The Chiarello Hotel loomed like a Victorian purgatory, its spires tangled in the clouds, its frame a skeletal ruin veiled in scaffolding. Its windows peeked through the tarp like a half-peeled mask—blank, watching, waiting for someone to slip.
The neighborhood pressed in—buildings stacked on buildings, alleys barely wide enough to breathe. A quiet reminder: Gotham was as much a maze as it was a trap.
He waited in the shadows, beside a tarp that snapped in the wind, overlooking the entire block. He unhooked the binoculars from his belt and scanned the streets. Late-night drifters, spillovers from bars and parties, stumbling down sidewalks before the early risers took it over.
"I hear Ms. Freckles."
"Connect me."
Click—static—then shuffling.
Freckles crossed at the western corner. She still wore the black hoodie that swallowed her frame, black jeans soaked through. Only now, her eyes were rimmed in thick black makeup.
"Remember the rules."
Her eyes flicked upward, a half-smile caught in the glow of a streetlamp.
"Get the info and get out," she said before continuing down the street, "Y'know, this crowd would talk to you."
"Target's probably inside. If he sees me, he'll run."
"Target." Her tongue lingered on it like a dare.
It had become a habit—this way she latched onto his words. Not just the fact that she did it, but that he kept wondering what she was trying to hear in them.
"You seem like the kind of guy that likes the chase," she said, checking an alley and pausing a moment before saying, "Nice sled."
"What?"
"The guy in the alley—he's got a Desert Sled. A Triumph T120 Bonneville. Like in The Great Escape."
"Steve McQueen." His thoughts turned to the homeless prophet on Elm Street. He had said the rider peeled out on his sled and curved the corner like a queen.
His voice sharpened. "What was he doing?"
"Just parked it," she said, glancing back.
"Go to the hangout. See what you can find."
He watched Freckles continue on. Then there was a click and Alfred's voice patched through the comm. "It's him, isn't it?"
"I'll know soon enough."
The grapple hissed and yanked him skyward—boots crashing onto a ledge. He ran, hard and fast. Another jump—boot to ledge, again and again. His cape fluttering behind.
People gathered, clogging the sidewalks. Brakes skidded. It was enough commotion that the rider stepped from the alley. His helmet still on, his gaze tilted skyward.
Neither could see the other's eyes, but there was a stillness that seemed to reach both of them.
That was all it took.
The rider bolted, vanishing into the alley.
He fired again and gave chase.
The motorcycle shrieked through backstreets, sliding between parked cars, tires biting hard at every turn.
He vaulted another ledge, closing the gap, running parallel above. They were side by side for a block when the rider hooked left.
He aimed his gun, swinging wide to catch up, but the trail went cold.
That wouldn't stop him.
He climbed higher, scanning alleys and streets from the rooftops. Then he saw it. A black tarp barely fluttering, concealing the bike. Its rider stood nearby, helmet off, balaclava still on, peering around a corner.
He stepped onto the ledge, boots scraping stone, eyes scanning for options. Both involved dropping in. One gave an edge.
He pulled two black spheres from his belt and tossed them. They clinked against the pavement.
The rider spun.
White light detonated—bright and burning.
"Fuck!" the rider shouted, staggering, his hands at his eyes that were screwed shut.
He dropped fast, catching the rider's wrists mid-motion—
But Gordon had been right. The guy was trained. He slipped free, deflecting each strike, twisting out of holds, fighting blind but effective.
It was breathless seconds of knuckles, elbows, tangled limbs. Gloves snatched at sleeves and joints, each grapple slipping into another. No wasted motion—every strike earned, every block paid for in bruises and breath.
The rider's fist slammed into his rib. The plate beneath the vest caught the worst, but the pain still landed. Then a knee drove into his thigh—fast and deep into the muscle. His leg buckled.
Then the rider lunged for the tarp, ripping it off the bike.
An opportunity. Tackling the rider from behind, he locked him in a chokehold.
Then a scream.
They turned.
A group of women stood at the alley's mouth, frozen in shock. A second high-pitched scream.
That moment cost him.
The rider elbowed low—precise and brutal—right where the plates ended and the ribs began. He lost his grip.
The rider shoved him aside, vaulted onto the bike, engine growling as he roared away.
Clenching his side, he stumbled after him, darting past the women and into the street. Firing his gun, he lifted off the ground, hurtling toward a building.
The bike was still visible.
He swung high then low, cutting through the streets and across buildings.
Eventually, the bike vanished into the traffic and noise.
He stood still atop the rooftop, the crowd swelling below. Horns blared. Fingers pointed, eyes tracking him with fear and intrigue like he were a ghost or demon.
To the east, another lost battle. The night waned from the morning light. Nights never last long enough.
Alfred's voice crackled through the comm. "Sounded like he did get the best of you, sir?"
"Not entirely."
He looked at his hand.
A thin gold necklace glinted in his fingers.
A lead—one the rider hadn't meant to leave.