A/N: ...BAM!

Winnifred blinked. The blanket fluff scratched her wrist, leaving allergy like marks. Winnifred sat up. It took her a minute to realize that she was on the purple couch in the attic with a Scottish clad blanket on her. Shrugging off the sleep, Winnifred quietly tip toed downstairs and glanced into the so called guest room, otherwise known as the wheat storage. Heath seemed to have fallen asleep in the same position he came, hands crossed on his chest, head against the wall. Winnifred never made it to his return, and now she marveled on how he managed not to fall off that chair in his sleep. Inaudibly chuckling to herself, Winnifred walked into the main room, on her way glancing at the clock. Shit. She was running late. Winnifred frantically, trying not to be super loud, looked for her jacket. Spotting it on the table, she grabbed it, setting a few pages flying off. Winnifred hurriedly picked them up, messily organizing them into a semi neat pile. Her eyes suddenly saw a familiar name on the top most.

My dearest Freddie

Winnifred looked down for the signature, even though the familiar, slanted handwriting was more than she needed.

Heath

Winnifred's eyes darted up onto the man sleeping in the room across. Something clenched inside her. Winnifred glanced back at the clock, the minutes mercilessly slipping past her fingers. Jack would totally question her if she comes late. Winnifred glanced back at the letter. After another second of hesitation, she tucked the letter into her bag and ran out the door.

[...]

Charlotte was already standing at her door when Winnifred skidded down the hallway.

"You're late," she informed her friend, watching how Winnifred hastily battles with the keys and her door lock.

"I know," Winnifred glanced over Charlotte's shoulder. The door of Browning's door was open. Winnifred looked back at Charlotte.

"I checked in on Margaret in the morning. Everyone seems to get sick in the mornings."

The door lock finally gave in, and Winnifred pushed it open.

"See you during the day, Lottie."

Charlotte rolled her eyes at the door, closed right into her face. She honestly got used to Winnifred's emotional jumps which she apparently did not outgrow. Humming something to herself, Charlotte disappeared into the adjacent office.

Winnifred impatiently tugged off her jacket, throwing it on the handle of the chair, not caring to pick it up when it slipped off onto the floor. Setting her bag on the desk, Winnifred began scouring through her bag in irritation. Her fingers grasped a wrinkled, light edge. Instantly taking the paper out, Winnifred shoved the bag aside and unfolded the letter, not bothering to sit down.

My dearest Freddie,

The tea is in the cupboard by the way.

Gotham is even worse during the day than during the night. Too gilded. That just annoys me.

Richie really has some problems. That paranoid either has serious issues, either has nothing better to do. Maybe a mix of both. Isn't that what our sixth grade art teacher used to say? Damn, I'm getting to nostalgic these days.

This is all so boring. I subtly chip away mob dealers capitals, and they don't even notice.

I like Falcone. That guy is sharp.

Damn it, Freddie, I have no idea where we're rolling. It's like being in a roller coaster car that stopped, and you're hoping that the mechanics will fix it or else you may be forever stuck in this roller coaster car for damn knows what time.

Did I already say about the tea? I'm too tired to read. If I didn't, well then the tea is in the cupboard.

Good night,

Heath

Winnifred slowly lowered down into her chair, the paper soft on her fingers. She didn't know where to look. Her eyes traced the papers with bunch of numbers, graphs, useless statistics lying messily on her desk. Her fingers absently reached for a pen, lifting it up midair, then lowering it back down, rubbing it up and down with her skin as if trying to make it melt. The edge of her brain was replaying some old cassette Aunt Martha used to put on when they were little. Strange, she hasn't put it on in a while.

"Winnifred?"

Winnifred startled, abruptly glancing up. Charlotte was looking in through the doorway. She looked concerned.

"Did you hear me?"

"Yes, yes I'm uh sorry...what's wrong?" Charlotte bit her lip. Winnifred frowned, something inside her sucking in the liver.

