Flipping Through the Pages
Copyright© 2026 by Dragonpig
Chapter 41
The diner carried the scent of bacon and coffee as 47 and Selina settled into a worn booth at Scarface & Wesker’s. The place had seen better decades—its red vinyl seats were cracked and patched with duct tape—but it was clean, and the smell of food made 47’s stomach remind him he hadn’t eaten since the night before.
The waitress, a middle-aged woman with tired eyes and a practiced smile, set their plates down with the efficient movements of someone who’d been doing this job for years. 47’s omelet was perfectly cooked, the grits creamy and seasoned just right. Across from him, Selina attacked her waffle with the enthusiasm of someone who hadn’t had a proper breakfast in too long.
“This is good,” she said around a mouthful of waffle and sausage. “Way better than the convenience store stuff I usually grab.”
47 nodded, but his mind was already on the reason they were here. He reached into his jacket and pulled out the photo of Tammy, studying her bright smile one more time before flagging down their waitress.
“Excuse me,” he said as she approached their table. “I’ve been looking for my daughter.” He held up the picture, watching the woman’s expression carefully. “Have you seen her? She’s been missing for quite a while.”
The waitress took the photo, her brow furrowing as she studied Tammy’s face. “You know, I think I have seen her, but let me go ask the owner. He’s got a better memory for faces than I do.”
She disappeared toward the back of the restaurant, and 47 saw Selina tense slightly across from him. They’d practiced this story at their base, after the brief sparring session.
A few minutes later, a small, nervous-looking man in his forties emerged from the kitchen, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses as he wiped flour-dusted hands on his apron. His thinning brown hair was combed carefully over his balding scalp, and he moved with the hesitant steps of someone who wasn’t entirely comfortable with confrontation.
“I’m, uh, I’m Arnold Wesker,” he said, his voice quiet and apologetic. “Me and my business partner, we own this place. Rita says you’re looking for someone?”
47 stood and offered his hand, noting how Wesker’s grip was weak and damp with nervous sweat. “John,” he said, giving the false name they’d agreed on. “This is my daughter.” He gestured toward Selina, who managed a worried smile that didn’t require much acting. “We’re trying to find her sister.”
He handed Wesker the photograph, watching as the small man’s eyes widened slightly behind his glasses.
“Oh, oh yes,” Wesker stammered, nodding rapidly. “Yeah, I think I saw her several months ago. She was talking to this guy and his—I guess his girlfriend. Real pretty blonde, looked like she was in her twenties or so.”
47 kept his expression neutral, but internally he felt the familiar focus that came with a solid lead. “What happened? Do you remember anything else about them?”
Wesker fidgeted with the photo, his nervous energy evident. “They were talking for a while, real quiet-like. I thought maybe they were her parents or something—the way they were leaning in, you know? Then she seemed to get upset about something, but then all of a sudden they paid the bill and left together. That’s the last time I seen her. Has to be several months ago now.” His voice grew even quieter. “I’m, uh, I’m sorry I can’t tell you more.”
47 felt the weight of the information settle in his chest. The timeline matched what they knew, and now they had confirmation that Tammy had been with two people—not just the man they’d seen on the video feed, but also a blonde woman.
“I appreciate the information,” he said, offering Wesker another handshake. “Thank you for taking the time.”
As they continued eating their breakfast, Selina kept her voice low. “So that was her. She was really here.”
47 nodded, cutting into his omelet while his mind processed the implications. “It’s been months, but at least we know something concrete happened here. The people Wesker described—that has to be our starting point.”
He could see the mix of hope and worry in Selina’s eyes. They had their first real lead, but it also confirmed that Tammy had been taken by people who were skilled at manipulation. People who could make a frightened girl trust them enough to leave with them voluntarily.
The fire escape ladder was slick with Gotham’s perpetual grime, but Carrie climbed with practiced silence, her camera bag secured tightly across her back. The abandoned office building gave her the perfect vantage point—close enough to see clearly, high enough to avoid detection. She’d spent two hours earlier that day walking past Hatter’s Productions’ building, memorizing the security setup, noting the guards’ positions and the camera angles.
Now, perched on the rooftop with her telephoto lens assembled, she could see everything.
