Batman scanned the crowd inside The Palace from the skylight above, looking for Salvatore Maroni. The packed bodies dancing to the throbbing EDM that resounded through the glass and brick made it difficult to spot the man in the chaos of light and movement. There were several VIP tables Batman could see between the layers of metal catwalks that crisscrossed along the different levels of the nightclub. He saw drunk men in business suits pulling out small tubes and lining up neat rows of cocaine, women in bright metallic dresses leading men by the tie to cordoned off areas of the club, men's hands inching up the skirts of their drunken female companions as they giggled in one another's ears, and couples that danced so close together that Batman was surprised they hadn't transformed into one giant mass of collective depravity.

The Palace was a favourite, and relatively new, haunt of Maroni's. After Batman shut down the Stacked Deck, Maroni didn't wait long to invest in a new establishment to spend his weekends. It was good business for him: where Batman had created a void, Maroni was eager to make a profit. The building had an updated façade, shiny materials and glossy fabrics, but it still housed the same types Batman was trying so hard to combat: prostitutes Maroni paid to 'entertain' his men and guests, low-level politicians looking for a cheap fix, and underage girls who drank for free and were prey to the more predatory scum that tainted Gotham. Maroni enjoyed it all—he liked being at the centre, watching the world of his own making unfold around him.

Batman was being patient. He didn't expect the rising conflict between police and the criminals of Gotham would get in the way of Maroni's scheduled fun. It was early in the evening yet, but Maroni and the other scourge of Gotham had reason to celebrate—they were winning. They had struck a blow to be remembered against the people of Gotham and all those that wanted to reclaim the city from the criminals that held her in their grip for decades. Without Gordon, it was up to Batman to make things right.

Bruce tried not to think of Miriam as he waited, of the bruises on her neck and arms, the cuts on her face, the look of desperation and wild terror as she threw herself in a corner just to get away from his touch, or her betrayed expression as she yelled at him. He tried not to think about how he deserved it. To add to his grief, Barbara Gordon's broken voice as she screamed at him felt all the more warranted now. Gordon's children would grow up without a father because of him. The public was ready to offer the Batman up on a burning altar to stop the madness.

And he couldn't blame any of them.

No, Batman could only focus on the task at hand now. There was nothing holding him back anymore. Nothing to divert his attention away from what needed to be done. His closest allies were either gone or out of reach from men like the Joker. Miriam was where she belonged, and Rachel would be at the penthouse soon, safe and sound. Alfred was upset with Bruce, he wanted him to stay behind and fix things.

"You can't leave it like this. Get in there and make things right. If I had let a few ill-meant words get the better of me, I would have thumped you over the head more than once years ago," Alfred said. Bruce had left the penthouse before Alfred could tell him about what Miriam had said at the hospital. Batman's comms were silenced, leaving him unable to make the connections Alfred had.

But that wasn't a luxury Batman could afford. Miriam could stay angry at him, he had time to fix things between them later. She was safe. Everything else would come later.

A head of silver reflecting the dancing hues of blue and red caught Batman's attention. Salvatore Maroni was wearing a white suit and had a tall blonde woman, who was most certainly not his wife, on his arm. Batman narrowed his eyes as Maroni settled in his plush seat and a waitress handed him a drink. The club was almost packed to the brim with more pouring in from the long line that winded along the edge of the building. He could see security along the exits and a few in the crowd.

Batman felt like making a point.

With a loud crack, Batman broke through the skylight and dropped between the catwalks to a table on the edge of the dance floor, his cape billowing out to slow his fall. He landed with a loud and heavy thud on the stained wood, a figure of fear and menace. The DJ on the stage above the dancing horde stood agape, one hand on his headset and another on the table in front of him. The crowd stared in a static moment of astonishment.

