He rose, and for one second, Falcone saw the man beneath—the jawline of a dead prince, the eyes of a boy who never stopped falling. Then the window exploded inward, and the Bat was gone, leaving only a smear of rain on the glass and a single playing card—the Joker—that Falcone had never seen before.
The first guard heard only the rain. Then a whisper, not quite human, curling from the shadows: “You’ve been very sick.” Batman Begins
Falcone fired into the dark. A shape moved—too fast, too wrong . Then the cigar was plucked from his lips. He looked down. The thing was kneeling before him, head cocked, lenses reflecting his own sweating face. He rose, and for one second, Falcone saw
The rain over the Narrows was a lie Gotham told itself—a curtain of filth washing nothing clean. Beneath it, on a rooftop slick with grime, a figure crouched. Not a man, not yet. A silhouette fraying at the edges, cloak snapping like a war banner in the chemical wind. Then a whisper, not quite human, curling from