By the time Jude came out of Gotham Hospital, it was already noon.
The sun hung high overhead. Bright. Warm. Impossible.
"The weather is nice today." He looked up at the cloudless sky. Squinted against the brightness.
A scene he'd never witnessed in his home dimension's Gotham. That city preferred perpetual twilight. Rain and clouds and the comfortable gloom of a world that knew what it was.
This sunshine felt wrong. Like a costume. Like something pretending to be normal when everything underneath was exactly as broken as always.
Jude reached into his pocket. Pulled out a business card.
Used the sunlight to see the name and phone number printed on cheap cardstock. The ink was slightly smudged. Well-worn. Like it had been carried in a wallet for months.
This had been given to him by one of the comedians in the ward. One of the less seriously injured patients who'd already started recovering. Could sit up. Could talk without wincing.
After learning that Jude hadn't yet found a place to live in Gotham—that he was new to the city, staying in temporary hotels, unfamiliar with neighborhoods and landlords and the complex social networks that controlled East End housing—the man had offered this.
A business card. A contact. An introduction.
"The comedian rents in the East District," the man had explained. Tired voice. Grateful eyes. "The place I rent from is one of the relatively safe areas. It's difficult to move in without someone vouching for you. But I'll vouch. After what you did..."
He'd trailed off. Too emotional to finish.
Jude had learned during their conversation that the man was a widowed single father. Raising a thirteen-year-old son and his seventy-year-old mother alone.
Performed wholeheartedly every day at whatever venue would have him. Stand-up clubs. Open mics. Corporate events. Birthday parties. Anywhere that paid.
Seized any opportunity to make money. Never turned down work. Never complained about the grind.
Raised his son from infancy to adolescence while caring for an elderly parent who needed help with daily tasks.
Thirteen years of that life. Thirteen years of juggling shows and parenting and elder care and the constant desperate mathematics of Gotham survival.
Jude couldn't help but feel sincere admiration.
Before leaving the ward, he'd given the man some money. Not much. But enough to help with the additional medical expenses that would hit soon. Hospital bills in Gotham were catastrophic even for people with insurance.
The comedian had seemed conflicted. Proud. Ashamed. Grateful. Wanting to refuse but needing to accept.
Finally took the money. Looking like it physically hurt.
But Jude understood. The man accepted it for his son and mother. Not for himself. Never for himself.
With the medical expenses from the theater bombing, he was almost unable to bear the financial weight. Would have drowned without help.
It takes great courage, Jude thought, to die proudly for your persistence.
Or to live tenaciously for others.
The ward had been full of people.
Some were good men making money to support families by telling jokes. Finding humor in tragedy. Making strangers laugh so their children could eat.
Some were dream chasers—poor and destitute, chasing comedy careers that might never materialize. Starving artists in the most literal sense.
Some were just trying to make a living in Gotham. Surviving. Enduring. Men, women, families, singles. All caught in the same city. All doing their best.
They'd all been extremely grateful to Jude.
He'd felt uncomfortable with it. Still felt like he wasn't the kind of hero they imagined.
But he was also somewhat happy. Because he'd saved many people who were trying desperately to survive in this nightmare city. People who deserved to live. Who had families depending on them. Who had reasons to keep fighting.
That part felt good.
As they thanked him—one after another, voices overlapping, some crying, some just gripping his hand—Jude had subconsciously recalled something.
A memory. Sharp. Painful. Beautiful.
The night he'd first arrived in his home dimension's Gotham. On the train. Cold. Wet. Disoriented from dimensional travel.
Back then, he'd been homeless too. Had nowhere to go. No contacts. No money. No plan.
Back then, he'd met someone who was struggling to make a living. Drake Ryan. Software engineer turned desperate husband. Trying to save his dying wife through amateur crime.
Jude had helped that person. Received gratitude and many favors in return. Including a place to stay in the East End. A couch. Warmth. Human connection.
The people in this ward looked very similar to Drake and Camilla. Different faces. Different voices. But the same desperate determination. The same fierce love for family. The same refusal to give up despite impossible odds.
