In its predictably unpredictable way, the weather of Gotham City changed, literally, overnight. By midday Sunday, a harsh cold front had swept through the region, and the temperature plummeted. Both in the city and the suburbs, people reluctantly gave in to the inevitability of winter and began digging out their cold-weather clothing and their electric blankets. They turned on their heaters, began calculating the damage of their winter gas bills, and bundled up.

Annabeth didn't notice. She spent the entire day indoors, on her couch, wrapped in a quilt, nursing a wicked hangover and the beginnings of a headcold. She couldn't remember the last time she had been so miserable, and as much as she wanted to curse Bruce Wayne, she knew she should curse herself more.

All day long, both her cell phone and her home phone rang. Donna, Janey, Bruce: all of them persisted, but especially Bruce. From where she was perched on the couch, Annabeth could hear his voice on her answering machine.

"Annabeth? It's Bruce. I got your home number from Donna...are you okay?" A drawn-out pause. "I don't know what happened last night, but I'm sorry."

Annabeth couldn't believe her ears. She pissed him off, kissed him, ran out on him, and he was the one apologizing? She closed her eyes as she listened to his voice, trying to drive from her head the memories it evoked; trying to forget the image of him leaning in to her, his eyes burning with intensity and anticipation.

"I don't want things to be weird between us. I said some really nasty things, and I'm really sorry. And as for kissing you...I'm not sorry. But you looked scared, and I am sorry if I scared you. I didn't think I was that scary." Another pause. "Anyway. I'm sorry."

She made no move to answer the phone, not then, nor when Donna called.

"Annabeth, it's Donna. Jesus, what the hell did you do last night? Bruce Wayne keeps calling me, asking me where you are. As if I know! He seems pretty upset. I told you to watch out for him, not stomp all over his fragile little billionaire heart! Whatever the hell you did, make it right."

As the day carried on, Annabeth only stirred from the couch to use the bathroom or to fetch fluids from the fridge. She was feeling worse by the second, and not just because of her cold. She had made an ass of herself, and she had no idea how to begin to make it right. She wasn't even sure it was possible.

Towards the evening, the phone rang again. She made no move to answer it, but cocked her head to listen.

"Annabeth? It's Bruce. Again. Well...call me if you want. I need to talk to you."

She made a face at her pets, who were crowded on the couch with her. "Not like that's going to happen. 'Hi Bruce, how are you? Sorry for being a jackass, let's kiss and make up, and oh, this time, I promise not to run away like a scared little bunny rabbit.'"

Wurzel yawned.

The phone rang again. This time, Janey's voice filled the room.

"Annabeth, you asshole, pick up the phone. You were supposed to call me and tell me how the fund-raiser went. Where the hell are you? Did you raise something other than funds, haha?"

Annabeth picked up the phone, if for no other reason than to prevent any further corny jokes on Janey's part. "Hey."

"Where the hell have you been?" Janey demanded. "I tried calling your cell phone, like, five times."

"Sorry." Annabeth blew her nose. "I wasn't answering."

"Yeah, I got that. You sound like shit, by the way."

"I feel like it, too." And just like that, as though this admission had broken through her last defense, Annabeth started crying. "I'm sorry, Janey...I'm a mess."

"Jesus. I'll be right over."

"No, Janey-" But her best friend had already hung up, and from long years of experience, Annabeth knew that she wouldn't take no for an answer, anyway. She settled deeper into the sofa and her own debilitating self-pity.

Close to an hour later, Janey arrived, letting herself in with the set of keys Annabeth had given her ages ago. As she bustled in, she brought with her not only an enormous bag of Chinese take-out, but also an air of fresh energy which had been lacking in Annabeth's home all day. As Janey leaned down to give her an enormous hug, Annabeth closed her eyes and inhaled Janey's scent-a combination of her perfume and the spicy smells of autumn. The cold air clung to Janey even as she shed her jacket, and Annabeth shivered.

"What's wrong?" Janey demanded immediately. "You sounded awful on the phone, and you look awful, too."

Annabeth didn't bother to conceal the truth from Janey. She sat up and, as Janey began to unpack copious amounts of Chinese food, she told her friend the whole, sorry tale-starting with the hair-raising drive to the Manor and Donna's well-intentioned warnings, through the fundraiser and the tiny humiliations that she endured, through the horrible fight that ensued between her and Bruce, right up to the deliciously sensual, yet stupidly aborted kiss.