"Charlotte?"

"They called from the hospital."

Winnifred instantly ran over her chair, tripping over tripping over the table legs, and raced past Charlotte. Sighing, Charlotte slightly closed the door and departed into her office. Slowly, the door moved away from the lock, lightly hit the wall, before finally stopping.

Johnathan thoughtfully looked through patient papers on the front desk when he heard someone call his name.

"Johnathan!"

Johnathan glanced to his side.

"Yes?" Winnifred quickly walked over to him.

"What happened?" She demanded. Johnathan rose his eyebrows in amusement.

"What do you mean?"

"I received a call from the hospital," Winnifred impatiently explained, giving an annoyed look to curious Evangeline sitting behind the reception desk.

"Did something happen to Margie?"

Johnathan relaxed, squaring his shoulders.

"Only the best, she was released today in the morning."

"Oh," Winnifred's shoulders sagged from relief. Her tense lips formed into a tired smile.

"Let me guess, I'm late again?"

"You are, Miss Lewly," Johnathan smiled, returning back to his documents.

"You aunt was more responsible than you and took your cousin into her care."

"Stop," Winnifred laughingly shoved Johnathan into the arm. He simply moved his eyebrows and offered an unnoticeable grin.

"Preparing for tomorrow's conference?" Winnifred asked, glancing over Johnathan's shoulder.

"Looks scary."

Johnathan lightly smirked and turned over the page. Suddenly, Richard came skidding across the hallway.

"Crane! Old Waner's cut! C'mon, three minute start."

"Shit," Johnathan quietly swore and hastily slammed the the portfolio shut.

"See you later," he quickly threw to Winnifred and went running after Richard.

"Cut?" Winnifred repeated, lifting her eyes in amusement.

"Surgery," Evangeline readily answered, typing something on the calculator with one finger.

"Intern term."

Winnifred nodded, following the interns with her eyes. A sudden wrinkle ran over her eye brows.

"Shit." Winnifred abruptly turned around and ran out the hospital, tripping on her heels as she raced down the steps. Whipping the doors of bank open, Winnifred forced herself to calm down. However, once she entered her office, the anxiety took over again. Snatching the untouched letter from her desk, Winnifred pushed it into the depths of her purse. Her eyes scanned the office again. Everything seemed to be in place.

"Charlotte," Winnifred suddenly called. No one answered.

"Charlotte!"

The brown haired girl appeared again.

"Why are you screaming?" Charlotte crossly inquired.

"Lottie, did anyone enter my office?"

Charlotte wrinkled her forehead.

"What?"

"Did anyone enter my office?"

"No..." Charlotte thought for a minute, then confidently shook her head. "No, or else I would've seen it. Why?"

"Never mind. Thanks." After Charlotte left, Winnifred quickly glanced at the office to her left. The door was closed. Winnifred deeply sighed and walked back in, firmly shutting the door. Sitting down, Winnifred took out the letter from her bag. Her eyes scanned the uneven lines. She did not know what she was searching for. Heath was blunt, even in his secrets. That's what killed her about Heath. His stupid bluntness. As if he couldn't do the more wrong, yet comfortable, way. Winnifred unconsciously passed her fingers through her hair. He addressed this letter to her. Winnifred didn't understand why. She also didn't understand the meaning of the letter. She did, but not in the sense that Heath wanted her to.

"Damn it," Winnifred suddenly swore and squeezed her temples with her palms. She bloody knew it.

Something was wrong with the door lock. The key wasn't going in the proper way it should've. Johnathan sighed and pressed harder on the sharp metal edge, forcing the key to slowly turn to the right. The lock opened with a saving click. Johnathan flung the door open and tossed the keys on the counter.

