man defusing a bomb. "A link. Between 'Roman' Falcone and the billionaire Bruce Wayne."
Harvey's hand shot out, stopping the elevator doors from closing.
Slowly, deliberately, he stepped back into the corridor.
"Show me."
Vernon handed over the report folder—manila, slightly worn, containing what looked like financial documents and property records. His hands shook slightly.
"It's late now, sir, but I thought you should be the first to—"
"Actually," Harvey interrupted, eyes scanning the pages with the speed of someone who'd spent years reading legal documents, "it should be the second one."
Vernon blinked. "Sir?"
Harvey's expression shifted—still professional, but carrying a weight Vernon was too young to fully understand. The White Knight's armor showed a crack, just for a moment, before sealing over again.
"Unfortunately," Harvey said quietly, "Bruce Wayne seems to have known about this for some time."
The words hung in the cold corridor air like Vernon's visible breath.
Gotham Harbor
New Year's Eve, 11:47 PM
"Happy New Year, Salvador."
The voice carried the smooth confidence of a man who'd never doubted his place in the world. Carmine "The Roman" Falcone stood on the deck of a private yacht, one hand gripping an expensive bottle of champagne, the other adorned with a gold Rolex that probably cost more than most Gotham families earned in a year.
His wrist flicked with practiced ease. The cork popped free with a sound like a muted gunshot, lost immediately in the wind off the harbor.
The champagne was vintage—the kind that appeared in magazines, that collectors bid on at auctions, that existed primarily to demonstrate wealth rather than be consumed. Falcone poured it like water.
Salvatore Maroni stood beside him, shoulders hunched against the cold, watching golden liquid fill his glass. His right arm hung at his side, noticeably immobile, tucked close to his body in a way that suggested injury rather than choice.
He held the champagne flute in his left hand, accepting the pour without comment.
Falcone noted the injured arm with the kind of casual interest reserved for minor curiosities.
"What happened to your arm again, Sal?" he asked, continuing to pour. "Some kind of accident?"
"Boxing match." Maroni's answer came quick, rehearsed. "Christmas time. Sparring partner got a lucky hit."
"At Christmas?" Falcone's eyebrows rose fractionally. "Who goes looking for a boxing match on Christmas?"
Maroni didn't answer.
The champagne reached the appropriate level. Falcone lifted the bottle away with the same smooth motion he'd used to open it, then poured his own glass with equal precision.
The yacht rocked gently in the harbor. Around them, the city sprawled in layers of light and shadow—broken streetlamps in the Narrows, blazing towers in the Diamond District, everything between varying shades of desperate and corrupt.
Fireworks would start soon. Midnight approached.
"Carmine—" Maroni's voice carried a tension that cheap champagne couldn't smooth. "We've been fighting for a long time. Years. And you always beat me."
Falcone sipped his wine, waiting.
"But if we can't find a way to stop that Holiday Killer—" Maroni's grip tightened on his glass. "This New Year will be our last."
The Roman turned to face him fully, expression unreadable in the deck lights.
"Maroni." His voice dropped to something softer, almost gentle. "I know. I appreciate your concern—it really touched me. Truly. From the bottom of my heart."
The sincerity sounded genuine.
It probably wasn't.
"I've been thinking about it too," Falcone continued, swirling champagne in his glass like he was discussing stock portfolios rather than serial murder. "About the Holiday Killer. That's what the newspapers are calling him."
"Or her," Maroni interjected.
"Whatever." Falcone's eyes hardened, the gentleness evaporating like snow on hot pavement. "All I know is that this bastard likes to target my family members and destroy my business operations."
He took a long sip of champagne.
"Funny thing though, Sal." The Godfather's gaze locked onto Maroni with the focused intensity of a predator selecting prey. "It doesn't seem like there's been any bloodshed on your side of the equation."
Maroni's face changed—color draining, muscles tightening, the careful mask of concerned ally cracking to reveal something more defensive beneath.
"Falcone—" His voice dropped to a dangerous register. "What exactly are you implying?"
The Roman didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he turned away, champagne glass held loosely in one hand, and began walking toward the crowd of suited men gathered at the yacht's bow. Family members. Associates. Soldiers. All pretending this was a celebration rather than a temporary ceasefire in an endless war.
Falcone's back presented itself to Maroni—a gesture of either supreme confidence or calculated insult.
"Happy New Year, Sal," he called over his shoulder, voice carrying across the deck with effortless projection. "You're absolutely right about one thing."
He paused at the edge of the crowd, turned his head just enough for Maroni to see his profile.
"This really could be your last year."