The building across the street looked ordinary enough from ground level—four stories of weathered brick that could house any number of legitimate businesses. But from her elevated position, Carrie could see what pedestrians couldn’t: the discrete security cameras mounted at every corner, the way certain men in dark clothing lingered near the entrances without any apparent purpose, the subtle but unmistakable signs of a place that didn’t want visitors.
She adjusted the focus on her lens and aimed it at the fourth floor first. Most of the windows were covered with heavy curtains, blocking her view, but one room had been left exposed. Through the telephoto lens, she could make out what looked like a teenage girl’s bedroom—pink walls, a canopy bed, stuffed animals arranged on shelves. Two girls sat on the bed together, both appearing to be in their early teens. She couldn’t tell what they were doing from this distance, but something about their positioning seemed unnatural, staged.
Then she saw it—movement at the edge of her telephoto view. Someone adjusting what looked like a boom microphone, and the distinctive shape of a camera on a tripod just visible in the corner of the room. They were filming. Right now.
Carrie’s finger pressed the shutter release, the camera’s quiet click documenting what she was seeing. Something cold and sick settled in her stomach as she realized what she was witnessing, but she forced herself to keep looking. She moved the lens to scan the lower floors.
Moving the lens down to scan the lower floors, Carrie could see through windows on both the second and third floors where the girls were housed. Through partially open windows, she glimpsed what looked like small bedrooms—some with bunk beds, others with single beds. Girls ranging in age from eight to thirteen moved between rooms or sat on their beds. Some were sleeping despite the late hour, others watched television or played video games. A few sat together talking in what appeared to be common areas.
It looked almost ... normal. Like a group home or boarding school. But Carrie had seen enough of Gotham’s underbelly to recognize the careful staging, the way everything was arranged to appear innocent while serving a much darker purpose.
She lowered the camera for a moment, her hands shaking slightly as the full scope of what she was witnessing began to sink in. This wasn’t just some small-time operation. The number of children, the organized nature of it all, the security measures—this was systematic, professional, and had probably been running for years.
Her mind flashed back to the paper she’d found in Marcus’s destroyed Blockbuster, the neat handwriting that had led her here. “Hatter’s Productions.” The boom microphone and camera she’d seen on the fourth floor confirmed her worst fears about what kind of productions they were making in this building. This wasn’t just housing these children—they were actively filming them.
The camera continued clicking as she documented everything—the security setup, the building’s layout, the fourth floor where all the filming clearly took place. She could make out other rooms on that floor through different windows, catching glimpses of what appeared to be different themed sets—a classroom setup with small desks and a chalkboard, what looked like a church interior with wooden pews. All of it designed to create specific scenarios for whatever sick fantasies Hatter’s Productions was selling.
But even as she worked, questions gnawed at her. Her anonymous client had paid her double her usual rate to investigate disruptions in Gotham’s criminal ecosystem. Had they known this would lead her here? Were they connected to this operation, or were they trying to expose it?
In Gotham, the line between the hunters and the hunted was often thinner than people wanted to believe, and Carrie couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being maneuvered by forces she didn’t fully understand. But whatever game was being played, she was determined to document the truth of what was happening in that building across the street, even if she didn’t yet know who would ultimately benefit from that knowledge.
The room was dimly lit, the soft glow of string lights and a single lamp casting long shadows. Harley, a twelve-year-old with long, dark hair and a slight frame, sat on the edge of the queen-sized canopy bed, her legs swinging nervously. She was wearing an oversized T-shirt and a pair of white panties, her eyes darting between the camera in the corner, the director’s chair where Jarvis Tetch sat, and the other girl in the pink painted room.
Tammy, a year older with reddish-blonde hair and a flat chest, sat a few feet away from Harley, her knees drawn up to her chin. She wore a pink T-shirt with a kitten on the front and matching panties. Her eyes were wide, her cheeks flushed with a mix of nerves and excitement. She looked at Harley, then at the camera, then back at Harley, a small nervous smile playing on her lips.
Harley’s heart pounded in her chest. She had done girl-on-girl scenes before, but not with Tammy.
Jarvis’s voice echoed through the room, calm and authoritative. “Alright, girls. Let’s start with you two just getting to know each other. Remember, this is a slumber party. Be yourselves, but ... you know, more innocent.”
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