"Late," his grandmother informed him from the corner. Johnathan threw a glance on the old hag writhing in the dark corner and didn't answer anything. Sitting down in a chair, he began filling out the form. A crow suddenly flew centimeters from his head. Johnathan swatted it in irritation, not distracted from his work, however the second later, a sharp, wrinkled hand landed on his forearm. Johnathan automatically jolted from his chair, hitting his grandmother on the arm. His hand harshly hit her bony chest, setting her staggering backwards, before crashing on the ground and disappearing into thin air. His motion knocked over a stool with a box of chemicals and a lab coat underneath. Johnathan sighed, observing how the spilled chemicals spread in a large blotch over his coat. Suddenly, he frowned. Something moved on the coat. Squatting down next to the cloth, Johnathan slowly picked it up. The blotch was some unexplicable, dirty color, however Johnathan couldn't look at it directly, as if it was eye trick due to illusions. Johnathan quickly picked up the empty bottle of the spilled chemicals. SEROTONIN. The chemical which arouses hallucinations. Johnathan looked back at the ruined lab cloth and slowly stood up. Carefully placing both the bottle and the lab coat on the table, he walked over to the cupboard in growing anxiety. Harshly jerking the drawers open, Johnathan feverishly searched through their contents. In the last drawer, his fingers felt the old, ragged burlap material. Instantly, Johnathan felt the scratchy cloth over his face. Jolting the cloth out of the heaps of papers, not caring about the deep paper cut he earned in the process, Johnathan stared at the scarecrow mask in his hands, noose dangling at its side.

Heath patiently waited, leaning over the brick wall. His eyes aimlessly traveling across the opposite wall. The flickering, uneven glare of the lights on the fourth floor weakly illuminated the crimson graffiti on the stones. Heath sighed out the smoke through his nose and looked to his side. The alley was empty, like yesterday, the day before yesterday, and the day before that. Heath pressed his lips in silent irritation and slowly took out the deck. His brown eyes kept on darting back and forth the alley. His fingers automatically began shuffling the cards, placing one after another.

"Heath!"

Heath roughly jolted when someone's hand unexpectedly landed on his shoulder.

"Fuck it, Nickie..." The cards went spilling out of Heath's hands. He kneeled down to the ground, picking up the cards one after another. The other man hurriedly kneeled down as well, scrambling the cards together with skinny, pale fingers. The dim light highlighted his extremely young, browbeaten face. Heath stood up, flattening out the cards with his palm, and turned to his companion.

"Where the hell were you? I waited almost a week."

"Sorry," Nickie apologized, watching how Heath resumes his shuffling.

"Couldn't catch the current. Ready?"

Heath sighed and tucked away the deck into his pocket. He dragged over a shaky, wooden cart with his foot and sat down. Nickie hastened to do the same.

"Well?" Heath finally asked, taking in a deep inhale of smoke.

"There's an operation regarding the current judge..."

"I'm done," Heath immediately snapped, standing up and walking out into the alley.

"Wait, you didn't even finish listening," Nickie protested.

"I'm not doing this," Heath harshly pointed his cigarette on the bewildered young man.

"I am not a headhunter. I'm a smuggler, okay?" Heath's face was hidden in the shadows, but the rugged outlines revealed the gnawing bitterness.

"Tell the Roman that I'm not buying this."

"He's offering fifty sheets," Nickie desperately tried, standing up as well. Heath snorted.

"Do you think I'm miser?" He sarcastically asked, taking a step towards the frightened young man.

"But-"

"I. Don't. Kill." Heath quietly cut him off. Nickie blinked from the smoke scorching his eyes.

"The Roman is not asking you to kill Faden. He just wants you to bribe him over."

"That's thug work," Heath shook his head. Nickie could hardly hold back the stingy tears, desperately trying to tell out the features of the man in front of him.

"Please, the Roman will kill me if he hears I haven't persuaded you," Nickie begged. Heath took the cigarette out of his mouth, carefully examining the lad. He was barely eighteen, the childish swelling still present in his cheeks , how the hell he got into such business Heath had no idea.

"Go home," Heath finally answered. "I'll talk with your boss."