One of the men in front of Batman reached for his gun, pulling it out with his finger on the trigger. Batman jerked the man's wrist as the shot went off, making it fire into a large spotlight above. Screams of panic drowned out the music as the crowd covered their heads with their arms against the shards of glass falling like rain from the sky. Twisting the gun from the man's hand and cracking him across the face, Batman rose to his full height as the shouts rose and people mobbed to the exits. Batman locked eyes with a panic-stricken Maroni.

Sensing movement in his peripherals, Batman threw a bola at one of the security guards running towards him, making him drop like a bag of bricks as the wire wrapped around his legs. Leaping off the table, Batman connected his fist against the jaw of another one of Maroni's men hard enough to break bone. He pirouetted away from the running figure coming up behind his back, catching the man's outstretched limb and breaking his arm just above the elbow. A glass bottle shattered across the back of Batman's neck. He twisted, unfazed, and landed a sideways kick against the man's knee, making it snap like a twig, before crushing three of his ribs. He felt the air rush out of the thug's lungs as Batman's fist drove into the hard flesh.

Batman looked up and saw Maroni making a run for the club entrance along with the other terrified party-goers. A group of six men stayed behind and reached inside their jackets for the semi-automatics holstered to their chests. Lunging behind an overturned table, Batman launched a quick series of batarangs, all striking home in various positions along the men's arms and torsos. The men cried out as blood gushed from the surface wounds. Taking advantage of the moment, Batman activated his newly minted batons and advanced on the group before they could blink. The electric current glowed blue in the dark space as Batman connected them with the obstacles in front of him, jabbing them in their ribs, cracking the sticks across their jaws, and fracturing their forearms as they tried to hit back. The high voltage pulse was enough to land the men on their backs with a direct hit.

The men were on the ground moaning in pain in the time it took Batman to grab Maroni by the collar of his shirt and smack him against the door he was trying so hard to escape through.

"Damnit, this is a new suit you're wrinkling, pal." Maroni was trying to play the situation with practiced casualness, but the sweat along his brow betrayed him. Batman's face was a carving of wrath. His eyes looked like pools of black that bored, unflinching, into Maroni.

"It's been a while, Sal." Batman increased the pressure against the man's chest, pulling Maroni up by the shirt until his toes barely touched the floor. Batman was in no mood for quips.

"Do your worst. We ain't afraid of you—we're wise to your act."

Rich words coming from a man who always had someone else to fight his battles for him. Salvatore Maroni was a shrewd man and good at his chosen vocation, but he ruled through words and blackmail. His brand of violence came out of the barrel of a gun. He didn't know how to take a beating.

"Funny. That's what Jahan Shaddid said before I shattered his kneecap." Maroni looked unsure if how serious a threat that was supposed to be, but he felt his bones ache and joints seize at the thought. Everyone was tough until things started to break. "You know why I'm here."

"No one's going to tell you nothin'. In case you haven't noticed, the odds are in our favour." Maroni changed his tactic to playing at being smug. Batman loosened his grip on Maroni's shirt.

"Wait, wha—"

With a renewed ferocity, Batman grabbed Maroni's tie and flipped him down against the stained tile. Walking with purpose to the middle of the dance floor, Batman knocked the teeth out of any man stupid enough get up and attempt to take another swing. Maroni dragged behind, trying to ease the cinched knot cutting off his air supply. Aiming up past the metal beams supporting the metal walkways high above, Batman shot his cable-gun at the opening he created moments before. Batman pulled Maroni to his feet and shot them both up through the upper levels of The Palace. He didn't expect the police to come right away, but Batman would not be interrupted. Not tonight.

Batman dragged Maroni along the asphalt, with Maroni's legs digging in to find anything that would slow their progress, until they reached the edge of the roof. Batman thrust Maroni over the edge, only keeping him from falling by his hold on the silk tie.

"Talk," Batman said as he loosened his grip by a fraction, just enough for Maroni to wave his arms in the air and try to scramble back over to the safety of the roof.

"Y-You're not goin' to do a thing. You're bluffing." Batman stood stoic for a split-second, and for that small window of time, Maroni thought he was right.

