It's 2013 now, and I've decided after looking over this fic, gaining inspiration to write it again and inevitably taking it off of hiatus, I will have to thoroughly edit the previous chapters. This is the official updated chapter of BCL. I will be updating throughout, so to new readers, welcome! To old readers, be prepared for some depth and detail I missed out on writing earlier on!

It was twenty past two in the morning, and I still had three case files left to go over before the scheduled conviction hearings would be conducted the following afternoon. Words were beginning to run together, criminal testimony meaning next to nothing when my eyes were closing shut every two minutes. The exhaustion was taking a toll on my body throughout the late evening hours, and I had just downed my fourth cup of coffee for the night, ready to pour cup number five when the drip drip of the coffee machine ceased its whirring. Cigarettes did the same thing for me once upon a time, back in the days of my adolescence when the night air did nothing but fuel my thirst for life. College changed those habits fast, and my working environment encouraged the caffeine addiction. It wasn't much of a big surprise, though, but what I wasn't expecting were three consecutive weeks of over eighty hours at Gotham City Police. My heavy eyes began to droop lower at every tick of the clock, the scattered paperwork on my desk inching off the table each time I had a chance to get a moment of peace.

I wondered when these random hours were going to ease up, especially on the criminal cases. Harvey Dent, my late boss, had done more than enough for the police force six months prior before the telltale signs of Gotham tragedy struck him mangled and dead at the height of his career. Hundreds of men were off the streets, and with it I imagined the criminal investigation department to be slow. However, that wasn't the case.

When I regained enough stamina to get the gist of my work done, I alternately ran two markers along the court documents, highlighting the secondary facts in yellow and the primary in blue. It was my duty to discover criminal whereabouts, track them down, and have them arrested until their court dates sentenced them. The upper-hand position wasn't always a beneficial one. Chief Detective of Gotham City Police Department could mean mobs will or already have targeted me. Anyone in a publicly high position on the police force, including Commissioner Gordon, would more than likely be used as bait should the opportunity arise. Other worse things could come to fruition as well—the villains of Gotham's murderous spotlight, take a pick, could include any one of us as part of their plan for their oncoming destruction.

The job description had more than what meets the public eye. I had to be willing to lose sleep as long as required, hence the coffee, arrive promptly when called at any moment, and this means three in the morning, and I could risk my chances of putting my psychological health in jeopardy for the betterment of the city.

In some cases, I was obligated to think like the criminal.

By this point my makeup must have smeared into frightening rings under my eyes from all of the irritable rubbing I'd been doing for the past hour. There were a few people left in the office when I took a quick look around, and I had no doubt their insomnia looked any worse on their faces than mine.

I was up to my neck in paperwork, filling in soon-to-be search warrants and confirmation forms of evidentiary public reveals. Lawyers came to me on a daily basis with either bribes for an information pull or carrying complaints that my evidence just wasn't adequate enough for a sentencing.

But I prove them wrong, despite the odds they set against me. Far-fetched challenges were my forte at the GCPD.

I loved this job. You almost need an outlandishly keen mind to work like this. My interest in criminal investigations even went as far back as my childhood, as much of my childhood that I cared to remember.

I was once the victim of an armed robbery alongside my mother. I had been twelve at the time and quite the strange child, but I remember the day as vividly as the mark it left behind. We were making a check deposit that week, one of the low payment checks my mother received from her three waitressing jobs. The money had been cleared in little to no time and we were on our way out the door, when a masked man sidled in and withdrew a gun. Being the only people closest to him, I distinctly remember the way he looked at me, leaving nothing but his eyes for me to read when he grabbed hold of me and held a large hunting knife pointed to my throat.

The image of the masked man gripping my face had been burned into my mind since that very day. He had demanded that everyone get down on the floor, waving his gun at any unwilling bystanders and firing into the ceiling when the screaming got to be too much for his ears. The knife sliding against my neck got even closer when people started pleading for him to take the money and leave, and when the point bit into my jaw, silence fell upon the occupants of the bank. Who would object to a child's future? I was used as a life or death mechanism if anyone rebelled. One of the most striking recollections I had were of my mother groveling on the floor at his feet—he'd let the blade sink deeper into my neck at her minor movement.

