In front of the massive glass curtain wall—floor-to-ceiling windows that stretched the length of the room—you could see Gotham City spread below.
Bright lights dotted the landscape like stars. Colorful. Almost beautiful.
Gotham City rarely saw such clear night skies. No clouds. No rain. No pollution haze obscuring the view.
Tonight, starlight and moonlight complemented the city lights. White illumination poured through the glass exterior wall, flooding the room with silver radiance.
It lit the wooden desk. The reception chair positioned so carefully.
And the Riddler lying on the floor, bleeding.
The blood reflected a dark red light in the moonlight. Flowing steadily. Spreading across expensive hardwood.
More and faster.
"Ugh." The Riddler pressed his wound tightly. His eyes fixed on the night sky beyond the glass curtain wall.
Waiting.
Sure enough, after a moment, a dark shadow passed across the moon's outline.
Bat-shaped. Unmistakable.
Silent wings spread wide. A huge shadow blocked out the moonlight, shrouding the Riddler beside the glass wall in darkness.
CRASH.
The sound of breaking glass was crisp. Sharp. Tiny fragments exploded inward, splashing through moonlight, flashing with strange luster as they caught and reflected the illumination.
Batman landed in a crouch. Glass crunching under his boots.
He moved immediately to the Riddler's side. Knelt. Looked down at the hands covering the stomach wound.
His mind processed information automatically. Cataloging. Analyzing. Reaching conclusions.
The Joker's usual revolver is .45 caliber. Large rounds. Devastating damage.
Blood mixed with soot and gunpowder particles—but not on the clothing. Indicates contact fire. Muzzle pressed directly against the body when discharged.
Rate of bleeding indicates major wound. Possibly arterial involvement. Even emergency hemostasis won't save him.
Fatal injury. He won't survive.
Batman made the assessment in seconds. Filed it away.
Then moved to the second question: Where did the shooter go?
"He—" The Riddler curled up in agony. His eyes wide. Voice weak and halting, gasping for air between words. "He took my bomb."
Bomb?
"The Joker's gone. He's gone with the bomb."
Should he chase the Joker now?
Batman's mind calculated. This was an extremely rational choice. Cold. Tactical.
The Riddler was beyond medical help. But perhaps he could still stop the Joker with the explosive. Save more lives. Prevent whatever attack was being planned.
The math was simple: one dying criminal versus potentially dozens of innocent victims.
No choice.
The Riddler clutched his wound. Watched Batman stand up through pain-narrowed eyes.
He lowered his gaze to hide his smile.
And at the same time pressed harder on his wound. Making blood flow out faster. More dramatically.
Creating the appearance of rapid deterioration.
Intelligent people often see far into the future, the Riddler thought, but they often fail to see the tip of their own noses.
Batman—with his vast experience, his forensic expertise, his detective skills—could easily judge the severity of injuries by bleeding rate.
But he didn't have much time to analyze. Didn't stop to consider that someone wounded by a large-caliber revolver at contact range might actively cause themselves to bleed more.
So he misjudged.
The Riddler's injuries. The state of the wound. The timeline for death.
And decided to chase the Joker immediately.
Perfect.
Looking at Batman turning toward the broken window—cape already swirling, preparing to vault back into the night—the Riddler began covering his wound with real force.
Applying pressure. Stopping the bleeding.
After Batman left, he could get up. Walk in the opposite direction. Escape while everyone chased the Joker.
Genius.
However.
At that exact moment, heavy footsteps echoed in the dark hallway outside.
Running. Panting. Getting closer.
"Ha—ha—GCPD! Everyone freeze!"
BANG.
The door flew open. Slammed against the wall.
A sweaty figure rushed into the room. Gun raised. Breathing hard from exertion.
The Riddler froze.
No.
No no no no no—
That face. That familiar, cursed face.
Batman turned. Assessed the newcomer in an instant.
Clothing: GCPD uniform, slightly disheveled. Walking posture: amateur, unbalanced from running. Calluses on hands: recently developed, not years of service.
The person seemed to have some temperament of a police officer. But deliberately imitating it. Trying too hard.
Not surprising. All rookie officers who started as amateurs did this. Overcompensating. Playing the role.
Batman's facial recognition software pinged. Cross-referenced against GCPD database.
Confirmed: Officer Jude. Transferred two days ago. Survived Joker's theater attack.
That explained why Batman didn't recognize him by sight alone. Batman had memorized every officer in the Gotham City Police Department—but this one was too new. Still learning. Still figuring things out.
