Something wasn't right.
The thought crystallized in Bruce Wayne's mind with the certainty of long-practiced instinct.
All of Gotham City was paying attention to this trial—the most important conflict between the city's underworld powers in decades, fought without guns in a courtroom instead of the streets. As one of the few people who genuinely wanted Gotham to become better, Bruce would never miss today's proceedings.
In fact, he'd arrived earlier than Jude. But unlike the disaster star who'd been immediately recognized by Maroni, Bruce Wayne had not been identified by anyone.
A worn black woolen hat, pulled low over his forehead. Cheap round sunglasses with scratched lenses. A thick, scraggly beard that looked like it hadn't been trimmed in months. A wrinkled coat that smelled faintly of cigarettes and old coffee.
A master of disguise, Bruce now looked nothing like his original self. No one could possibly connect this ordinary-looking passerby with the billionaire playboy who graced magazine covers and society pages. If anything, he resembled a slovenly homeless man who'd wandered in from the streets seeking warmth.
Perfect camouflage.
His expression, hidden behind sunglasses and facial hair, became increasingly serious as he watched the proceedings.
He looked at Jude sitting a few seats away—the young man completely oblivious to Bruce's presence. Then at Harvey Dent in the courtroom, standing in that brilliant white suit like a beacon of hope.
Bruce felt worried.
Ever since Harvey had torn his basement apart last month searching for surveillance equipment, their relationship had become strained. Harvey had found all three listening devices Bruce had planted. Changed his phone. Made his operations completely opaque to outside observation.
He'd even confronted Batman face-to-face, asking directly if Batman was the one who'd bugged his home.
Batman had denied it, of course. But Harvey hadn't believed him. The trust between them—already fragile—had cracked further.
Now his teammate was operating beyond his control, making moves Bruce couldn't anticipate or influence. That made him deeply uneasy.
And at this moment, Maroni's strange behavior was making that unease spike into alarm.
Something was very, very wrong.
In the courtroom, Harvey's voice cut through the tension.
"Salvatore Maroni." His tone was sharp. Anxious. "Let me ask you a second time—"
"Wait a minute—" Maroni's voice cracked. "Cough! Cough!"
The coughing worsened dramatically. His entire body shook with the force of it. Trembling hands reached into his jacket pocket, fumbling for the medicine bottle Vernon had given him.
"I have medicine," Maroni gasped out between spasms. "Right here!"
His fingers closed around the bottle. Unscrewed the cap with shaking hands.
Then, in one fluid motion, he threw it.
The bottle spun through the air, liquid contents spraying outward in an arc.
All of it splashed directly onto Harvey Dent's face.
Maroni laughed. Loud. Triumphant. Filled with savage pleasure.
The look of horror on Harvey's face was everything he'd hoped for. And the matching expressions of shock spreading through the courtroom—the jury gasping, spectators screaming, bailiffs frozen in disbelief—made it even sweeter.
In the next moment, everything seemed to settle.
Harvey covered his face with both hands and collapsed to the courtroom floor, emitting a sharp, agonized scream that echoed off the walls.
In everyone's eyes, the White Knight of Light had fallen into the dust.
"Quick!" someone shouted. "Bring towels!"
"Oh my God! Call 911!"
"Move! Faster!"
Chaos erupted.
People rushed forward from all directions toward the fallen figure in white. Jude leaped from his seat in the gallery, pushing through the crowd. Bruce stayed seated, but his sharp eyes fixed on Maroni with predatory intensity.
Several bailiffs rushed forward and grabbed Maroni's arms, yanking them behind his back to prevent further violence.
The gang leader in his expensive suit and tie stood tall despite their grip, shouting down at the prosecutor writhing on the ground.
"You're done, Dent!" Maroni's voice carried across the courtroom, filled with vicious satisfaction. "That's strong acid! Concentrated sulfuric acid! It can corrode through cement!"
He laughed again, manic energy pouring out.
"You thought you could defeat me?" Maroni continued. "You thought you could really beat me? ME? SAL FREAKING MARONI"
His arrogance was staggering. Overwhelming. A complete abandonment of the careful pretense that had characterized his testimony.
The bailiff next to him drew his pistol.
This was no longer about bribes or corruption. Maroni's actions had crossed every line. The underworld was called the underworld precisely because it operated in shadows—never directly challenging the system in public, never openly trampling on judicial authority.
After all, Gotham might be corrupt, but it was still technically under United States jurisdiction.
Maroni had just committed attempted murder in open court. In front of dozens of witnesses. Against a prosecutor.
