When the first ray of sun pierces the city, it's on a small patch of grass in the slum. The grass grows uneven and wild, and the closest human eyes only catch the moment from the side, as a woman with grubby fingers shifts over to a second bin full of trash.
She is looking for treasure, and not the kind that the sun gives.
Usually Gotham's high towers will mark the glow, but a wall of clouds has built itself up steadily since before the first light of day began competing with unflinchingly cold starlight. It has to be fate this way, for only one man is able to move the clouds to his designs, and over Gotham, he doesn't.
So photosynthesis gets a head start and one more Gotham night is dispelled by the golden sphere of day. This is the first place.
The last goes without saying.
