Maroni stared at the wreckage of his restaurant, eyes bloodshot, face twisted with rage. The scream that tore from his throat was pure animal fury.
Vernon stood behind him, rooted in place by terror. The explosion had driven him back several steps on instinct, and now he clutched the thick stacks of cash against his chest like a life preserver. His hands shook. His whole body shook. This—gunfire, explosions, the possibility of sudden violent death—was too much. He was a prosecutor, goddammit, not a soldier. The double assault of fire and lead was several tax brackets above his tolerance for excitement.
He wanted to run. Leave Maroni's restaurant, leave this life, leave Gotham entirely.
But his feet wouldn't move.
Jude, meanwhile, had retreated to the kitchen and positioned himself safely behind the other staff. He listened to Maroni's roar with something approaching professional detachment, lips curling into a grim smile.
First day on the job. Restaurant bombed.
The damage here made Red Dragon's incidents look like minor inconveniences. Crystal chandeliers, kitchen fires, even Batman's raid—none of them compared to this. The building was half-destroyed. Bodies in the parking lot. Actual structural damage.
Which meant Jude would probably spend the next two weeks at home while repairs happened.
The curse strikes again.
While Jude contemplated his unexpected vacation, Maroni had already stormed through the ruined dining room and out into the night. The burning car cast everything in flickering orange light, flames dancing against the snow like some hellish Christmas decoration.
Maroni stopped at the edge of the wreckage, staring down at the items laid carefully beside the charred metal skeleton.
A .22 caliber pistol, serial number filed away.
A shattered baby pacifier, pale pink plastic split down the middle.
Scattered shell casings, still warm to the touch.
And a piece of chocolate wrapped in bright red foil, shaped like a Valentine's heart.
The answer wasn't subtle. It didn't need to be.
"Holiday Killer!"
Maroni spat the name like a curse. He bent down, snatched up the red chocolate wrapper, crushed it in his fist. The firelight threw his shadow huge against the restaurant wall—a giant raising its fist, shaking it at the sky.
"You want war?" His voice carried across the snow-covered street, raw with provoked fury. "I'll give you war! You hear me? War!"
Bold words. Dramatic words.
But the restaurant was still closing for the night. Senior executives would handle repairs, medical calls, police statements. The small fish—waiters, dishwashers, guys like Jude who'd been there for exactly one shift—could go home.
Jude was already untying his apron when the system notification appeared.
SYSTEM NOTIFICATION
New Mission Available
Mission: Valentine's Day Workaholic
Introduction: Valentine's Day is meant to be romantic. Some people find sadness, others find joy—but you'd never imagine that some people spend it working overtime.
Task: A single message to Harvey could save Valentine's Day for two families. And perhaps save something else too.
Status: Pending (0/1)
Reward: Special Language 80% Discount Card - Intermediate Nature Language Proficiency
Jude pulled up the shop interface, checking the full price.
Intermediate Nature Language Proficiency: $300,000 asset points. Eighty percent discount brought it down to $60,000.
Reasonable price for what was essentially supernatural linguistic ability. And the discount was generous—80% off would make even a mediocre game worth buying just to test it. But for now, Jude decided to save his points. This skill didn't seem urgently necessary.
The discount card wouldn't expire. He could sit on it.
Decision made, he pulled out his phone and dialed Harvey Dent.
They'd grown closer over the past weeks.
Of course, communicating with Harvey had its downsides. The Falcone family watched those connections carefully, suspicious of anyone friendly with the White Knight. Jude wasn't technically in the Falcone organization, so he rated caution rather than outright hostility, but his exile back to Red Dragon had probably been related.
The line clicked. "Hello?"
"Harvey, where are you right now? Is it safe to talk? I have something important to tell you."
"Me?" Harvey's voice carried an odd note—distraction, maybe concern. There was a pause, then the sound of movement. "You two gentlemen must be hungry. Let me get some refreshments."
An older voice, cultured and British: "No need, Mr. Dent. I'll handle it."
"Really, Alfred, it's fine. I'll step outside for just a moment."
Earlier that evening, while Bruce and Selina danced in the fountain square...
The doorbell of Wayne Manor rang with dignified restraint.
The door opened to reveal an older gentleman in an impeccably tailored suit, silver hair receding in a distinguished Mediterranean pattern. His bearing was elegant, calm, the kind of composure that came from decades of managing impossible situations with perfect grace.
He looked at the two men on his doorstep. "May I help you, gentlemen?"
Harvey Dent exhaled slowly, breath misting in the cold. "It's freezing out here. Could we come inside to talk?"
Gordon added, "The District Attorney and I need to speak with Mr. Wayne. Is he home, Alfred?"
"Unfortunately, Master Bruce is out for the evening." Alfred's expression remained professionally neutral, but he stepped aside with a welcoming gesture. "However, you're welcome to wait inside. Though I should warn you—"
"We'll wait," Harvey said immediately.
Gordon nodded. "If that's alright."
Alfred led them into Wayne Manor—a sprawling monument to old money and older architecture. Vast halls, priceless artwork, a heating system that actually worked. As they walked, both visitors couldn't help but marvel.
The manor was maintained almost entirely by this one man. Alfred Pennyworth: butler, chef, groundskeeper, handyman, security consultant, and apparently a superman disguised in formal wear. He supervised everything—cleaning, cooking, gardening, seasonal maintenance, routine inspections of chimneys, fireplaces, safety systems. Some tasks he delegated. Most he handled personally.
And he'd been doing it for decades.
Harvey and Gordon exchanged glances. The sheer logistics were staggering.
Alfred guided them to a sitting room where a fire crackled warmly in a stone hearth. He prepared tea with the unhurried precision of someone who'd performed the ritual ten thousand times. The scent of Earl Grey filled the air, civilized and calming.
Harvey settled into a leather chair, tension slowly draining from his shoulders. "What a beautiful home."
"You've never been here before?" Gordon asked, surprised.
"I was invited to one of Bruce's Halloween parties once." Harvey's smile was rueful. "But as I told Gilda, I'm not much for costume parties. Even for billionaires."
Alfred made a soft sound of amusement as he poured tea. "What a shame, Mr. Dent. Master Bruce's masquerade balls are always... entertaining."