Chapter 37 : The Bat's Warning
The shadow on my rooftop wasn't Selina.
I'd been enjoying a late-night bourbon, watching Gotham's lights flicker in the distance, when that particular sensation crept up my spine. The feeling of being watched by something that moved through darkness like it was home.
I didn't reach for my weapon. Against him, it would be pointless.
"I wondered when you'd come back," I said to the empty air.
Batman materialized from shadows that shouldn't have been deep enough to conceal him. The cape, the cowl, the weight of presence that pressed against the atmosphere like a physical force.
"We need to talk."
"About?"
"Detective Harvey Bullock has been asking questions about you." Batman's voice was gravel and midnight. "Someone is feeding him information."
The bourbon turned sour in my stomach. Harvey Bullock—I knew the name from meta-knowledge. Honest cop, one of the few left in the GCPD. Persistent, stubborn, the kind of detective who didn't let cases go cold. Not someone you wanted investigating your operations.
"What kind of information?"
"Details about your protection network. Names of businesses paying you. Meeting locations." Batman's eyes—visible through the cowl—tracked my reaction. "Specific enough to cause problems. Not enough to build a case yet."
"Yet."
"Yet."
I set down the bourbon, my mind already racing through implications. Someone inside my organization was talking. Not one of the inner circle—Terry, Big Pat, Julio, Marcus—they wouldn't have access to all the details Batman described. Someone lower, someone peripheral, but someone with enough visibility to piece things together.
"Why are you telling me this?"
The question hung in the night air. Batman warning a criminal about a police investigation—that wasn't how the story was supposed to go.
"Because your operation reduces certain kinds of crime in the Narrows." Batman's voice was measured, reluctant. "Drug trafficking has declined since you established control. Violent assaults are down. The protection money you collect comes with actual protection."
"I didn't know you kept statistics."
"I keep everything." He moved closer—not threatening, but commanding attention. "If Bullock brings you down, someone else fills the vacuum. Someone without your rules. Someone who doesn't care about the difference between protection and exploitation."
"He's thought about this. Weighed the options. Decided I'm better than the alternatives."
"That sounds almost like approval."
"It's not." The denial was immediate, sharp. "You're still a criminal. You still operate outside the law. But you operate with limits, and limits matter in this city."
We stood in silence for a moment. Gotham sprawled below us—towers and tenements, money and misery, the eternal contradiction of a city that destroyed and created in equal measure.
"Who's the informant?" I asked.
"I don't know. That's not why I'm here."
"Then why are you here? Really?"
Batman was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice carried something I hadn't heard before—uncertainty, perhaps. Reflection.
"Because Gotham needs different kinds of people fighting for it. I can't be everywhere. The police can't be trusted. And the people in places like the Narrows..." He trailed off. "They need someone. Even if that someone isn't pure."
"That's very philosophical for a man in a bat costume."
"I have time to think, between the violence."
I almost laughed. Almost. Something about the moment felt too significant for humor.
"I appreciate the warning," I said finally. "I'll find the informant."
"Don't kill them."
"Wasn't planning to."
"I mean it." Batman stepped back toward the shadows. "One death—one murder that can be traced to your organization—and our arrangement changes. Permanently."
"Understood."
He was gone between one blink and the next. Just shadows and silence, the lingering weight of his presence fading like smoke.
I stood alone on the rooftop for a long time, processing.
"Batman just helped me. Batman sees value in what I do. What the hell am I becoming in this city?"
The bourbon sat untouched. I had work to do.
Inside the penthouse, I started a list.
Everyone in my organization who had access to the kind of information Bullock was receiving. Not the inner circle—they were beyond suspicion, proved through months of loyalty and countless tests. But the mid-level people. The newer recruits. The ones who'd joined after Marco's fall or Carlos's absorption.
Twelve names emerged.
Devon—young kid, Marco holdover. Nervous but enthusiastic.
Rachel—communications support, handled message routing. Quiet, competent.
Two of Carlos's original crew—integrated but not fully trusted.
Others, each with their own history and their own access level.
"One of these people is talking to Bullock. One of them is putting everything I've built at risk."
The clock read 4 AM. Selina was asleep in the bedroom, unaware of the shadow that had visited. I'd tell her in the morning—she deserved to know. But tonight, I needed to plan.
The mole hunt would begin tomorrow.
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