"I don't think he's..."

"Just go." Heath wearily rubbed his face. Nickie nodded and disappeared in the alley. Heath tossed the burnt cigarette and, putting his hands into the pockets, leisurely walked the other direction. Talk with Falcone. Prove that he has nothing to give. Walk out. Done.

Heath quickly crossed the street and knocked the door to the basement. It was an underground pub, a great source of the society's true colors. Heath pushed between two loud drunkards. His eyes shifted from person to person. His caught a white tuxedo at the bar stand. Hastily squeezing in through the people, Heath stumbled out to the counter and leaned over the unsuspecting mafiosi.

"Nickie told me."

Falcone instantly startled, the white wine slightly rocking out of his glass. Through his corner vision, Heath saw a few men around him take out their guns. Unconcerned, he sat at the chair opposite off Falcone. That one drilled him with an irritated stare.

"You have a scare, boy, not that it helps your situation."

"I'm not doing it," Heath harshly leaned forward. Falcone raised his eyebrows.

"You dragged all the way here to tell me that? Boy, you have no sense of time value."

"I'm doing it for the little lad that you'll lynch for the wrong answer." Falcone smirked.

"That sucking puppy?" He leaned forward. "Did you even listen what he had to say?"

"Yeah," Heath lit a cigarette. "I'm not a thug."

"Then you obviously didn't listen," Falcone snorted, leaning back. "I'm not asking thug work, boy. If I did, I wouldn't give a shit on finding you."

Heath simply glanced at him, before looking back down. The Roman scoffed.

"I need someone persuade the judge to resign. Sounds like subtle art, rather than fists and muscles, eh?"

Heath narrowed his eyes.

"Subtle art never seemed to be your weakness."

"Listen, boy," Falcone cut in irritation. "I am not wasting my time persuading that stubborn ass with the risk of being recognized if I can have another one do it for me?"

"Then why should I?" Heath instantly backlashed. He saw Falcone smirk through the smoke.

"You're not subtle enough." Heath drew back, confused. Falcone slightly chuckled under his breath and slid over a photograph down the counter towards Heath.

"Here. Take a look."

Heath glanced at him, then brought the photograph up to his eyes. A boulder crashed on top of his stomach, smashing it down through his organs until it sickly bounced up. It was a photograph of his recent letter to Winnifred. It was enough to set him to jail. For a moment, Heath felt like this wasn't going on.

"Strange, I...I-I don't..." He looked up at Falcone. "I don't have that kind of table."

"Doesn't matter," the mafiosi shrug. "It'll get you to jail right away."

"Who gave this to you?" Heath demanded. Falcone crookedly smiled.

"Now we're talking." He suddenly snatched the photograph out of Heath's fingers and placed it into an inside pocket of his tuxedo.

"I don't require an answer now. Take a week if you want. However," he patted the side of his jacket,"disobedience will result you shuffling your bloody cards in a cell."

Heath silently stood up, throwing the cigarette down, and walked out. The night air was saturated with alcohol and sewage odor. Heath wordlessly walked through the waste fumes. He was so lost, that he didn't even notice some man tugging his sleeve.

"Excuse me, how do you get to the hospital quickly?"

"Stand in the middle of the road for a while," Heath absently answered and continued walking. The metro was empty as usual. Heath sat down in the first seat possible, aimlessly watching how the trash can outside rocks to the motion of the train, then speedily disappears as the metro raced past it. His eyes traveled to the darkness outside, before the darkness enlarged and swallowed his mind as whole.

[...]

