"Major incident! Holiday Killer strikes again. Maroni's restaurant attacked!"
Philip read aloud from the Gotham Daily, voice flat with disbelief. "Car explosion leaves four dead, multiple injuries. Financial losses still being calculated. Evidence recovered includes: .22 caliber pistol with filed serial number, broken baby pacifier, shell casings, and Valentine's Day chocolate."
He lowered the newspaper. Stared at Jude. Raised the newspaper. Checked the date—February 15th. Lowered it again.
Stared at Jude some more.
"Let me make absolutely certain I understand this correctly." Philip spoke slowly, like a man trying to explain physics to a particularly destructive toddler. "You went to Maroni's restaurant. You served food. For one day."
He gestured at the newspaper. "Just one day. I dropped you off yesterday afternoon, and by last night, Maroni's entire operation was—" He snapped his fingers. "—gone?"
"Technically," Jude said, maintaining what dignity he could, "this wasn't my fault. Valentine's Day was already on the Holiday Killer's calendar. I just happened to be working there when—"
"There are many holidays in February, Jude." Philip set the newspaper down with surgical precision. "Several have already passed. Several more are coming. And there are hundreds—hundreds—of locations the Holiday Killer could have chosen. Gangster restaurants? We've got those by the dozen."
He leaned forward. "So please, for the love of God, don't compare yourself to ordinary people. You're not unlucky. You're not jinxed."
A pause.
"You're a disaster. An actual, walking, weaponized catastrophe."
Jude's expression darkened.
"That said." Philip's tone shifted, almost approving now. "Your work efficiency far exceeded my expectations. Maroni's restaurant—the building, the staff, the entire operation—completely torn apart. I estimated two weeks minimum, possibly a month."
He spread his hands. "You did it in one shift."
Philip reached into a desk drawer, pulled out a thick envelope. "Here's six thousand dollars. Don't tell me you don't deserve it—this is exactly what you earned. Take it. Go home. Don't come back to work here."
He said it kindly. Almost gently.
"Your job now is to wait at home for orders. We'll find you a new assignment. But please—please—don't come to the Red Dragon for meals anymore. Try Maroni's place instead."
He smiled. "We have complete confidence in you."
Jude couldn't tell if Philip was sincerely complimenting him or delivering the most elaborate insult of his career. But the message was clear: Philip was keeping his distance now. Professional courtesy with a ten-foot pole.
At least the money was real. Six thousand in asset points credited immediately, plus the cash envelope thick enough to choke on.
Small consolation.
"Whatever. Philip's a complete asshole anyway." Jude stabbed a french fry with more force than necessary. "I'm better off eating fries."
"Jude, are you completely free this month?"
He looked up. Jason Todd sat across from him at the soup kitchen, eyes hopeful in a way that made him look even younger than his actual age.
"Strictly speaking, yes. Why?"
"Can you make more Nanakusa-gayu for us?"
Jude blinked. "You've been eating it all winter. You're not sick of it yet?"
Jason shook his head vigorously, mouth full of fries. "You haven't made any in weeks. Fast food isn't as good as your cooking."
"The porridge is better!" A smaller kid piped up nearby.
"Yeah, the porridge!"
"Please make more porridge!"
The chorus of children's voices rose around him, earnest and pleading.
"Alright, enough about that." He clapped his hands, drawing attention back. "Let's review last lesson's material. Jason—you're up first. After you explain car repair basics, I'll go over cooking fundamentals."
The cheerful atmosphere died instantly. Groans erupted from every corner of the soup kitchen.
It was a universal truth: learning provoked resistance. Didn't matter if you were adult or child.
But Jude meant it. These kids needed skills—real, marketable skills that didn't involve joining gangs or getting shot. Gotham's foster care system was a nightmare. Abusive parents, criminal recruiters, systematic exploitation. The street kids refused those placements for good reason.
Being a chef or mechanic? At least you didn't get knifed for knowing how to change oil.
Maybe Jude was the first person to open a technical school for Gotham's orphans. Stranger things had happened in this city.
Winter had passed. The snow melted. But Gotham's citizens still couldn't see the sun—just the same gray clouds, the same endless rain.
Some things never changed.
Harvey Dent stared at the crime scene photos spread across his desk, expression somewhere between amused and satisfied. Bodies. Blood pools. Gang members killed in shootouts, each one carefully documented by the GCPD.
It had been less than a month since the Holiday Killer's Valentine's Day attack. But the body count from the Falcone-Maroni gang war already exceeded the Holiday Killer's entire tally.
"We've got a real pile of corpses in this city now," Harvey said, tone almost cheerful.
Commissioner Gordon stood by the window, watching gray light filter through tinted glass. It turned the world a sickly green-dark, like looking through pond water.
"Maroni thinks Falcone's behind the Holiday Killer," Gordon said quietly. "So he's taking it out on Roman's soldiers."
Harvey leaned back in his chair. "The best part about dealing with these guys, Jim? They're doing our job for us. Cleaning up Gotham's criminal ecosystem one bullet at a time."
"Murder isn't part of our job, Harvey."
Gordon's voice was sharp. He turned from the window, eyes hard behind his glasses.
"I want to stop Falcone. I want to stop all of them. But not like this. Never like this."
Harvey looked at his friend—righteous, incorruptible, still believing in justice after years in Gotham—and shrugged.
"Of course. Of course not."
He smiled. Easy. Charming.
"Don't take it seriously, Gordon."