Jude understood why his colleagues had pushed him forward.
Gotham had a Black Knight—the freak in a cape, the urban legend who broke bones in the night.
But Gotham also had a White Knight. Not a legend. Not a rumor. A real man with a real badge and a ruthless commitment to justice.
Harvey Dent. Gotham's District Attorney.
If you could count Gotham's true believers in justice on one hand, you'd need exactly three fingers: a bat who dispensed violence in the dark, a police captain who brought criminals into custody, and a prosecutor who made sure those criminals actually faced punishment.
The trinity of Gotham's fragile hope.
Batman broke their bones. Gordon arrested them. Dent put them away.
Every gang in Gotham—major and minor—knew Harvey Dent's name. Respected it, even. He'd leveraged information, threatened prosecutions, and actually imprisoned gang members. In a city where law was a joke, he was the punchline that landed.
Plenty of people in Gotham wanted to be good. Few could withstand reality's beating and stay good anyway.
But Jude had a different problem.
He wasn't afraid of Harvey Dent the White Knight.
He was afraid of Two-Face.
The brightest light casts the darkest shadow. When Harvey Dent fell, he'd become something worse than any common criminal. Twisted. Split. Unpredictable.
My colleagues are scared of the DA, Jude thought grimly. I'm scared of the monster he'll become.
"Hello, Mr. Dent." Jude forced his voice steady. "Please, follow me."
Harvey studied him with sharp, prosecutor's eyes. "You seem nervous. Not feeling well?"
"No, sir. Just—" Jude scrambled for an explanation. "Just excited. First day on the job. Eager to do well."
"Really?" Harvey's smile didn't reach his eyes. "I thought maybe you didn't like me."
"Not at all! The Red Dragon welcomes every guest. It's an honor to serve you."
I was so stupid, Jude thought desperately. Of course Harvey Dent would come here. He's not just having lunch. He's sending a message.
Harvey Dent didn't accidentally walk into a Falcone-connected restaurant the day after putting Maroni gang members in custody. This was deliberate. A victory lap.
And Jude was stuck in the middle.
Please don't remember me, Jude prayed silently. When you become Two-Face, please don't remember the waiter who served you. I don't want to be on the wrong side of a coin flip.
"The menu, please," Harvey said pleasantly. "A few scumbags went to the police station yesterday. I'm in a good mood. Good appetite. I'm considering how many years to prosecute them for."
Jude handed over the menu.
Glanced back at his colleagues.
Several faces were turning red. Visibly red. Anger red.
Oh no.
"Those scumbags are like rats," Harvey continued, scanning the wine list with apparent interest. "Have you ever seen a nest of rats?"
More faces reddening.
"I've seen plenty. The big ones are cunning. Hide during the day, only come out at night to bite people."
Half the room was red now.
Stop talking, Jude thought frantically. Please stop talking.
"But sewer rats don't have loyalty. No family values. The young ones are stupid. Catch a few, and you can draw out the whole nest."
Every face in the room: red.
Jude's eyes darted around the dining room, cataloging cover positions. His hand brushed the Beretta under his jacket.
When the shooting starts, don't get blood on the suit. Donald will be pissed.
Fortunately, Harvey finished ordering without further commentary. He asked a few standard questions about the wine—vineyard, vintage, tasting notes—all information clearly detailed in the training manual.
High-end restaurants sold stories with their wine. Every bottle had a narrative. The region, the grapes, that year's weather, the winery's history, the unique flavor profile. Dozens of wines, dozens of stories. Testing memory more than palate.
Experienced waiters could recite it all smoothly. Jude had crammed it yesterday.
Under normal circumstances, he'd have relied on his demeanor to cover any gaps in knowledge. But today, with Harvey, he barely had to work. Most of the meal was Harvey using conversation as an opportunity to needle the other staff.
Jude served each course with mounting tension.
Twice, he saw colleagues reach for their waistbands. Twice, other colleagues grabbed their wrists and held them down.
The phone rang.
Harvey's expression shifted. Irritation, then concern. He answered, spoke briefly, stood.
"Something's come up." He pulled out his wallet, left cash on the table—generous tip included. "Excellent service. Give my regards to Mr. Falcone."
He smiled. Walked out.
Jude stood frozen, trying to process what just happened.
He'd gotten his first tip. His first asset points.
The dining room collectively exhaled.
"Jesus," Santos muttered. "If he'd stayed any longer..."
"We'd have started a war," Rick finished.
Castro was still red-faced. "Did he plan that? Come here the day after Maroni's people got arrested?"
"Of course he planned it," Santos said. "Harvey Dent doesn't do anything by accident."
Jude silently agreed. If that timing was coincidence, then Jude was the luckiest unlucky person in Gotham.
The rest of the shift was normal.
Well. Gotham normal.
The supervisor's assessment had been accurate—Jude's appearance and composure covered most rookie mistakes. His looks helped too. Put him in a good suit, give him gold-rimmed glasses, and he could pass for educated, professional, trustworthy.
Hundreds of upper-class customers cycled through. Jude served them alongside his colleagues, learning the rhythm.
Demanding business executives. Hot-tempered society women. Arrogant rich kids. Entitled assholes of every variety.
His colleagues handled them all with practiced ease. Made sense—most of them were part-time waiters and full-time gangsters. Customer service was just another form of negotiation.
Jude contributed too. The angry middle-aged woman who'd been berating Rick? He took over her table. She calmed down immediately, charmed by his polite attention and handsome face.
Maybe he was born for this after all.