Chapter 15: Fall

Months passed. The city bled.

Not all at once, and not in the way anyone expected. It wasn’t a bomb, or a war, or a single catastrophic event. It was slower. More insidious. Like rot spreading beneath a floorboard—quiet, hidden—until it had seeped into every crack of the city.

It started with graffiti.

Crimson grins bloomed on alley walls, crude and mocking. Paper mâché masks appeared on doorways, on lampposts, on abandoned benches. Wild green hair and painted lips stared at the citizens of Gotham, a silent warning that someone was watching, that someone was coming.

At first, it was petty—smash-and-grabs, mugging in darkened corners, daring thefts that the GCPD could still pretend to handle. But the violence grew, spreading like wildfire.

Then came the fires.

A liquor store in Burnley. A library in Park Row. A daycare in the Narrows—thankfully empty—but gutted and blackened just the same. Every inferno left its mark: a smile scrawled in soot, a laughing face spray-painted in crimson. Sometimes, a joke etched into the sidewalk in blood, taunting, untraceable.

“What do you call a city with no rules?”

“Mine.”

Some gangs resisted. Old-timers who had played both sides of the streets, men who had answered to the old mafia, were found later with clown makeup smeared over their faces, eyes wide in frozen shock, mouths twisted into impossible grins. Others joined willingly—drawn by money, by madness, by a sense of belonging to something larger than themselves.

People began to vanish again. Gotham’s residents, rich and poor alike, simply disappearing without a trace. Weeks later, they would be discovered, lifeless and mutilated, their fate echoing the horrors at the carnival. The city’s terror no longer had edges or limits; it had bled into every street, every building.

The National Guard was eventually called, rolling through the avenues in armored convoys, but even they were powerless against the chaos. Joker moved like a phantom, impossible to anticipate, leaving devastation in his wake while the city burned and bled.

Joker was no longer just a killer. He was a contagion. A movement. And Gotham, the city that once prided itself on order, was unraveling under his touch.

Batcave – Night

Screens flickered around Batman in a half-circle of cold, clinical light. Surveillance footage. Satellite feeds. Police band chatter. And always, a faint echo beneath it all: laughter. Always laughter.

He stood with his arms crossed, jaw clenched behind the cowl, eyes scanning the cascade of information like a hawk. Robin paced behind him, restless, a shadow in the glow of the monitors.

“They’re calling themselves the Carnival,” Robin said, disgust coating his voice. “Some kind of sick street gang. They’ve been coordinating online, on the dark web. ‘Clowning’ civilians. Joker even has some kind of initiation ritual now—you can’t join unless you make someone smile.” He held up a photo: two teenagers, fingers sticky with paint, spray-painting a grotesque smile on a corpse.

Batman turned to the map on the central monitor. Red dots. So many red dots. He exhaled slowly, the air between them tense and heavy. “Despite his growing influence,” he muttered, voice low. “Joker has worked hard not to show himself directly, not since that night on the Selene. He’s being more careful than usual. That’s why it’s so difficult to find him—he wants to stay invisible until the moment he chooses to strike.”

Robin’s expression shifted, a flicker of optimism breaking through. “Still ... all the crooks we’ve put away recently. All the arrests, the street gangs we’ve broken ... it has to count for something, right?”

Batman didn’t respond immediately. He wanted to, but the weight of the surveillance, the red dots, the laughter, reminded him of the precariousness of it all. “I just wish the National Guard had stayed longer,” he said finally, voice clipped. “They left the moment Joker went to ground, but the killings haven’t stopped.”

He tapped a series of commands on the console, and the footage expanded—faces of terrified civilians, masked figures darting through alleys, fires burning in the distance. Robin leaned closer, eyes narrowing at the pattern, trying to make sense of the chaos.

“This isn’t random,” Batman muttered. “It looks chaotic, but there’s a pattern. He’s driving us toward something ... something we haven’t seen yet. Perhaps some kind of ‘grand finale’, as he would put it.”

Robin swallowed, biting back a question, then finally asked, “Then what’s the endgame? What’s he planning?”

Batman didn’t answer. Because deep down, he didn’t know. And that uncertainty—his only constant companion in the madness—was as suffocating as the city’s darkened streets.

Harvey Dent’s Campaign Headquarters – Late Afternoon

The campaign office on 9th and Maddison had once been a flower shop. Now it smelled like coffee, printer ink, and cold sweat. Posters of Harvey’s face lined the walls: “A Future Gotham Can Believe In.”