"Watch me."

Batman let the tie slip through his fingers, and Maroni screamed as he dropped twenty feet in an instant. Maroni had failed to notice the cable, anchored to a metal vent, that Batman strapped around his ankle, but the shortstop and the wrenching of the joints from their sockets and tearing apart the muscles alerted him to its presence quickly. Batman tried not to feel a pang of vindication at the sound of Maroni's shrieking pleas for relief. Taking his time, Batman reeled Maroni back up to the edge, letting him dangle like a fish fresh out of water.

"Don't make me ask twice." Batman's voice was deep and cold, a rough rasp against his vocal cords. He crouched down until he was at eye-level with Maroni and grabbed the silk tie again. Tears and strings of saliva dripped down Maroni's face.

"Look—look, no one knows where he is. That freighter blowin' in the harbour was the… the first thing we'd heard about his setup here. We don't even know… know what the hell he's doin'." Maroni was barely conscious from the intense pain. Batman jerked the cable to keep Maroni awake, eliciting fresh cries from him.

Have to be more careful. Don't want him passing out. Yet.

"Someone knows where he is."

"Even… even if they did, who do you think… is goin' to give him up to you?"

It was a fair question. One that Batman didn't appreciate.

"How much longer are you going to play at being terrorists before the military comes in and crushes you like the garbage you are, Sal?" Maroni looked offended at that. Blood was rushing to his face, making his rounded cheekbones plump and, in any other context, would aptly be described as rosy.

"Terrorists? We didn't sign up for any of that. He's… he's…"

Words seemed to fail Maroni. Insane, freak, and homicidal maniac were the descriptors that came to mind, but anyone with a kernel of sense would have said the same. His vocabulary was limited in describing a man like the Joker, and the unknowable enigma at his core.

"You have the solution—solution right in front of ya. Just take off that mask and he'll come find you." The snide comments were Maroni's last efforts at staving off the pain searing through his leg.

Batman was reminded of what Alfred said less than a week before.

"You hammered these men to the point of desperation, and they've turned to a man they aren't capable of understanding. They've summoned a demon beyond their reckoning."

Not for the first time, Alfred was right.

Batman dragged Maroni back over the edge and cut the cable, giving him a sudden drop against the sticky tar of the roof. Batman stepped over Maroni's prone body, making sure to give a good nudge to the man's twisted leg, as he walked off the edge of the building to the waiting Tumbler below.

Batman had learned several integral points that were forming a larger pattern, but he still couldn't see the bigger picture. His mind raced as he patrolled the dampened alleys around abandoned warehouses and storage sheds on Gotham's waterfronts. Batman kept the lights off and minimized the roaring rev of the engine as he searched for any possible place the Joker might have been hiding.

The Mob hired the Joker to kill the Batman, that much was clear. They wanted unencumbered control and unequivocal might, and Batman was the only thing stopping Gotham's backslide into the state that was killing her. It was also clear that whatever they had intended in hiring the Joker spiraled out of control quickly. This is where things became murky in Batman's mind.

The Joker, out of some sick desire to make a point or because he gleaned some potential of her skills at the bank, went after Miriam for a reason. If what Ivan Dimitrov said was true, then Miriam had what he had never thought possible. She possessed a dangerous skill set and exposed herself to a lifetime of danger, and he hadn't been there to stop it. After killing Commissioner Loeb, Judge Surillo, and sending in a bomb that nearly leveled the top floor of the Wayne Holdings skyscraper to kill Harvey at the fundraiser, the Joker knew where exactly where Miriam would be. There was no coincidence in that.

Three days on that freighter had taken a toll on Miriam. The frost damage to her fingers and feet were reversible, and the state of her head injuries and the prolonged period of time before the Joker released the video suggested that Miriam was incapacitated until that point. The Joker kept her alive for more than a video, but he wasn't concerned enough about her health to keep frostbite at bay or mitigate her injuries. It also didn't explain why he would have broken into the penthouse in the first place.

