Previously on Gotham…
It was impossible to tell whether it was day or night inside the ruined theater—no windows left intact, no natural light penetrating the smoke and dust—but in fact, the explosion had occurred during the day.
Early morning. 6:16 AM, to be precise.
At Gotham Hospital, the emergency room doctors were sipping coffee and chatting in the lobby. Taking advantage of a rare quiet moment before the storm.
Because in Gotham, there was always a storm coming.
The city was perpetually bustling with patients during daylight hours. Gunshot wounds. Stabbings. "Fell down the stairs" injuries that looked suspiciously like beatings. Learning to take breaks when you could was essential for survival in this profession.
Furthermore, emergency room staff occasionally had to work overnight shifts or deal with lunatics and gang members who threatened violence if their buddy didn't get treated first. Which was a significant hassle in itself.
The sense of relief the doctors felt at this particular moment was less like leisure and more like a short break from grinding combat. A soldier catching breath between battles.
The head nurse and attending physician were both veterans. Twenty-plus years in Gotham emergency medicine, which meant they'd seen literally everything at least twice. They'd learned to be relaxed about the chaos. Philosophical, even.
They took advantage of the downtime to chat and laugh, sharing dark jokes that would horrify civilians but made perfect sense to people who regularly stitched up gunshot wounds while the shooter waited in the next bed.
A few residents stood nearby, coffee in hand, but they were new. Hadn't been at Gotham Hospital long. Still felt a bit uneasy about slacking off during work hours, even though there were currently no patients.
Only with the veteran guidance of the head nurse and attending physician did they finally start to relax.
Then the phone rang.
The head nurse left the laughing group and walked quickly to the landline at the nurses' station. Picked up on the second ring.
"This is the emergency room—"
"This is the Gotham City Police Department." The voice on the other end was clipped. Professional. Urgent. "The stand-up comedy theater just exploded. Twenty-seven people are being transported to the hospital by ambulance. Please prepare the emergency room immediately!"
The words made the head nurse's smile disappear like someone had flipped a switch.
She sighed. Silently. Internally.
There would be another major emergency today.
She immediately looked at the clock on the wall to confirm the current time: 6:21 AM.
Time was of the essence. No room for delay.
Her next two questions were simple and direct. The same ones she always asked.
"How long until arrival?"
"About five minutes."
She hung up without saying goodbye. No time for pleasantries.
"Everyone, attention!" Her voice cut through the casual atmosphere like a scalpel. Every head turned. "There's been a massive explosion at the theater! Twenty-seven incoming! Get ready!"
The transformation was immediate. Instantaneous.
The nurses ran to their stations. No discussion needed. They consciously began transferring patients waiting for beds to the nursing ward—making room, clearing space, preparing for triage.
Maintenance personnel immediately started placing folding beds as temporary examination stations.
The waiting area sign flipped over, showing three large words on the reverse: MASS CASUALTY
"Old rules!" the head nurse shouted. "Nobody goes home until this is over!"
"Call all the other staff on duty!" The attending doctor was already moving, heading for the phone. "It doesn't matter which department they're in—they've all been through major emergency rescues before. Just tell them the theater was bombed. They'll understand."
The residents put down their coffee. Some looked terrified. Others looked grimly determined.
But all of them breathed a strange sigh of relief.
This atmosphere was the Gotham Hospital they were familiar with. The real version. Patients arriving in waves. Lunatics wreaking havoc. Chaos as the default state.
It was back. It was all back.
They found medical gloves without being told. Grabbed disposable isolation gowns from supply closets. Everyone in the hospital moved in an orderly fashion despite the apparent chaos.
They'd all done this before. Many times.
"Remember the triage system!" the head nurse called out. "Everyone brought in gets a trauma label. Note the color divisions carefully."
A resident recited from memory: "Green—minor injuries. Yellow—need observation. Red—immediate medical treatment. Black—"
"Black means near death," another resident continued. The words came automatically. Rehearsed. "Sent directly to the morgue."
Someone muttered: "I don't know how many black tags we'll see this time."
Twenty-seven incoming from a theater bombing.
Probably a lot.
Amidst the discussion and preparation, the sound of sirens finally approached from outside. Multiple ambulances. The patients were arriving.
The emergency medical technicians followed the gurneys into the hospital at a run. They were responsible for handoff—giving the ER doctors critical information before moving to the next call.
The first patient wheeled in was ragged and bloody. His clothes were shredded. Blood covered most of his exposed skin.
He looked absolutely miserable.
But the tag on his chest was green.
The doctors breathed a collective sigh of relief.
"Opening with green is a good sign," someone muttered.
The EMT rattled off details: "Twenty-five years old, male. Police officer according to his ID. Doesn't have any significant external injuries. Appears to have fallen asleep from exhaustion."
The head nurse gave the man a quick examination. Checked vitals. Looked him over.
Nothing wrong. Just unconscious.
"What incredible luck," she said. Gestured to an orderly. "Send him to a recovery bed. Next patient, quickly!"