Inside, campaign assistants hunched over laptops and spreadsheets around a long folding table. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, flickering faintly, and the air carried the constant click-clack of nervous typing. At the far end, Harvey Dent stood behind a stack of reports, pacing back and forth with a pen in one hand and a cup of black coffee in the other, his mind spinning faster than his feet.

“District 12 is holding steady,” Emily, his deputy communications director, said, “But the Narrows ... it’s a wash. Voters are scared. They want guarantees of safety, and we can’t promise what the GCPD can’t deliver.”

Ethan, a young assistant barely out of college, added nervously, “Some neighborhoods are even asking for the National Guard again, sir. They’re worried ... really worried.”

Harvey’s stride faltered for a heartbeat, then he snapped, voice sharp. “Then change the narrative! Don’t promise safety. Promise strength. Promise someone who fights back!”

Emily flinched. “We’re trying, Harvey. We’ve pushed ads, rallies, neighborhood outreach. But you’re not the only candidate anymore. Powers is in the race, and he’s promising lockdowns, curfews, federal assistance. People are listening to him.”

Harvey slammed the pen against the desk. The metallic click echoed across the room. “So what? So we bend to fear? We bow to panic while the city burns around us?”

“I don’t think—” Ethan began.

“Don’t think!” Harvey snapped, spinning toward them, eyes blazing. “I want action, not excuses!”

Emily opened her mouth, then closed it. She cleared her throat. “We’re trying to ... manage expectations, sir. We’re not ignoring the message, but—”

Harvey whirled, his hands gripping the edge of the desk. He stared at the polling sheets and budget reports, then at a framed photo tucked into the corner of his desk. In it, Harvey stood with Selina, Bruce, and Rachel, all smiles and easy camaraderie—laughter frozen in time. The contrast between the cheerful faces in the photograph and the weight pressing down on him now made the room feel even colder. His chest heaved, jaw tight.

“What the hell is the point of any of this?!” His voice cracked, then roared. “What good is becoming mayor if the city’s already gone?!”

The room fell silent. Five campaign staffers froze, mouths slightly open, eyes wide. Emily’s hands gripped the table, knuckles white.

Harvey’s chest heaved. He blinked rapidly, realizing the words he’d shouted. His shoulders slumped. He ran a hand through his hair and gave a tight, uneasy smile. “I’m ... sorry,” he said quietly. “That was out of line.”

No one spoke. Someone coughed. The soft sound felt louder than any rebuke.

Harvey returned to the numbers, staring at the spreadsheets as though they might offer an answer. Then he closed the folder with a sharp snap. “Let’s take five,” he said, his voice brittle, commanding no argument.

He walked to the window, lifting the shade to gaze at Gotham’s skyline. Smoke curled from rooftops in the distance. Sirens howled somewhere far below, a car alarm shrieking in protest.

And in the reflection of the glass, Harvey saw himself: hollow eyes, clenched jaw, a man teetering on the edge of hope and despair. He wondered, silently, if Gotham was still worth saving at all.

Downtown Gotham – The Skyline Lounge – Evening

The Skyline Lounge overlooked the East River, perched atop the restored Monarch Building. Crystal chandeliers glistened above candlelit tables. A jazz trio played softly in the background, the warm notes doing their best to distract from the sound of distant sirens outside.

It was one of the few places in Gotham that still tried to pretend the city wasn’t collapsing in slow motion.

At a table near the back, four of Gotham’s most influential citizens sat around half-empty wine glasses and a shared plate of steak tartare.

“Has it really only been a year since we all met at that fist gala?” Rachel asked, pushing a loose curl behind her ear.

“It’s been closer to a year and half actually, but it feels more like five,” Bruce replied, sipping from his glass.

Harvey gave a humorless laugh. “Back then, we all still thought Falcone was the worst monster Gotham had ever seen. The Roman with the golden smile and the white suit.”

Selina wore a sleek, low-cut black dress that caught the candlelight as she swirled her wine. Her smile was faint, almost automatic, but the gravity of the city tugged at her words. “And now Gotham’s Roman Empire has officially fallen.”

Rachel exhaled. “And yet ... the chaos hasn’t stopped. If anything, it’s gotten worse.”

Bruce said quietly, nearly sounding self-reflective, “Not that I want to give that madman any credit, but it almost makes me wish that Batman and Catwoman might work together again, just like with Falcone. As things stand, the Batman seems completely overwhelmed.”

Selina scoffed quietly without facing Bruce as she poked her plate with her fork. “Maybe Catwoman’s tired of old Bats cramping her style.”