The Joker also didn't seem concerned with expending resources or have any sense or care for the potential sabotaging of his own operations. The explosion on the freighter and the attack on the memorial were disasters on levels previously unseen in Gotham. Batman was in the heart of the ship, where the men from the meeting with White's gang were unloading the explosives. They were storing them in a room directly adjacent to the engine room, and they were not careful to keep the vials of nitroglycerin properly stored. It only took Batman placing the vials outside their cooling containers and placing them by the hot engines for the rapid heating to cause a chain reaction that sunk the ship in less than ten minutes. He had made sure no one was in the blast radius on the deck, and his quick sweep of the ship on his way to Miriam had ensured no one died. He had hoped his intervention would halt any plan the Joker had in motion, but he was wrong.

Sixteen people died of gunshot wounds as a direct consequence of Batman's choices. He was so focused on Miriam, on getting her home, and the chance of stopping the threat the Joker posed before things escalated beyond his control. There was no way for Batman to find a discernible pattern of behaviour in the Joker. Batman thought of the conversation he had with Alfred after the Joker's fourth bank robbery, the one where he'd met Miriam.

"Criminals aren't difficult to understand, Alfred," he'd said.

"With respect, Master Bruce, perhaps this isn't a man you fully understand." At the time, he was only half listening to what Alfred said, thinking it was just another one of Alfred's preambles or war stories. He foolishly thought he had more important things to worry about.

"A long time ago, I was in Burma. My friends are I were working for the local government. They were trying to buy the loyalty of tribal leaders by bribing them with precious stones, but their caravans were being raided just north of Rangoon by a bandit." Bruce's attention was still divided then, but he began to focus when he realized he hadn't heard this story before. Alfred was walking toward him, trying to impart the wisdom in his words. "So, we went looking for the stones. But in six months, we never found anyone who'd traded with him." Bruce was paying attention then, trying to figure out the end of Alfred's story.

"One day, I saw a child playing with a ruby the size of a tangerine. The bandit had been throwing them away."

"So why steal them?" His stomach had felt knotted up. He thought of the security footage at the time, and the way the Joker loomed over Miriam.

"Well, because he thought it was good sport. Because some men aren't looking for anything logical, like money. They can't be bought, bullied, reasoned, or negotiated with."

There were no answers that satisfied Batman's mind. No way to tackle the problem head-on. No way to stop the madness that unspooled all his efforts. There was only one solution he could think of as Alfred's voice rang in his mind.

"Some men just want to watch the world burn."

The lights were dimmed down when Bruce walked into the penthouse. It was the early hours of the morning and Bruce didn't expect anyone to be up. He didn't pay attention to anything as he walked down the hall. He needed to see if Miriam was awake, just in case. He needed to see if she was willing to hear him out.

Coming up to her bedroom, Bruce opened the door as quietly as he could. The light was still on in her room and the mess hadn't changed since Bruce packed a bag full of her clothes hours before. Miriam was a small huddled shape under a thick mound of blankets. He walked over to her bed and saw her resting form. Her black hair was wild and covered most of her face and pillow. Pushing back the tangled strands, he saw that she looked more at peace than she did when she was awake. She didn't look afraid anymore, but the bruises and cuts along her cheeks dispelled any illusion she was alright. Bruce noticed the ring he gave her the Christmas before he left on her finger. A pang of guilt twisted his stomach.

Bruce dropped down and whispered into Miriam's ear in short, quiet breaths before placing a gentle kiss on her head. He didn't know how he was going to undo what was already done, how to take away the pain he knew would plague her for the rest of her life—just like it had for him. An unfamiliar feeling of uncertainty swept through him as he shut the door behind him in silence.

Shirking off his long-sleeved sweater, Bruce walked shirtless across the hall to the living room. He had too much to think about before he could sleep. Touching his bruised abdomen and tender ribs, he pretended not to see Rachel sitting in a far chair. The bright lights of Gotham illuminated her outline in the dark.