The next gurney came through the doors.
The tag was red.
The attending doctor moved immediately. Red meant critical. Red meant life-threatening.
"Wounds on the chest and back," the EMT reported, speaking rapidly. "Judging by the size, small-caliber bullets. The bleeding appears very heavy, but vital signs are stable—"
The doctor pulled back the temporary dressing to examine the wounds.
His expression froze.
"Oh my God..." He looked closer. "This wound is located directly on the heart. Is the heart not damaged?"
The EMT shook his head, looking equally confused. "It's strange. It doesn't look like it. And his vital signs didn't continue to drop after we loaded him. I've never seen anything like it."
He paused. Searching for words.
"By God, it looked like he'd been shot through the heart and then healed right back up. From the inside out."
The attending doctor frowned. This didn't make medical sense. But there was no time to puzzle over impossibilities.
"First aid immediately. Stabilize and monitor. Next!"
Another gurney. Another red tag.
"Small injuries—" the EMT started, then corrected himself. "—small is the wrong word. There are penetrating wounds on the head. Forehead and back of the skull. Bleeding heavily. Appears to be brain matter visible in the wounds."
He paused.
"But the vital signs are stable."
"What the hell," one of the residents whispered.
"First aid! Next!"
Still red. This time the injuries were internal—bleeding caused by the shockwave of the explosion. Blunt force trauma. The kind that ruptured organs and caused internal hemorrhaging.
But when they examined him?
No active bleeding points. The injuries were there. The trauma was real.
But somehow, impossibly, the patient wasn't dying.
"Why is it like this again?" A doctor's voice carried frustration and confusion in equal measure.
When Jude walked out of the hospital entrance, it was already noon.
The sun was high. Gotham's perpetual cloud cover made it look gray anyway, but the clock said twelve fifteen.
His enhanced senses—Intermediate Physical Fitness Enhancement doing work—allowed him to hear conversations from inside the hospital clearly. Even from the street.
Voices carried through open windows. Through ventilation. Through the general chaos of an emergency room dealing with impossible patients.
"This is outrageous!" A doctor's voice. Young. Frustrated. "Not only did that criminal plant a bomb, he also shot everyone! All the people sent in were red-tag patients!"
"All red tags, but their vital signs are stable." Another voice. Calmer. More experienced. "It's incredible. Just like unlocking the health lock in a video game."
"Has anyone died so far?"
"No. Not a single one." A pause. "Except for those who were confirmed dead on the spot at the theater, everyone we received is still alive."
"Is this real? There are more than twenty seriously injured people—"
"Fuck!" A new voice, shouting. "Stop chatting! Dr. Hank has a critical patient who lost the ability to breathe on his own. Patient's mentally unstable. Pulled out his own endotracheal tube. Now the doctor's trying to reinsert it and the patient's fighting him!"
Silence. Then:
"Wait. Buddy? Listen to yourself. Are you talking about humans? A seriously injured patient suffering from oxygen deprivation got into a fight with a doctor?"
Jude silently took out a pocky stick from his inventory. Put it in his mouth. Started walking toward the GCPD headquarters.
He could assure anyone who asked that his original intention was definitely not to witness such a spectacular scene of medical impossibility.
But he really did want to see what would happen.
Maybe later.
Right now, he had to report for duty.
"Commissioner Gordon."
Gordon looked up from his desk. Paperwork everywhere. Coffee gone cold. Dark circles under his eyes that suggested he hadn't slept in approximately thirty hours.
"You can take a day off, I did said tomorrow" he said. Not unkindly. "There's no need to be so aggressive about reporting in."
"I'm already here."
Gordon waved his hand in a gesture of resignation. "Fine. Whatever. As long as you're alright."
He shuffled some papers. Found the assignment sheet he was looking for.
"This afternoon, you'll be with the other officers guarding the Riddler. Be careful—this guy is very clever. You're new here and not familiar with his methods, so don't try to interact with him yet. He'll fool you. Manipulate you. Get inside your head."
Gordon's expression was serious. "Just watch. Listen. Learn. Don't engage."
At that moment, the television mounted in the station lobby began broadcasting the morning medical news.
Gotham media worked fast. Impressively fast. The explosion had been six hours ago and they already had a full report.
The anchor's voice carried through the building:
"Early this morning, an explosion occurred at a stand-up comedy venue, involving dozens of comedians. Gotham Hospital is currently providing emergency treatment. In what can only be described as divine intervention, aside from a few who were confirmed dead at the scene, all patients admitted to the hospital were in critical condition—yet none have died. This is a miracle. The twenty-seventh consecutive medical miracle in Gotham City this year!"
Gordon stopped what he was doing.
Looked at the television.
His expression went through several rapid changes. Confusion. Disbelief. Anger.
"What nonsense is he talking about?" He shook his head, voice rising. "Is this a fucking miracle?"
He stood up. Gestured at the TV like it had personally offended him.
"Is this a will of God?!"