The bailiffs had thought the medicine bottle was just that—medicine. A procedural violation at worst. They hadn't expected that their bribes had been used to facilitate Harvey Dent's murder.
If they hesitated now, the consequences would be catastrophic for everyone.
Maroni, riding high on adrenaline and triumph, elbowed one bailiff hard in the face. The man went down.
Another bailiff opened fire immediately.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Three shots. All three bullets hit Maroni's torso.
The gang leader fell to the courtroom floor, blood beginning to pool beneath him. Severe pain made sweat break out across his forehead, mixing with the satisfaction still etched on his features.
As he fell, Maroni heard the crowd around him scream. Watched them retreat in horror from the spreading blood.
He was lying on the ground, dying, but smiling.
Because Harvey Dent was dying too. Screaming. Face melting from concentrated acid.
Victory. Even in death, Maroni had won. Had taken his enemy with him. Had—
Wait.
The screaming had stopped.
Maroni's eyes, beginning to glaze with shock and blood loss, suddenly widened.
He looked at Harvey Dent in complete disbelief.
The prosecutor was getting up from the floor.
Not melting. Not dying. Not even seriously injured.
Just... stained.
Half of Harvey's face and the upper portion of his white suit were darkened by the liquid from the bottle—turned deep, almost black in color by whatever chemical Vernon had provided.
But there was no burning. No smoke. No flesh dissolving.
Harvey pushed through the crowd and came to Maroni's side.
He knelt down, looking at the gang leader's shocked expression with something approaching pity.
"My suit, Mr. Maroni," Harvey said quietly. His voice was calm. Almost gentle. "You ruined my suit. And my face hurts—why did you splash such a stinging solution on me? It burns a little. Very uncomfortable."
Maroni stared.
Who the hell throws staining solution at someone? his mind screamed. I threw ACID. Concentrated sulfuric acid. You should be—
Where was his whole bottle of strong acid?
Harvey leaned down closer, meeting Maroni's eyes directly.
The clean left half of his face showed confusion and concern—the expression of a victim who didn't understand what had just happened.
But the darkened right half of his face revealed something else entirely.
A cold smile. Barely perceptible. Knowing. Triumphant.
And positioned as Maroni was, lying on the ground looking up, he was the only person who could see it.
The two-faced expression.
One side innocent. One side calculating.
Looking at this divided visage, Maroni felt ice run down his spine.
He'd thought he was in control. Thought he'd orchestrated everything. Thought even his betrayal was his own choice.
But now he realized: he'd underestimated Prosecutor Harvey Dent.
Badly.
Maroni opened his mouth, blood pooling there, trying to speak. But no words came out. His consciousness was beginning to blur, shock and blood loss dragging him down.
Harvey patted his shoulder almost affectionately and stood.
His voice carried across the silent courtroom, addressing everyone watching.
"That was terrifying, Mr. Maroni. I didn't expect you would dare do something like this in open court—attacking a prosecutor with what you thought was acid."
Harvey's tone was measured. Professional. Deeply concerned.
"If you hadn't accidentally mixed up your acid with this... staining solution... I might have died right here in this courtroom. Thankfully, it seems you brought the wrong bottle."
He paused, letting that sink in.
"Everyone here is a witness to your attempted murder of a city prosecutor. Mr. Maroni, I'll be filing formal charges. This time, your guilt will be irrefutable."
Harvey's expression—the clean side, the side everyone could see—was solemn.
"If you survive your injuries," he continued, "take good care of yourself. And prepare to be investigated for this attack."
Maroni spat blood.
Harvey's words were salt in his wounds. The legal implications were devastating—attempted murder of a prosecutor, in open court, with dozens of witnesses. Even the corruption that protected the Maroni family couldn't shield against this.
The family would suffer serious damage. Possibly collapse entirely.
But Maroni's rage exploded even further at what happened next.
Harvey turned away from him dismissively and walked toward Vernon Wells.
Vernon, who'd been trying to blend into the shocked crowd, frozen in place, watching the nightmare unfold.
"Thank you, Vernon," Harvey said warmly, reaching out to shake the younger man's hand.
Vernon's face went white.
"Without your efforts," Harvey continued, voice carrying clearly, "Mr. Maroni might not have been willing to appear in court until now. You convinced him. Built trust. Made this testimony possible."
He sighed, shaking his head with apparent disappointment.
"What a pity, though. It seems you and I have both been deceived by him. He never really wanted to accuse Falcone, did he? This was all some elaborate game."
Vernon was waving his hands, panic clear on his face, trying to explain or deny or—
But whatever he was saying no longer mattered.
Maroni, watching from the floor through eyes heavy with blood loss, understood immediately.