"You're late," Rachel said as she turned on the table-side lamp. A sprawled open book lay next to her bare, curled-up legs. Bruce tried hard not to stare at how smooth her skin looked under the warm light, or at the half-bun sitting low on her neck that draped her face with loose ringlets. He wasn't succeeding.

"A bit early for reading, isn't it?" Bruce asked, changing course and walking within the glowing rings of the lamp. She kept her gaze on his face, but he could see her struggle to keep her eyes from wandering down his chest. Bruce smirked, which only made Rachel angry. She let out a long breath through her nose.

"Did you find anything, at least?" Rachel asked as she raised up from the white cloth chair. Her red nightshirt stopped just at her mid-thigh. Now it was Bruce's turn to keep his gaze averted from her bared skin. It was hard for him to be around Rachel, he could never find the version of himself that was compatible with being with her entirely. There was always some block—some obstacle—that kept them apart. Every time he looked at her face, at her lips, he was reminded of how she was with someone else.

"Nothing useful. He's like an eel, or a rat that's too smart for traps. I just have to find the right approach, find the right person to break."

"Why do you sound so flippant? Thinking of him like he's an animal—or even a normal person—is a mistake. We both know he's more than that, Bruce. He's not going to stop." Bruce took a step towards Rachel, leaving only a small space between them. Being around her, the faint smell of vanilla and of home when his parents were still alive almost made him lose himself. It also made his decision easier to bear.

"That day we talked about, Rachel? The day where Gotham wouldn't need men like Batman—I thought it was coming. Maybe... maybe Batman isn't what Gotham needs right now."

Bruce thought of Miriam; she certainly didn't seem to benefit from Bruce being gone. Now he was letting Rachel slip through his grasp. If he wasn't Batman, if he had never been Batman, he could have his arms wrapped around Rachel. Miriam would never have gotten hurt. He didn't know if he could sacrifice them, he didn't think he could forgo them for the greater good. Doubt permeated his mind, clouding it.

Rachel cocked her head to the side, raising her eyebrows in that disapproving way, imploring him to be honest.

"It's like he's disappeared off the map. I can't find him, Rachel. Maybe it's time for the Batman to turn himself in. To stop this once and for all."

Her blue eyes widened and Rachel looked up at Bruce through her long lashes. It was almost like she was trying to drive him crazy on purpose. She shook her head.

"Bruce—"

"Did you mean it, when you said we could be together?"

"Yes, of course, but—"

Bruce didn't let Rachel finish. He closed the distance between them and kissed her hard. His hands wrapped in her hair, moving along her neck to keep her close. Her warm hands on his chest gently pushed him back, but he didn't move his hands from her. He didn't care that she was with Harvey. He wanted them to be together before everything fell apart.

"Bruce, you know we shouldn't."

But, to Bruce, her eyes were pleading with him not to stop. They stared at one another for a long minute, the tension raising their body temperature to a fever pitch. Closing her eyes, it was Rachel who kissed him first. Her chest pressed against the curve of his stomach as her arms wandered along his biceps, up his shoulders, and rested on his neck and worked through his hair. Bruce's hand dropped down to her waist and hips, pushing her closer to him as his hands slipped past the thin fabric of her nightgown. His tongue traced along hers, his teeth pulling at her bottom lip. Rachel kissed him back with a fierce desire that Bruce only experienced last year in the ruins of his childhood home. His fear and doubt slipped away as they folded into one another.

He pulled away for a moment, to make sure she wanted this as much as he did. Rachel's lips were bright red and swollen, just as his were surely the same. Bruce could barely hold himself back. Rachel's fingers traced his collarbone and the muscles that defined his broad chest. Wordlessly, she took him by the hand and led him to his bedroom. Her eyes signaled the same desires his did: they had found a shelter from the storm in one another. As they collapsed against the bed and her thighs curled around his hips, he hoped that morning would never come.