"What are you mumbling? I don't understand."
Obviously, the moment those words left Jude's mouth, the Riddler's perfect jailbreak plan had failed.
Not completely. Not catastrophically.
But less perfect.
To make an analogy: imagine an athlete competing in a table tennis championship. He wins every match. Dominates every opponent. Big scores, small scores, knockout rounds, round-robin matches—he wins them all without losing even a single point.
Flawless victory. Perfect execution. Mathematical precision.
And then—finally, when he's about to claim the championship trophy, raise it above his head in triumph, cement his legacy as the greatest player who ever lived—
A gust of wind blows the ball off course.
One point lost.
Can he still win? Of course. This single point won't affect his chances of winning the championship. The outcome is already determined. The trophy still his.
But was it painful to lose that point?
Of course it was.
He could have won without losing a single goal. Could have achieved absolute perfection. An honor and symbol of strength that no one could ever diminish or question.
But now?
Now that perfection was destroyed. Tarnished. Incomplete.
Almost perfect wasn't the same as perfect.
Not all smart people pursued perfection. Many geniuses were content with "good enough," satisfied with victory regardless of the margin.
But all the crazy criminals in Gotham City had obsessive-compulsive disorder. That was practically a requirement for the job.
When the Riddler saw that his proud perfect jailbreak plan had failed because of Jude—because of an incompetent rookie who didn't even know how to wear a vest properly—he felt as uncomfortable as finding half a bug in his lunch.
No.
Worse.
Like finding half a bug in his lunch and realizing he'd already swallowed the other half.
But the alarm was already sounding. Distant sirens getting closer. The window for escape narrowing by the second.
The Riddler didn't have much time left. He just wanted to get out. Had no time to care about punishing Jude for his stupidity.
Deal with him later, he thought. After I'm free. After I've regained control.
"Get that idiot out of here!" he raged, gritting his teeth so hard they should have cracked. "I'll deal with him when I have time—someone open the door!"
Jude saw the seven police officers around him turn their heads. Look at him with expressions that mixed pleading and determination in equal measure.
For the sake of their families—daughters with full names, wives with addresses, people they loved more than their jobs or their honor—they would obey the Riddler's orders.
At least for now.
"Get out of the way, rookie!"
Lonnie's hand suddenly reached out. Grabbed Jude's arm. Pulled him aside with more force than necessary.
Guilt made him rough. Shame made him angry.
He walked to the iron gate that led to freedom. Reached for the keyring he'd taken from the armory wall earlier. The heavy cluster of keys that unlocked doors and futures.
His hand went to his belt where they should have been clipped.
Found nothing.
Lonnie's expression froze.
Jude didn't stop him. Stood aside. Watched. Silent.
Lonnie's hand moved frantically now. Patting his belt. Checking his pockets. The vest pouches. Every possible place the keys could be.
Nothing.
Nothing.
After half a minute of increasingly desperate fumbling, the Riddler saw that Lonnie was still searching. Still coming up empty.
An ominous premonition settled over him like ice water.
"It's almost time." His voice regained its composure through sheer force of will. Flat. Controlled. "If you can't find them—"
"Over there."
Jude's voice interrupted the Riddler for the second time.
The second time this idiot rookie had derailed his perfect plan.
The Riddler's face immediately became extremely gloomy. His eyes burned with fury as they locked onto Jude.
But Lonnie was already looking where Jude pointed.
Outside the door. Through the small window in the iron gate.
A few meters away from the barrier. Lying on the concrete floor of the corridor beyond.
A bunch of keys. Shining. Metallic. Catching the fluorescent light.
Unreachable.
Lonnie stared at them. His mind replaying the scene from minutes ago. The struggle with Jude. Being pushed forward. Something falling—a sound he'd dismissed because Jude was shoving him and he had no chance to look back.
Understanding dawned. Cold. Terrible.
He raised his hand. Pointed at Jude with a trembling finger.
"Fuck—" His voice cracked. "That time, you pull my clothes, you bastard—"
"You must be joking—"
Lonnie's accusation was cut off by an angry roar from behind them.
A sound that made everyone flinch.
They all turned.
The Riddler's face had gone from dark to bright red. Blood rushing to the surface. Rage overriding every other biological function.
If someone measured his blood pressure right now, it would probably be off the charts. Medically dangerous territory.
"What a joke!" He was screaming now. Actually screaming. "What a joke!"
He rushed to the door. Kicked the heavy iron barrier with both feet.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
The sound echoed through the passage room like gunshots.
"I prepared this plan for so long!" Each word punctuated with another kick. "And it failed because of two idiots! Just because of two idiots!"
The iron door shuddered but didn't budge. Built to withstand worse than one furious genius having a breakdown.
Jude spread his hands. The picture of innocence.
"I didn't mean it."
At that moment, he released his grip on the shotgun. Let it hang from its strap. Raised both hands in a placating gesture.
"I don't have experience with—"
The Riddler turned without warning.
Stepped forward. Twisted his waist. Threw a punch at Jude's face with everything he had.
The strike was fast. Fierce. Accompanied by a sharp sound of displaced air.
Even people who'd never practiced fighting could see that the Riddler's technique was excellent. Professional-level form. Weight transfer. Hip rotation. Targeting.
He knew exactly what he was doing.
But Jude's attention had been on him the entire time. Enhanced reflexes from Intermediate Physical Fitness. Training from Batman in the simulator.
The moment the Riddler moved, Jude reacted.