When Annabeth told of how she ran off, Janey paused, the eggroll she had been eating suspended halfway to her mouth. "He kissed you? And you ran away?"

"Essentially."

Very carefully, Janey set the eggroll down on her plate, got up, and walked over to Annabeth, still huddled on the couch. Quickly, decisively, and none-too-gently, she smacked Annabeth upside the head.

"Ow!" Annabeth exclaimed hoarsely. "What the hell?"

Quite calmly, Janey settled back into her armchair and resumed her meal. "Annabeth," she declared through a mouthful of lo mein, "You are, without a doubt, the stupidest woman in Gotham."

"What'd you smack me for?" Annabeth demanded as she rubbed the spot on her head. "I was looking for sympathy."

"Hmph. Looks like you're all stocked up. You're not getting any from me." Janey glared at her. "Seriously, are you broken? Why on earth did you run away?"

"I don't know." It was a feeble response, and they both knew it. Annabeth tried again. "We'd both been drinking, and I thought it would be stupid to do something we'd both regret when we were sober. And…I freaked."

"Annabeth. Why would you regret kissing Bruce Wayne? I mean, I can see why he'd regret kissing a madwoman, but you? No. That's a stupid reason."

"I just...freaked, okay? It's been a long time since I've been a situation like that." Annabeth closed her eyes for a moment, remembering the intense look on Bruce's face just as he kissed her.

Janey rolled her eyes and nobly restrained the urge to smack Annabeth again. "It's kissing, Annabeth. It doesn't change much from year to year."

"I know…and I remember now what I'm missing out on. And jesus, for the first time, I really understood Bruce. It was like all this time, I only knew the public side of him. But when we fought, I saw the real him…and I liked him, as screwed up as that sounds. I understood him."

"Maybe because you stopped wallowing in self-pity long enough to realize that you two might have something in common?" Janey began to nibble on a wonton. "Get over yourself, Annabeth, and you might see that there's some decent men out there. Sounds like Bruce Wayne is one of them."

A chill coursed through Annabeth, and she shivered and snuggled deeper within the blankets. "What if I screwed it all up?" she asked from the depths of her cocoon. "How fitting—just as I see how nice Bruce Wayne is, he sees just how crazy I am and takes off."

"You know what? You've been listening to what everyone else is saying, and not paying attention to how Bruce is acting. And you're using it as an excuse to hide, because you're too scared to get involved." Janey leaned forward and fixed Annabeth with an intense gaze. "If you want to be afraid, fine. Be afraid. But don't let Bruce Wayne be a casualty of your raving emotional incompetence." She snatched the cordless phone off the coffee table and thrust it at Annabeth. "Sweetie, put the crazy down. Step away from the crazy, and how about you act your age and call the poor man back?"

Bereft of the sparkling, cheerful crowds who had gathered there the night before, the rooms and corridors of Wayne Manor had returned to their usual state of abandoned gloom. All throughout Sunday, a cleanup crew worked diligently, thoroughly whisking away any and all traces of the previous night's revelries. Alfred kept a watchful eye upon them, as he always did, but even more, he kept a watchful eye on Bruce as he stalked the property, looking stormy, morose, or contemplative, depending on his mood, which seemed to change by the hour.

By three o'clock, the crew had departed, well-paid and even better-tipped, and it was then that Alfred began moving throughout the first floor, laying and lighting the fires in the massive fireplaces—not for any warmth, but simply to bring some life and cheer into the lonely, echoing house. Each time he lit a fire, he watched with satisfaction as the golden light flickered upward and infused the room with a gentle glow. This was what the Manor had been intended for, Alfred knew—gracious living, generous entertaining, sheltering a thriving dynasty. Instead, it hadbecome a mausoleum, denied the sprawling family, denied most entertainment, denied everything but one vigilant butler and the unhappy man he served.

The unhappy man in question had sequestered himself in his study, and had been there for the better part of two hours. Alfred experienced a slight frission of worry; he had seen Elisa and Annabeth depart the night before, and upon her return, Elisa could tell him nothing except that Annabeth had been upset. Whatever had transpired the night before had served to send Bruce spiraling into a black mood the likes of which he hadn't wallowed in for months.

