For Salvatore Maroni, St. Patrick's Day was bloody.
Not just bloody. Cursed.
Standing at the broken window, cigarette shaking in his fingers, he suddenly recognized the delivery driver holding up that pizza box. The same waiter who'd worked at his restaurant the day Bruce Wayne came to dinner. The same kid who'd been delivering pizzas to this previous hideout.
Not the Holiday Killer—couldn't be. Maroni had only chosen this location by coin flip yesterday, moved in last night. No way to predict it.
But this person had appeared in Maroni's life exactly twice, and both times had preceded catastrophic trauma. His restaurant bombed on Valentine's Day. His hideout massacred on St. Patrick's Day. The kid hadn't done these things, but his face had become a psychological trigger—a harbinger of disaster.
So when Jude held up the pizza box, gesturing hopefully at the window, Maroni's response was pure reflex.
He grabbed his pistol and fired.
Jude looked down at the pizza box—now thoroughly ventilated with bullet holes—and sighed.
The rain had stopped, at least. Silver linings.
He opened the box, pulled out a slice that had only been grazed by one round, and took a bite. Still warm. Decent cheese pull. Could be worse.
He climbed back on the motorcycle and headed home, chewing thoughtfully.
"What terrible luck," he muttered around the pizza. "Didn't finish the mission, didn't get to sleep in, and had bullet-riddled breakfast. But hey—I'm getting pretty good at this."
Gotham's news stations were nothing if not efficient.
By the morning broadcast, everyone in the city knew: the Holiday Killer had struck again. St. Patrick's Day. Maroni's hideout. Massacre.
Before today, people had braced for gang war—Falcone versus Maroni, bodies in the streets, collateral damage. Everyone had been mentally preparing.
Those preparations were now useless.
Falcone and Maroni probably wouldn't fight. The city wouldn't be littered with fresh corpses from mob warfare.
But a pile of bodies had already been transported to the cemetery anyway.
Even though they were gangsters—criminals, killers, men who'd chosen violence as profession—after seeing St. Patrick's Day stained red, nobody felt like celebrating what should have been a festive holiday.
The families of the deceased wept. Gordon and Harvey worked themselves to exhaustion. Maroni nursed his trauma. The Roman fell into brooding silence, having lost the Holiday Killer's trail again.
Everyone in Gotham seemed shrouded by the killer's shadow now, wondering whether the next holiday would bring more death.
Three days later.
Jude received $100,000 from Philip, delivered with a message: No need to work so hard. Rest at home.
What overtime? Jude thought. I was just looking for a side gig.
But he kept that observation to himself. The pay was excellent, after all.
SYSTEM NOTIFICATION
New Mission Available
Mission: Green St. Patrick's Day
Introduction: St. Patrick's Day was meant to be green. Now it runs red. Even the legendary Saint Patrick couldn't have anticipated such bloodshed.
Note: Tree planting comes before Ohigan, which commemorates the dead. The Spring Equinox approaches—perhaps a good time to plant trees for those who've passed.
Status: Pending (0%)
Reward: Green St. Patrick's Day
Meaningless task, meaningless reward title. But the system's odd jobs always paid well. Whatever the reward actually meant, Jude planned to complete the mission first and ask questions later.
That afternoon, at the soup kitchen.
Jason looked up from teaching the younger kids about car mechanics, surprised to see Jude arriving early. "Something special happening? You called ahead and asked me to boil water for breakfast."
"It's almost lunch anyway." Jude shook his head, already moving toward the kitchen. "I'll make porridge for you all now. I have something this afternoon—won't be able to come by. Actually, I'll be busy the next few days. Classes are on hold."
"What's the matter?"
"Planting trees for the dead."
Jude poured processed grains into the pot with practiced efficiency. Jason watched, then wandered closer. The other children followed, clustering around the stove like cats drawn to warmth.
"That sounds interesting," Jason said.
"It's actually exhausting work. And funerals are for the living, not the dead. Once someone's gone, they're gone."
"Can we help plant?"
"Not today." Jude stirred the porridge slowly. "If some hothead pulls a gun and starts shooting, I can't protect you all."
He paused. "But if nobody draws their guns today, you can call the other kids tomorrow. Bring them along. This will mean something to you."
Jason nodded, already calculating logistics.
Three days after St. Patrick's Day. Gotham City Cemetery. Outskirts.
The sky hung dark and oppressive, spilling rain in messy, slanting lines that stretched from clouds to earth without end. People in black suits stood beneath black umbrellas, silent as monuments. They faced freshly erected tombstones, heads bowed, saying nothing.
The cemetery was lonely and desolate. Only rain and silence. Tombstones and the people who stood quiet as stone.
The burial ceremonies had finished. Both Maroni and Falcone families—because yes, they were called families, advocating collective honor and deep emotional bonds between members—had laid their dead to rest.
Though "family" was generous. Most were half-strangers bound by profit and fear.
As the mourners finished their moment of silence and began filing toward the gates, they stopped.
A figure in a black cloak walked past them through the rain, moving slowly toward the tree line. He carried a shovel in one hand, a cypress sapling in the other.
Nobody could see his face clearly beneath the hood. But they watched as he ignored the Maroni procession entirely, walked to the edge of the woods, set down his sapling, and began digging.
The atmosphere shifted—became thick, electric with tension. Everyone watched him work in silence. He moved methodically, efficiently. Beside him, a row of small trees already stood planted, their branches bare against the gray sky.
Who was he? Why was he here? And why plant trees in a mob cemetery?
A man with a black umbrella took two steps forward, mouth opening to demand answers—
The cloaked figure straightened. Walked to the first tree. Placed one hand gently against its trunk.
"Richard Daniel." His voice carried through the rain like a sigh made audible. "Died from gunshot wounds."
The rain seemed to quiet.
"He said: 'In the future, I'll marry her. We'll have two children—a boy and a girl.'"
The cypress sapling moved. Green branches sprouted from bare wood, unfurling like prayers answered. An owl descended from nowhere, perched on the new growth, and cried three times.
Hoot. Hoot. Hoot.
The man walked to the next tree.
"Johnny Vitti. Killed by gunfire."
He touched the trunk. The wood seemed to shiver beneath his palm.
"He said: 'I've thought more than once—if I'd gone to court that day and reported my uncle Falcone, would I have had a chance to be a good person?'"
The man's voice softened. "Johnny, there are no ifs in life."
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