Subconsciously. Without thinking.
Covered his head. Crouched. Defensive posture.
The Riddler's fist connected with the police helmet.
CRACK.
Hand bones versus reinforced polymer shell.
The sound was somewhat crisp. Almost musical.
Then the Riddler inhaled sharply. A hiss of pain through clenched teeth.
He might be in pain, Jude thought clinically.
He adjusted his helmet—knocked slightly askew by the impact—and picked up his shotgun again.
Professional. Casual. Like nothing had happened.
"Give me the gun!" The Riddler was cradling his injured hand now. But still raging. Still demanding. "I told you to give me his gun! I want—"
The roar came to an abrupt halt.
Because he saw the looks in the eyes of the seven officers around him.
Cold. Hard. Different from before.
Their mentality had changed.
Letting him escape from prison was one thing. Giving their families back. Getting out of this nightmare with minimal damage.
But giving him a loaded police shotgun?
That was completely different.
Who could guarantee he wouldn't use that weapon to shoot his "helpers" the moment he had it? Eliminate witnesses. Tie up loose ends. Leave no evidence of collusion.
What's more—
The powerful sense of oppression the Riddler had painstakingly created through perfect information and cold psychological manipulation had been completely destroyed.
Shattered by an incompetent rookie fumbling with his vest.
Broken by keys lying on the wrong side of a locked door.
Reduced to a man with a bruised hand screaming at subordinates who no longer feared him.
The guards' fear was subsiding. Replaced by something harder. More dangerous.
We don't have to do this anymore.
Jude raised his shotgun. Pointed it at the Riddler with steady hands.
There was no doubt in his expression. No hesitation.
He would pull the trigger if needed.
The Riddler saw that certainty. Calculated rapidly.
If he died at the hands of Batman—the great detective, the dark knight, the legend of Gotham—a super-criminal could at least brag about it. Could claim he fell to the best. Could have his name spoken with respect in Arkham.
But if he died at the hands of an idiot?
A bumbling rookie who couldn't even put on a vest properly?
He would rather shoot himself.
At least that way of dying wouldn't make him the idiot among idiots. The fool who got killed by someone dumber than he was.
The Riddler's eyes moved to the keys. Several meters away on the other side of the iron gate.
Only a few meters.
But at this moment, it seemed like an insurmountable chasm. A distance that might as well be infinite.
Out of reach.
He straightened his green bowler hat. The gesture was deliberate. Careful. Maintaining what dignity remained.
Walked silently back to the interrogation room.
Closed the door behind him.
The sound was quiet. Final.
Not with a bang but a whimper.
By the time Commissioner Gordon rushed back to the police station, the Riddler had already been returned to his cell.
Locked up.
Gordon found Jude in the break room. The young officer looked tired but alert. Helmet off. Vest unbuckled. Coffee in hand.
"Well done." Gordon patted him on the shoulder. Heavy. Genuine. "I didn't expect the Riddler to be so dangerous. Lucky you were here this time."
He pulled up a chair. Sat down heavily.
"So. You've already performed two meritorious deeds since you arrived at the police station. Survived a Joker attack. Stopped a prison break. Not bad for your first day."
Gordon's expression shifted. Became more serious.
"But—" He sighed. "Jude, a police inspector was killed in today's incident. There are serious problems with the security team. Internal corruption. Bribery. Families being used as leverage."
He rubbed his eyes. Exhausted.
"I think there will be an investigation."
He met Jude's eyes.
"You'll have to take temporary leave of absence. Paid leave. I'm approving it now before anyone higher up decides otherwise. Stay home. Stay safe. We'll call you when things settle down."
Jude looked at Gordon in amazement.
He'd never intended to stay in the heavily restrictive police system for long. The badge was just cover. The uniform just access.
He didn't mind going home for vacation.
But he didn't expect it would happen so quickly.
"What about the officers' families?" he asked. "The ones the Riddler threatened. How are they doing?"
"Safe." Gordon's expression softened slightly. "The Riddler probably knew there was no hope of escaping, so he gave us a signal to cancel the operation. In the end, no one was hurt."
He paused.
"However, the people he hired outside ran away quickly. We didn't catch many of them. They're still out there. Which is why I want you on leave—if you're officially off-duty, you're less of a target."
Jude nodded slowly.
That afternoon, Jude walked the streets of Gotham.
Generally speaking, having a holiday was certainly a good thing.
But.
When he saw the news on the massive screen mounted to a building facade, he felt that no place on the street was truly safe.
The broadcast was breaking news. Emergency bulletin. Red banner across the bottom:
"BREAKING: Joke Factory attacked by Joker. One police officer, one civilian passerby, and a dozen comedians sent to hospital. Message written in blood at crime scene: 'Why is six afraid of seven?'"
Jude stopped walking. Stared at the screen.
Why is six afraid of seven?
It was getting dark. The sun setting behind Gotham's skyline. Long shadows stretching across the streets.
He stood there watching the news loop. The same footage. The same words.
And suddenly, he recalled something.
The conversation between the detective and the Riddler. Earlier today. Before the escape attempt.
When the Riddler had said those words—"where the joke is"—he'd seemed to reach out. Point at something on the table.
A map?
Jude's eyes narrowed.
"System," he said quietly. "Help me pull up the map of Gotham that was on the table earlier. Mark the location that the Riddler pointed at."
A pause. Processing.
[Understood. Retrieving—]
[Retrieval completed.]