It frightened and intrigued me all at once during those singular moments of me being held hostage. When the metal parted through my neck like butter, the combination of a warm sting mixing with the cold of the blade, adrenaline had pumped through my veins and set my interest afire. I was hooked, alarmed, bewitched. My past familiarity of danger drew me closer to him. He had teased my mother, cutting a deep line from the top of my jaw just under my ear and dragging it down past my jugular, never puncturing it, until it curved along the length of my collarbone. I didn't cry. I trembled, squirmed, and barely whimpered, but my resolve was strong. This instinct had bloomed inside of me when he held me to his chest, and I knew in the final seconds before he dug the knife into my skin that he wouldn't kill me. The criminal's mind was fascinating to grasp and dangerous to explore, and I devoted the rest of my education to reach the point I was at today.

"Violet."

The voice was familiar through the haze of sleep I'd been wallowing in and my head immediately snapped up, almost paranoid I had been asleep for too long, and focused on my closest colleague while he settled himself into a seat at the front of my desk.

"Hey, Jared," I croaked, smoothing a hand down my unruly hair and making an attempt to rub the sleep from my eyes. It was the middle of the night, but I was still working. Despite my inherent unwillingness to finish the paperwork for the evening, I tried my best to retain an air of professionalism around my coworker and friend.

A new energy zapped my body awake as I sipped my steaming coffee, shuffling through papers. I looked up half a second and down again, brows furrowed, searching. A stack of thirty papers full of scraggly handwriting and signatures emerged from the pile.

"I'm guessing you want all of my forms for the Williams case hearing tomorrow?" I handed him the bulky stack quickly and began skimming over another recent case again, not noticing the packed manila folder grasped tightly in his other hand.

"Correct." He verified. He ran a hand through his own messy hair, dirty blonde jutting up in a disarray of spikes when he ruffled it. Jared looked incredibly uncomfortable. "And… I have a few questions."

"Questions?" I asked like I didn't understand the meaning of the word.

"Yeah," he sighed, his voice going down a pitch. He eyed the horrible bruise-like circles under my eyes guiltily. "I know you have a lot of criminal cases on the deep end, but your boss specifically told me to assign this case as top priority." Jared paused to take in my expression. "Please don't be mad."

I sighed in annoyance, wondering if he knew just how many cases I already had sitting untouched on my desk.

"It can't be that bad. Come on, what is it?" I laughed. Jared's gaze lingered on the floor. My playful smile slumped into a frown. "Seriously, Jared. I guarantee that whatever it is, I can take it on." He looked reluctant to show the other side of the file. I glanced at my watch. "Can this wait till later? It's 2:47 in the morning."

"The case can't wait, Vi. This is serious." The silver glint of his eyes loomed over me like a rain cloud. He fumbled with the taut rubber band holding the folder together. "Have you been informed of the recent breakouts at Arkham? A pipe bomb was planted-"

I held up a hand to prevent Jared's common chatter. I was starting to feel a pressure headache coming on.

"I know, I know. Planted in the top security cells on the highest floor. Over fifteen criminals, moderate and psychotically dangerous, escaped. Can't you see why I'm here this late?" I gestured to the stacked files sprawled all over my desk.

Jared released his own sigh and threw the manila folder face down in front of me.

"This is why you were given the case. You're more than prepared."

I smirked at him and flipped the file over. The triumphant smirk vanished-his first magic trick of the evening.

"Oh," I whispered.

My hands shook as I removed the rubber band and opened up the folder. A man lacking more morals than the devil himself stared back at me with pit less, black-ringed eyes. The white paint's cracked pieces, a stark contrast to the black, hung desperately off his face. And those scars carved into his cheeks, the most disturbing part of his appearance, forced a smile on him whether or not his mouth obeyed. In this man's world, life and death was merely a card game, and he would be bluffing his whole way through.

This changes everything.