Jonathan had seen killers before.
Men who slit throats for coin, men who robbed widows, men who wore the badge of law but held daggers behind their backs but Elijah Blackthorn was something else entirely.
It wasn't the way he dressed, though the black frock coat and silver-tipped cane gave him the air of nobility. It wasn't even his cold, unblinking eyes, pale as winter stone.
No it was the smile soft curve of the lips, polite as a gentleman's, but carrying the weight of someone who knew the city itself bent beneath his will.
Jonathan first encountered it in the mayor's mansion, where an evening gala drowned Gotham in wine and perfume.
Marcellus Graye had thrown the feast to celebrate a new trade agreement, inviting every figure of importance in the city.
Jonathan, begrudgingly, attended at the urging of Isadora, who insisted they must see Gotham's power with their own eyes.
The ballroom was a cathedral of excess: chandeliers dripping with light, polished marble floors gleaming like mirrors, and laughter that could not quite hide the stink of fear beneath it.
Jonathan kept to the shadows, a whiskey glass in hand, when a hush swept through the room.
Blackthorn had arrived.
He moved through the crowd like a dark tide, people parting for him with nervous smiles. Every handshake was stiff, every laugh forced.
Even Mayor Graye, towering and self-assured, lowered his gaze when Blackthorn clapped a hand on his shoulder.
Jonathan felt it before it happened Blackthorn's gaze finding him across the room. That smile curved, slow and deliberate, and for an instant Jonathan felt naked, as if the man could see the chalk-marked wall in the factory, the stolen glimpses of ritual fire, every secret thought burning in his skull.
"Jonathan Wayne," Blackthorn said as he approached, his voice smooth as polished steel. "The man who does not yet know when to bow."
The crowd chuckled uneasily. Jonathan set down his glass, refusing to be cowed. "And you must be the man who expects me to."
For a heartbeat, silence. Then Blackthorn smiled again wider this time, revealing nothing, promising everything. "A bold tongue. Dangerous, in this city. Still, I admire boldness it shows… potential."
Isadora tightened her grip on Jonathan's arm. He could feel her warning through her touch.
Blackthorn leaned closer, lowering his voice so only Jonathan could hear. "Do not mistake Gotham for a place of chance, Officer Wayne. Every street, every coin, every shadow is accounted for. And so are you."
Jonathan stiffened, but Blackthorn straightened, patting his shoulder like an old friend. "Enjoy the evening," he said warmly. "It may be your last in peace."
The crowd erupted back into chatter as Blackthorn drifted away, his smile lingering in Jonathan's mind like a brand.
Later, in the quiet of their carriage ride home, Isadora finally spoke. "He knows, Jonathan. He knows you've been digging where you shouldn't."
Jonathan's jaw clenched. He stared at the city lights bleeding through the fog outside. "Good. Let him know. I want him to know I'm not afraid."
But in the hollow of his chest, where courage met doubt, Jonathan could still feel the weight of that smile. It was not a threat. It was a promise.