Alfred squared his shoulders and entered the study. As he entered the room, he saw Bruce sitting at his desk, papers spread out before him, but as far as Alfred could see, the young man was not paying them any attention. Instead, his gaze was fixed upon the portrait of his parents; his mind in a far-off place that Alfred had never been able to reach. Idly, Alfred wondered—if he had been able to reach Bruce when he went to that place of misery and grief, if he had managed to coax Bruce Wayne away from there years ago, would they have come to this point?

"It's coming close to the time for supper, Master Wayne," Alfred said as he knelt down to light the fire in the massive marble fireplace. "Do you have any preferences?"

Without turning his gaze away from the portrait, Bruce responded in a monotone. "I'm not hungry, Alfred."

"Besides the point, Master Wayne." Alfred watched as the flames sprung up in the kindling and began to dance merrily. Creakily, he rose again. "Are you going out patrolling later?"

"Yes."

"Then you're eating dinner. I'll have it ready by seven."

Finally Bruce turned to Alfred. "I said I'm not hungry."

"And I said it doesn't matter." Alfred didn't mind this argument, not one bit. He never minded an argument where he was right, and where he would win. He looked down at Bruce, a small smile lurking on his features. "Master Wayne, if you are going out tonight, you need to have energy. You might be chewing on the fat of your own brain, but that just isn't enough nutrition. So be in the dining room at seven, and I will have a meal prepared for you that you will eat."

"I'm not twelve any more," Bruce muttered.

"Of course not, sir. You were far more agreeable when you were twelve."

Something about Alfred's banter finally broke through Bruce's reserve. "I've been trying to call Annabeth all day. She's not answering her phone." At that moment, Bruce did look about twelve years old, replete with all of the adolescent angst one could imagine.

"Is there...any reason for her silence?" Alfred was treading through uncharted territory here; even before Rachel's death, but especially after, Bruce rejected the possibility of any genuine emotional entanglements and romantic relationships. "She appeared quite upset last evening."

"Damned if I know." He didn't know, at all. All he did know was that there was something in Annabeth that drew him back to her, time and time again, despite her snubs and scorn and apparent aversion to him. She liked him, that much was obvious, but what was equally obvious was that she found this an unacceptable state of affairs. Bruce had stopped trying to figure out why this was, and had started trying to figure out why this did not deter him. "What the hell is wrong with women, Alfred?"

In moments like this, Alfred was struck by how much knowledge Bruce Wayne had not acquired. Despite his training, despite the years of lessons he learned from various masters, despite all of the knowledge he had obtained through his schooling and self-education, Bruce remained hopelessly unenlightened in the simplest, yet most important, knowledge of all-the emotions of humanity.

"Women…" Alfred began, and promptly foundered. "I really do not know, Master Wayne. I have never truly understood them, myself, but they are bewitching all the same. I do not think there's nothing wrong with women. They simply learn to cope the best way they can with the hand they are dealt. If you are having problems with Annabeth, I suggest that when you talk to her, you bear that in mind. "

Bruce looked at him suspiciously. "Why are you always so sympathetic towards her?"

Alfred ignored his question. He was still considering the woman who currently plagued Bruce's peace of mind. "I think you find Annabeth compelling, in part because you and she are ultimately striving for the same end. It is always difficult to find someone who shares the same kind of intensity for the same kind of goal. And I think that intensity has warped her in the same way that it is warping you. Of course…" he smiled gently. "That only explains what is wrong with Annabeth, and not women. And it certainly doesn't explain what is wrong with you."

Bruce was considering how to respond when his cell phone began to ring. Almost idly, he picked it up and gazed at the caller ID, and Alfred watched in amusement as he visibly brightened. Without waiting for it to ring again, he picked answered. "Annabeth?"

"Bruce." She said this in a croaking voice, and he winced. After an awkward pause on her end, she continued. "I got your messages."

"I was worried." Bruce was aware of Alfred hovering in the background, nosy old man that he was, but Bruce didn't give a damn. "Are you sick?"

Annabeth ignored his question, and blurted her next words out in a rush. "I'm so sorry, Bruce, for so much. I don't know what my problem is…well, actually, I do, but I'm sorry I'm making it your problem. I was really a jerk to you last night-" she stopped talking for a moment. "Are you still there?"