It gave Jude an inexplicable sense of joy. Like reuniting with old friends. Like finding pieces of people he cared about scattered across dimensions.
"Drake and Camilla..." he murmured quietly. "I wonder how they're doing."
After a moment, Jude came back from his memories.
Shook his head. Focused on the present.
He memorized the name and phone number on the business card. Committed them to memory. Then tucked the card safely away.
Waved down a taxi.
And—critically—subconsciously confirmed the driver looked normal before getting in the car.
Checked for pale skin. Green hair. Signs of laughing gas poisoning. Any indication this was another trap.
The driver was a middle-aged woman. Normal skin tone. Professional demeanor. Radio playing softly.
Safe.
Jude opened the door. Slid into the back seat.
"Ma'am, I'm going to the East End."
"No problem, sir." Her voice was pleasant. Gotham-accented but not harsh. "Which street would you like?"
He gave the address from the business card.
The taxi started. Merged into traffic.
The voices of the two people in the car—discussing routes, commenting on traffic, normal civilian conversation—gradually faded away as the vehicle moved through Gotham's streets.
Finally disappeared around the corner.
Heading east.
Leaving the hospital behind.
"Attention all officers near Gotham Hospital. Attention all officers near Gotham Hospital."
The police radio crackled. Urgent. Emergency frequency.
"The criminal known as the Riddler has just escaped from Gotham Hospital. Whereabouts currently unknown. A doctor and two nurses at the hospital have been seriously injured and have been taken to the emergency room. Suspect is armed and extremely dangerous. Approach with caution."
At that moment, Jude had already entered the East District. Had found the landlord from the business card. Was discussing rental terms and move-in dates.
Had no idea that the Riddler had escaped right after he'd left.
Timing. Always timing.
Commissioner Gordon—who'd been busy all day yesterday dealing with the Joker, the theater bombing, the Riddler's first escape, the second escape, the building confrontation, and approximately seventeen hours of paperwork—had no time to rest.
No time to sleep. No time to eat properly. No time to process.
He and several officers immediately rushed to the hospital. Again. For the third time in two days.
To investigate the Riddler's escape. Again.
"Commissioner Gordon." One of his officers jogged to keep pace. "The Riddler seems to have vanished after leaving the building. We can't determine his route or whereabouts. No witnesses. No surveillance on the exterior cameras. He just... disappeared."
Gordon, walking through the hospital corridor with the grim determination of someone running on coffee and spite, couldn't help but sigh.
This was the third time the police station had been fooled by the Riddler.
Third time in two days.
Fortunately, there'd been that newcomer—Officer Jude—who'd backed them up the first two times. Managed to catch the Riddler through sheer dumb luck and being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
But it wasn't because of Gordon's strong command ability. Wasn't because of superior tactics or brilliant strategy.
It was because the newcomer had been lucky enough to stumble into situations at exactly the right moment.
Gordon knew that. Hated knowing that. But couldn't deny it.
"What about the three hospital personnel he attacked during the escape?" he asked. "What's their status?"
"The doctors and nurses who were attacked were discovered early—still in the hospital, someone heard noise—so they received immediate treatment. They've just been confirmed out of danger."
"This is a blessing in disguise." Gordon's voice was flat. Exhausted. "At least no one died this time."
He walked into the hospital's monitoring room. Several police officers followed. The cramped space filled quickly.
"Check the surveillance, Commissioner Gordon?" The security guard looked up from his station. Recognized the commissioner. Had dealt with him before.
"Yeah. Old rules. Just give me the video files."
The security guard nodded.
Gotham was known for its... simple folkways. A euphemism. The city was a nightmare and everyone knew it.
Crimes in hospitals were not uncommon. Theft. Assault. Occasionally murder. The administration had protocols.
Commissioner Gordon had dealt with the hospital's top brass numerous times over the years. Regarding this major incident—a supervillain escaping from a hospital bed after being shot—the administrators had already communicated with their subordinates.
Clear instructions: Do not refuse Commissioner Gordon's request to access surveillance footage. Give him anything he needs. Cooperate fully.