The unacceptably bright light is what woke him up. Cold sweat trickled down his right temple. Heath tiredly opened his eyelids and pulled away from the glass window, leaving an even, quickly evaporating oval of sweat on the pane where his right temple was. Heath cracked his spine and looked around. The metro stopped at the last station. It's doors were wide open for some reason. Someone snorted next to Heath. The young man roughly jerked to his side, hardly hitting the window. A haggard bum was sleeping next to him. For a moment, Heath stared at him in disbelief, then looked around again. The metro was filled with sleeping people of various levels of the rotting society. There were hobos, punks, goths, everyone sleeping on the seats, leaning against the walls, and if none of the above was available, resting on the floor. A punk with piercings everywhere where he could find a place loudly snuffled opposite of Heath. A little knife shone at his side. Heath examined it for a moment, then carefully, but quickly grasped it, before making his way out of the compartment.

It was relatively wide, with a dented line down the middle. The haft was comfortable. Heath thoughtfully fiddled the knife in his fingers, examining it from every side, before tucking it in his pocket with a sigh. It was probably around three in the morning, the sun was blocked away by the scrapers. The morning was unusually cold for summer. Heath felt an involuntary shiver convulsively snap his muscles. He knew the current judge. Mitchell. Known as Bitchell among gangs. Heath perfectly understood why Falcone wanted to get rid of him. Mitchell was apathetic towards the city, however did not dance under the criminality's flutes. That irritated the gangs a lot. The best part was that Bitchell was extremely clingy to his position, despite all subtle proposals of his removals.

Heath stopped next to one of the numerous large buildings. That was Mitchell's residence. The knife's blade painfully dug in into the side of his index finger. Out of the corner of his eye, Heath noticed a bum drowsily pushing his metal cart up the sidewalk. The cart's wheels sharply hit the asphalt border, rattling across the metal grate on top of the sewage opening. Heath felt inexplicable sweat form on the very top of his forehead. His fingers automatically clenched the haft, sensing the sharp blade cut into his palm. The cart rumbled on the sidewalk with a deafening sound, the upper metal flap harshly hitting the side. It felt like his ears were spliced. Heath winced, watching over his shoulder as the bum slowly picks us the garbage sack which fell out of the cart. A metal can rolled out of the bag, trundled down, and clinked with a piercing sound on the grate. Heath felt like he was going to kill that man any second now. Abruptly turning around, he walked away from the building, turning to some random alley, taking unknown twists and routes. Every common sound roughly hit him in the head, rattling his confusion in it's already fragile box which was about to explode. Heath angrily skidded around a corner. He appeared between in an alley of two brick walls, one of them splattered in vibrant colors of graffiti. Heath sat down on the sidewalk under it and rested his chin on his folded hands. There must be a way out of this situation. He didn't want to become a mob dealer's pawn. He just couldn't stand the frames which they put you in. He instinctively took out the knife and started balancing it on his index and middle fingers. The letter. How did Falcone get the letter? A wrinkle appeared over his eyebrows. He vaguely remembered the night he wrote it. He came exhausted and impulsively started writing the letter both to make himself fall asleep and to clear his mind of troubling thoughts. Then, he somehow made it to a chair and blanked out. The knife toppled on the ground, and Heath picked it up again. So, he left the letter on the table. Apparently. And when he woke up? Heath got distracted by the thought, and dropped the knife again. This time he didn't bother picking it up. Winnifred might have seen the letter. That wouldn't cause her to take it though. Unless she really needed to. Heath thoughtfully kneeled down and took the knife from the ground. Instead of balancing it though, he took out a random card and began carving barely visible lines on it. Why the hell would Freddie need to take it? Heath scratched the card in irritation. Why the hell is this important right now? What if she did take it? Then, that strange table might as well be hers. If so, anyone may have had access to it. The knife accidentally pierced a hole through the queen of spades. Heath did not want to think about it. He was going too far. Heath stood up, unnerved by the formed hypothesis and his brain's uncertain reaction to it, and walked out of the alley.

A/N: YASSS! Got to the long expected and promised conflict! So what do you think of it? What do you think Heath's gonna do? Anyway, thank you to all of you who are reading this, you guys are the best! Leave behind any reviews, that would be great, and thank you once again, I cannot stress how much this means to me!