"I'm still here," he reassured her, quietly amused. "Why don't we get together tomorrow and talk about it? Sounds like you have some things you want to get off your chest."

"Yes." Annabeth sounded slightly relieved. "You're not mad at me?"

"Mad? No. Perplexed and worried, yes. But…" Bruce considered his next words and their import, whether or not Annabeth was aware of it. "We can make it right."

"I want to," Annabeth said softly, surprising them both.

"I'll be at Safe Haven sometime tomorrow. How about we talk then?"

"Okay."

When Bruce disconnected, he saw Alfred still standing and listening in. "You're shameless."

Again, a phone rang. Not the house phone, nor Bruce's normal cell phone, but the usually silent encrypted phone linked to the phone the Batman had given Gordon months back. Bruce kept this phone in his presence at all times, and now it sat by his elbow, ringing with all the urgency that both men knew hovered at the other end of the line. Bruce promptly evicted Annabeth from his mind and began to make the mental shift into the Batman, and Alfred discreetly began to withdraw from the room.

Just before Bruce answered the phone, he called after the butler, "Can you make that dinner to go, Alfred?"

There were several parks within Gotham City, but Robinson Park was by far the largest and the most popular. It was one of the public areas that Solomon Wayne had established and cultivated back in his day, but by the 1980s, it had degenerated into a very far cry from the glorious, well-maintained social space that it once was. Where buggies had once rolled past, skateboarders had taken over; where elegant and fashionable socialites had once ambled, homeless runaways now hid. Where lovers once gathered on the benches under the full moon, drug addicts had taken their place, shooting up as best they could in the lunar wash.

In the more prosperous 1990s, the City began to revitalize the park, driving out the homeless and the drug addicts and the runaways and replacing them with more police, better-trimmed shrubs, and various family-friendly events. Robinson Park became, once more, if not a memorial to the halcyon days of Gotham's Gilded Age, then at least a reasonably safe place to jog, make out, or picnic. Given its relative comeback, therefore, it was more than a little alarming when a body was found there, already stiffening in the bitter cold of that Sunday night.

Jim Gordon knelt down beside the body and gave it a careful look, making sure not to touch it. Detective Montoya hovered behind him, filling him in on the details.

"...some joggers reported it about an hour ago. They swore they didn't touch the body."

The body was that of a man, probably in his early 40s. He was sleekly handsome, and dressed in elegant business attire. There was a small bullet wound in his forehead.

"That's why they called you, sir," Montoya said helpfully. "Bullock figured this is someone important, figured you'd want to be involved."

The coroner and the forensic scientists were approaching. They were the ones authorized to handle the body, and Gordon stepped back to let them do their work. He and Montoya watched as they rolled the body over, and he heard Montoya's professional, detached voice: "...appears to be one gunshot wound administered to the forehead, delivered execution-style..."

Until Montoya and the scientists and the coroner uncovered and cataloged whatever evidence they could discover, Gordon would be of little use. He stepped back, letting them go about their business, and as they did, Gordon went about some business of his own. He stepped off the jogging path and into the shadows of a nearby cluster of trees, knowing with absolute certainty that someone would be there, lurking in the darkness.

The Batman was waiting for him.

"Do you have a life?" Gordon asked him. "Seems like whenever I call, you can just drop everything and come right away." He shivered within his lined jacket, and wondered, absently, how the Batman stayed warm. Was his suit especially designed to withstand the elements? Considering the other gadgets and equipment the man had, Gordon wouldn't be surprised if the damned costume were lined with magical pixie-dust.

The Batman's response was predictably terse. "I live for these stolen hours together." He jerked his chin over to the hive of activity. "Who's dead?"

"We're not sure yet. There doesn't seem to be any ID on him." Gordon glanced back over to the group; Montoya was beginning to string out the police tape. "I have a suspicion, however."

"Is he tied in with the others?" As the Batman spoke, his breath came out in a steamy puff which hung on the icy air. Somehow, this surprised Gordon; perhaps, on some level, he had forgotten that the Batman was as human and flesh and blood as the rest of them, and had a breath just the same, too. Realizing he was being distracted by his own awe, he hurried to answer the Batman's question.