Bruce chuckled. “I’d think a man like Batman would be like catnip for a girl like her.”

Selina froze. Her eyes widened as she focused on Bruce. He seemed not to notice, but there was no mistaking what she just heard. It can’t be.

It wasn’t just his words. It was Bruce’s voice, too. Always so cavalier and at ease, but make his inflection just a hint lower and more solemn. A strange chill passed over Selina. Her fingers froze against the side of the glass, knuckles whitening, as a jolt of disbelief ran through her.

Harvey, unaware of Selina’s reaction, leaned in towards Bruce. “Well, it’s not like Batman can be everywhere at once. He’s good, but he’s not magic.”

Hoping not to reveal her surprise, Selina’s lips curled, half amusement, half tension. “Don’t give the man too much credit. He might start getting cocky.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow. “You’ve met him?”

The words had come out casually. Too casually. And as Selina thought more on it, the puzzle began to come together. The strong, angular line of Bruce’s chin—the familiar set of his jaw, the quiet authority in the curve of his shoulders—began to stir something she hadn’t expected.

Selina leaned back, remembering the article about Bruce Wayne’s six-year disappearance. It was no secret he returned to Gotham looking jacked as hell. At the time, she’d shrugged it off—six years of MMA training and thrill-seeking, he’d joked online with photos from his travels to prove it. But now, recalling the way he moved—muscles taut, coiled like a predator, almost mirroring her own grace—she now suspected there had been another reason entirely. Something far more deliberate.

Selina stiffened, the glass nearly trembling in her hand.

Rachel shifted just slightly, sensing the change in the air.

Bruce held Selina’s gaze, and in that instant, something unspoken passed between them: recognition, regret, curiosity, a trace of something that neither time nor circumstance could fully erase. Then it was gone. Bruce turned to Rachel, leaving only the faint echo of what had almost been said—and a sudden tightness in Selina’s chest.

“Since I’m hardly an expert on the psychology of sociopaths like Batman, I can’t really make a call on the man’s character,” he said, easing back into that playboy persona. “What’s your official opinion, Attorney Dawes?”

Rachel gave a small laugh. “Hmm ... I’d say he’s dangerously charming and probably has trust issues. But then, who doesn’t in Gotham?”

“Oh, you think he’s charming, do you?” Bruce joked. “I’ll try not to be jealous.”

Selina’s eyes tracked him intently, but Bruce either didn’t notice—or chose not to.

Harvey looked between them, oblivious, and let out a humorless chuckle. “I’ll admit, I always thought you might be the Batman, Bruce. But I figure if you were, you’d probably be more ... I don’t know, broody. Plus, you would’ve put up a better fight on that yacht.”

Bruce gave him an easy, almost casual smile, but there was a calm precision behind it. “If I had, I would’ve taken away from your big moment when you stood up to the Joker.”

A soft laugh escaped both Harvey and Rachel, the sound warm against the clinking of glasses and faint jazz in the background. Selina, however, remained still, her gaze fixed on Bruce as if she were seeing a ghost. Her pulse ticked faster, subtle, almost imperceptible, but enough to betray her calm exterior.

Rachel, seemingly oblivious to Selina’s scrutiny, slipped her hand beneath the table and took Bruce’s. His head tilted slightly toward her, his features softening in a quiet, intimate way. Then, without warning, he leaned in and kissed her gently.

It lingered—brief, deliberate—just long enough to answer the unspoken question in Rachel’s eyes, a silent affirmation of trust and closeness.

Selina tore her eyes away, her expression unreadable, a flicker of something—shock, envy, maybe a trace of longing—passing fleetingly before she masked it.

Harvey and Selina were soon distracted as their waiter hurried over, his thin mustache twitching nervously. “Ah, monsieur et madame, I am so terribly desolé! Ze orders—I have ruined ze orders! Sacré bleu!”

Harvey held up a reassuring hand. “It’s alright. Really, no harm done.”

“But ... ze steak, ze wine—everything mixed up! I must make amends! Perhaps a complimentary amuse-bouche?” the waiter babbled, accent thick and rapid.

Selina laughed softly, stepping in. “It’s fine, honestly. You’re doing your best. Don’t worry about it.”

The waiter’s eyes widened, and he shuffled slightly, fingers nervously twisting his napkin. His gaze flicked briefly to Selina, lingering just a moment on her elegance, and he swallowed audibly. “Oh! Mais ... I—I am so sorry, mademoiselle! I am ... I am a terrible service! Truly, I cannot ... I will try better, oui, I swear!”