Liability reasons. Political reasons. Common sense reasons.
Gordon pulled out a USB drive. Handed it to the security guard.
The man took it. Started downloading files. Two days of video footage. From the Riddler's admission after being shot to his escape today.
"Here you go, Commissioner Gordon."
Gordon took the drive back. Opened his laptop—always carried with him now, standard equipment for modern policing.
Going back to the police station to review footage would take time. Waste precious minutes. He could drive and delegate and coordinate later.
Right now, he needed to see what had happened.
Needed to understand the pattern. The method. The madness.
He opened the video files. Started scrubbing through footage.
Fast-forwarding. Pausing. Analyzing.
And there—
The Riddler's escape.
The footage showed a hospital room. Standard layout. Bed. Monitors. IV stand.
Edward Nygma sat up. Moving carefully. Gunshot wound in his abdomen still fresh. Still dangerous.
He looked directly at the camera.
Smiled.
And began speaking. Reciting. Voice clear despite the pain.
"What is loved more than life, and feared more than violent death?"
His tone was cold. Theatrical. Like he was asking himself a riddle in a reflection. Performing for an audience of one.
Sentence after sentence. Building.
On the ground behind him—visible in the frame—there was bright red blood. Fresh. Spreading.
Three figures lying in pools of it.
The doctor. Two nurses. Attacked. Bleeding. Unconscious but alive.
"What is something that a contented person desires, but that a poor person possesses and a rich person lacks?"
The Riddler's chest was exposed. Suit jacket open. Shirt torn away. Revealing muscular lines of chest and abdomen.
And the most eye-catching detail: conspicuous blood above his lower abdomen. The hideous round wound from the Joker's gunshot clearly visible.
The wound that had been professionally sutured yesterday. Stitched closed. Bandaged. Healing.
Torn open again.
Torn deliberately. Through violent movement. Through intentional effort.
Nygma didn't seem to care. Didn't flinch. Just let the blood flow out.
"What does a miser squander, and what does a spendthrift save? What does every man take to his grave?"
He reached into his pocket.
Pulled out a small knife. Scalpel. Probably stolen from a medical supply cart.
And with calm, methodical precision, began cutting into his own chest.
Gordon's jaw clenched. Watching. Unable to look away.
The Riddler cut a beautiful three-quarter circle on his chest. Just above the round gunshot wound below. Creating a pattern. A symbol.
Together, they formed a question mark.
Curved line above. Circular wound as the dot.
Perfect. Deliberate. Insane.
The sharp blade broke through skin. Cut through well-defined muscle. Severed tiny blood vessels.
The question mark on his chest immediately began to bleed. Dark red. Flowing. Permanent.
"The answer is, of course—"
The Riddler's smile widened.
"—nothing."
He used the blood from his chest—his own blood, fresh and wet—to write three large question marks on the fallen medical staff.
On the doctor's white coat. On one nurse's scrubs. On the other nurse's forehead.
?
?
?
Then he walked out of the ward.
Casual. Unhurried. Bleeding profusely but moving with purpose.
Out of frame. Out of the camera's surveillance range.
Gone.
Commissioner Gordon paused the video.
Rubbed his eyebrows. Headache building. Massive. Crushing.
"Nygma's criminal style remains the same as before," he said quietly. Talking to himself. To the officers. To the universe. "He likes to leave puzzles at crime scenes. Riddles. Symbols. Messages."
He gestured at the screen. At the frozen image of blood and question marks and a man who'd carved himself open to make a point.
"But the focus now is finding him. I think this surveillance video could be used to convict him—clear evidence, premeditated assault, filmed confession—but it won't be very helpful in our pursuit."
He closed the laptop. Stood.
"He's already gone. Could be anywhere in the city by now. We need—"
His phone rang.
Gordon answered immediately. "Commissioner Gordon."
The dispatcher's voice was tense. "Commissioner, citizens have reported that the Riddler has reappeared."
Gordon's hand tightened on the phone. "Where?"
"Gotham Square. Public location. Broad daylight."
A pause.
"A bloody question mark has appeared on the wall."
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