"Oh yeah." As soon as Gordon saw the body, suspected who it was, he knew. "This could get ugly. I think the FBI's going to have to get involved at this point."

The Batman cursed, a new development for him. "Dammit." His voice deepened to a positively furious growl. "Who the hell is it?"

Gordon told him, and the two men gazed at each other, the potential awfulness lying before them. Each of them had realized, independently, what this death could mean, and what could happen if it was in fact part of the nightmare that was unfolding for the prostitutes of Gotham City.

One of the many ways Trinity's life had been altered—and not for the better—since she had gotten involved with the Arrows was that her home, her beautiful condo, her sacred space, her retreat had been violated. Donzetti had insisted on being able to visit her any time of day or night, and she had had no choice but to acquiesce and give him a key to her place. This was something she had never done before. She had never conducted business within her own home.

But then, she mused on that icy-cold Sunday night, this is hardly business. It's not pleasure, either. This is an aberration. A blasphemy.Outwardly, her face maintained its typical serene, untroubled beauty as she methodically went through the tasks of the night ahead. In an elegant crystal vase, she arranged the crocuses she had purchased earlier in the day; checked on the champagne which was chilling; idly straightened a few cushions; deliberately added a puff of perfume and another layer of powder. Donzetti liked for her home and her person to be in order when he came to her-which should be any minute.

On cue, she heard the keys rattle and her front door open; slowly, she ambled into the hallway to greet him.

Donzetti grinned wolfishly. "Hey, babe. Sorry I'm late." He held his face out to her for the messy, mouthy kisses that he enjoyed, and then bustled into the condo. "I had important business to take care of."

It had taken Trinity very little time to discover how this man ticked—when he made references to his "important business," when he casually mentioned Jones and the Arrows, it meant he wanted her to ask about it. He liked to talk, he wanted to brag, he craved the attention, he loved being made much of. Really, he was coming to be putty in her hands-the more he trusted Trinity, the more he talked.

Trinity took his hand and led him into the living room. "Sit down," she told him in her most sultry voice, and indicated the squashy leather armchair she knew he favored. "I'm going to give you a backrub, and you can tell me all about it."

"Get me a drink, too, would ya?"

Gritting her teeth, Trinity obliged, pulling the champagne from its ice and popping open the bottle. Just as well that she had thrown out the last of the rat poison.

She brought him a glass filled to the brim with the crisp, golden drink, and immediately began rubbing his meaty shoulders, trying not to focus on the dark hairs sprouting on his neck. "Now," she whispered in his ear, "Why don't you tell me about this important business that kept you from my bed?"

Yes, Donzetti had become pliable putty in her very experienced hands. "Had a big job to take care of. It was important, so Jones had me make sure it happened."

"Yeah?" She ran a finger up his neck and around his ear. "What happened?"

"Just had to take out a competitor. Some sleaze bag. Nathan, his name was. Nathan Parris." Donzetti sighed in satisfaction as he drained his glass. "He didn't want to work with us, and if you're not playing on our team, you're not allowed on the field."

In her shock, Trinity almost ceased her attentions, but at the last second, she caught herself and continued on. Her suspicions began to crystallize. She knew exactly who Nathan Parris was, and this did not bode well for the women of Gotham. He was a small-time dealer in flesh, and ran a brothel notorious for being filled with women who were treated better than sex-slaves. And if the Arrows had taken him out, it could only mean that they were planning to corner the market. Given their recent consolidation of power, Trinity could only assume that they intended to go after this market on a large scale. The mere possibility of it made her blood run cold.

One of the many skills required in Trinity's line of work was acting—a talented lady always put on a good act. And that night, as she fussed and fawned over Donzetti, Trinity gave the prize performance of her life. That entire night, she fought off panic and disgust as she contemplated the coming curse that, if unchecked, would taint the city beyond all redemption.

By the end of the night, the temperature had plummeted to a freakishly unseasonable twenty-two degrees, and all over Gotham, people were chilled to their core. But none were as chilled as Bruce, and Annabeth, and Gordon, and Trinity—in professional and personal ways, fear and uncertainty were beginning to freeze them, threatening to paralyze them as sordid ghosts forces of the past, present, and future haunted them all and brought the promise of worse yet to come.