Martin had heard people in Gotham say it many times but never thought he'd be caught up in Batman's world.
Years of changing identities had sharpened his instincts and discipline. So when the knock came at his door, he didn't panic. He stepped aside and gestured politely. "Please, come in, Chief Gordon."
James Gordon, the commissioner of the Gotham City Police Department. A good man, a good cop, and a familiar face in the city's media. Turn on the TV, open a newspaper, browse the internet—if Batman wasn't the first face you saw, Gordon was the second.
It was impossible for Martin not to know him. He invited Gordon to sit and poured him a cup of hot tea. As he slid the teacup across the table, he noted the commissioner's relaxed demeanor. That meant something.
Gordon was no stranger to Gotham's blood-soaked streets. He didn't let his guard down easily, especially around strangers. If he was comfortable, it meant Martin's current identity had earned his trust.
Best to roll with it.
"Jim, what brings you here today?" Martin asked casually.
Gordon barely reacted to the familiarity. Instead, he took off his glasses, rubbed his tired eyes, and sighed. "Another big case. Richard Daniel—Falcone's nephew—was assassinated."
"So, what does this have to do with Batman?"
Martin had woken up that morning still in Gotham. That meant he was stuck here for a while. Annoying, yes, but not frightening. Adventure was part of his life, and he never backed down from the unknown.
Gordon ignored the question and instead said, "Still upset about that detective competition in the media?"
Martin raised an eyebrow. He grabbed a nearby tablet and quickly found the article. The media had pitted him against Batman in a public poll, complete with photos and ridiculous essays. Their votes were nearly tied.
"What a waste of time," Martin muttered, shaking his head. "But these articles blowing up my identity? That's a problem. If any of those lunatics targeting Batman shift their focus to me, I'm in trouble."
Gordon nodded. "True. But for Gotham's 'great detective,' that should be nothing."
Martin shot him a look. "Jim, just because we get along doesn't mean you can talk me into working for free."
Their relationship was one of mutual benefit. They helped each other solve cases, like a twisted Gotham version of Conan and Kogoro. The difference? Martin wasn't a kid, and Gordon wasn't an incompetent drunk.
"When did I say anything about free?" Gordon smirked and held up five fingers. "Five hundred thousand dollars for your help. Solve the case, and you get another five hundred."
Martin immediately realized where the money was coming from—the Wayne family. Gotham's police budget was a joke, and Gordon's salary barely covered his bills. But Martin didn't point it out.
"One million dollars. Hard to say no to that."
Exploring his detective identity while making serious cash? That was a deal worth considering. Still, anything involving Batman was bound to bring trouble, especially in Gotham.
"What's the issue?" Martin asked, leaning forward.
"Blackgate Prison was breached. Someone let all the criminals out. Batman's been working nonstop, rounding them up. He's running on fumes."
Gordon slid a stack of files across the table. "These are the escapees."
Martin flipped through the pages. The worst offenders were still in Arkham, but Blackgate's escapees weren't just nobodies. Sure, there were third-rate villains like Kite Man and Slipknot, but the real problem? The underworld.
Falcone's men. Black Mask's crew. The Penguin's top lieutenants.
"They're using exhaustion tactics," Martin said. "Drain Batman's strength, then strike when he's vulnerable."
It was a simple but effective strategy. Batman had spent years breaking Gotham's gangs, using fear as a weapon. Now, that work was unraveling.
"Any leads on who's behind it?"
"My officers are stretched thin, dealing with gang violence," Gordon said. "But Batman has some leads. If you're interested, you can take the case—I'll even throw in a personal bonus."
Martin shook his head. "I don't have Batman's skill set, and he doesn't need me stepping on his toes."
"Besides," he added with a smirk, "I doubt he'd appreciate the help."
Gordon sighed but didn't argue. He gathered the files, but Martin reached out and plucked one from the stack. It was marked with a large question mark.
"The Riddler?" Gordon asked. "That guy's a pain."
Martin grinned. "Exactly. He annoys me. Might as well start with him."
He stood, grabbed a Glock and a few magazines from a drawer by the door, and slipped them into his coat. As he did, his eyes landed on a small bag of stolen jewelry—spoils from a botched robbery he'd stopped the night before. He tossed it to Gordon.
"Here. Got this off some lowlifes. No way to fence it without trouble, so I'll let you deal with it."
Gordon caught the bag and nodded. "I'll make sure it's returned to the owners."
"Keep your pension," Martin smirked. "Spend it on Barbara."
Gordon took the jewelry but ignored the gun. Gotham wasn't like other cities—here, guns weren't just weapons. They were survival tools.
Crime was constant. The psychos were unpredictable. And you never knew when someone might lose their mind.
In Gotham, you carried a gun, or you were a victim.