Jude looked at the Riddler on the ground. Then at Batman standing beside the broken window.
Relief washed over his face. He lowered the gun.
"I'm sorry, sir. I didn't recognize you just now." Respectful. Apologetic. "Commissioner Gordon told me you're an ally."
"Call an ambulance," Batman said immediately.
Confirming Jude's friendly identity, he moved toward the darkness. Already calculating pursuit vectors. Time elapsed since Joker's departure. Probable destinations.
"Then tell Commissioner Gordon that the Joker is nearby."
Jude nodded. "Understood."
Batman vanished through the broken window. Cape spreading. Disappearing into Gotham's night like he'd never been there.
Silence filled the room.
The Riddler lay on the floor, eyes bloodshot. Face contorted with rage and disbelief.
He'd never dreamed—never conceived it was possible—that after finding a way out of this desperate situation with his genius intellect, after planning the perfect escape, such a thing would appear in the middle of the road.
Again.
The same idiot. AGAIN.
How?!
How did this bumbling fool even get here? Did he have the brains to figure out the pattern? The riddle? The location?
No.
His gun was FAKE. A toy. A prop from a model shop.
It's impossible.
It had to be impossible that an idiot disrupted his plan twice. Statistically improbable. Logically unsound.
Therefore, the Riddler's mind raced, this guy must be very smart. Must have seen through my escape plan and the answer to the Joker's riddle. Or he has an expert guiding him. Someone feeding him information.
After figuring this out, the Riddler felt relieved.
Or rather—he simply could not accept the alternative. Could not acknowledge that his genius plans had been ruined twice by an ordinary person.
But.
People cannot deceive themselves forever.
He knew—knew—that his hypothesis was full of holes. If his plan had been discovered in advance, the prison guards would have been replaced. Batman would have been waiting here. Gordon would have set a trap.
But none of that had happened.
Which meant—
"Wow, you lost so much blood?"
Jude's voice interrupted his spiraling thoughts.
The rookie officer squatted beside him. Examined the spreading pool of crimson.
"Are you pretending? Are you still able to move?" Jude tilted his head. "I suggest you cover your wound carefully. Otherwise, you'll die before the ambulance arrives."
He paused. Curious.
"By the way, who shot you? The Joker? Why did he shoot you?"
"Will you just shut up?" The Riddler gritted his teeth. Forced the words through pain. Coughing up blood between syllables. "I'm dying, and you're still—ahem—acting with me? Can't you see how much I'm bleeding?"
"Acting?" Jude looked genuinely confused. "What acting?"
He gestured at the blood spreading across the floor.
"Oh, you're bleeding a lot. But you can still talk, right? That means it's not that serious."
"You—" The Riddler opened his mouth to curse.
The movement made his lungs shift. Sharp pain lanced through his abdomen. The curse died in his throat.
"Cough—cough cough—"
"I told you to cover your wound properly." Jude sounded almost parental. Scolding. "Why are you still thinking about cursing people? Look, it's bleeding more now."
He pointed the gun at the Riddler. Tried to look authoritative.
"Don't move! I still have a weapon. Don't even think about a sneak attack."
The Riddler stared at the gun. His detective mind working even through pain.
"Downstairs," he managed. Voice hoarse. "In the model shop. Ahem. Mass-produced toy—did you buy that gun for, ahem, a hundred dollars?"
Pause. Gathering strength.
"Is this gun so fake that even you can tell? Ahem."
Jude's expression shifted. Awkward. Embarrassed but trying to maintain dignity.
That polite smile. That universal expression of someone caught in a social faux pas.
He put the fake gun back in its holster. Trying to hide his embarrassment through casual movement.
"Ah." Jude cleared his throat. "Well. Ever since you were in prison, I've noticed you're smart. Very observant. You see? My judgment is spot-on."
The Riddler's eyes filled with murderous intent.
He emphasized to himself—again and again, desperately, like a mantra—that the person in front of him was definitely very smart.
Has to be. Must be. Otherwise the universe makes no sense.
But every word Jude spoke shattered that fantasy. Every action screamed ordinary idiot.
The cognitive dissonance was physically painful.
"Let's make a fair deal." The Riddler took a deep breath. Forced himself to focus. "You answer my questions, and I'll answer yours."
Strategic. Logical. Information exchange.
"I'll ask first."
Jude blinked. "Okay. Go ahead."
The Riddler gathered his strength. Every ounce of remaining energy focused on this one critical question.
The question that had haunted him since the prison. The mystery he couldn't solve.
"How did you get here?"
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