The city smelled of ash for days.
Even as the rain fell, Gotham reeked of fire and smoke, the ruins of the old courthouse still smoldering in the heart of the Founders' District.
People whispered in taverns, on corners, even in the factories no one dared speak the full truth, but every soul felt it: something ancient had been stirred awake.
Jonathan Wayne had no time for whispers.
His body still ached from the fight, his lungs burned with smoke, but he moved through the crowded marketplace like a man pursued by demons. In truth, he was Elijah Blackthorn's words clung to him: Your blood owes the city.
At his side limped Lionel Crane, bruised and bitter, muttering curses at every pedestrian who bumped his shoulder. Behind them, Scrap kept close, his eyes scanning the alleys like a hunted animal.
The boy hadn't spoken much since the fire.
Jonathan's destination was a tavern wedged between a pawnshop and a butcher's stall.
Its sign was half-rotted, the paint long gone, but inside the air was thick with sweat, beer, and the smell of wet leather. This was where Abraham Calder kept court a man known in equal measure for his influence and his masks.
Abraham was Gotham's fixer. Politicians, smugglers, even constables came to him when they needed a problem solved without drawing blood or when they needed blood drawn without a trace.
His loyalty was not bought with coin, but with secrets, and rumor claimed he had more masks than faces in Gotham.
Jonathan found him at a corner table, sipping gin from a chipped glass. He wore a mask of polished wood carved into a smile, the kind of expression that made it impossible to tell if he was mocking or listening.
His fingers tapped a slow rhythm on the table as if measuring time.
"Wayne," Abraham said, his voice muffled but distinct. "You bring fire wherever you step. Careful you don't burn my floors."
Jonathan sat, pulling Scrap down beside him. "I need answers."
"Of course you do," Abraham said. "But answers are expensive."
"I've paid enough already."
The wooden smile tilted. "Oh, you have. But not to me."
Crane leaned forward, slamming a coin on the table.
"Then name your price, Calder. Unless you'd rather us take it."
Abraham's mask turned slowly toward him.
"I admire your boldness, Crane. But threats are wasted here. You see" He tapped the mask's cheek with one finger. "You don't know if I'm smiling because I find you amusing… or because the knife is already at your throat."
Crane shifted back, muttering under his breath.
Jonathan cut in. "The Owe the fire Blackthorn you know something you've always known tell me what they want."
Abraham tilted his head, then set down his glass.
"What they want, Wayne, is what they've always wanted: to own this city. Not just the money, not just the land the marrow
Gotham is their inheritance, and every soul born here is part of the debt. You, especially."
Jonathan stiffened. "Why me?"
The wooden smile gleamed in the tavern's dim light. "Because the Waynes were there at the founding.
You think your family built hospitals and houses out of charity? No, my friend. They were there when the pact was signed.
Blood for coin. Fire for power. The Waynes took their share like the rest."
The words hit like a hammer. Jonathan wanted to deny it, but the memory of Blackthorn's voice, of Vale's scripture, gnawed at him. "My father wasn't"
"Your father," Abraham interrupted, "was part of a story you've been told to make you feel noble. But the truth is uglier. And you wear it like a mask whether you admit it or not."
Scrap, trembling, burst out: "That's a lie! Jonathan's not like them!"
Abraham turned his mask toward the boy. "Perhaps. Or perhaps he is the mask they built for him."
Jonathan slammed his hand on the table, rattling the glass. "Enough games, Calder. Tell me what's coming."
For a long moment, the tavern's noise filled the space between them laughter, clinking mugs, the low hum of a fiddle. Then Abe leaned closer. His voice dropped to a whisper that seemed to chill the air.
"The Owe are preparing a Trial a silent one they will not declare it, they will not write it down but names are chosen. Blood will spill and when it does, Gotham will change hands again. Blackthorn does not smile because he is strong. He smiles because he knows he cannot lose."
Jonathan's throat tightened. "And my name?"
Abraham leaned back, raising his gin. The wooden smile never wavered. "Already carved."
Scrap gasped crane swore under his breath jonathan sat in silence, his mind spinning.
"You could run," Abraham offered lightly. "There are ships that leave Gotham every week. Take the boy, take your pride, and disappear. Let the city devour itself."
Jonathan's jaw clenched. "No i won't leave it to them."
Abraham studied him for a moment, then chuckled. "Spoken like a true Wayne. You wear their blood, whether you want it or not." He drained the last of his gin and rose, mask catching the lantern light.
"But be careful, Jonathan the city has a way of swallowing men who fight it. And sometimes, the mask you choose is the one that kills you."
He walked away, vanishing into the tavern's smoke.
For a long time, Jonathan sat in silence, listening to the clatter of mugs and the muffled rain outside. Scrap leaned against him, exhausted but unbroken.
Crane nursed his bruises with whiskey.
Finally, Jonathan stood his voice was low, steady. "If they want a trial, they'll have one. But it won't be silent. Not this time."
And though he could not see Abraham in the crowd, Jonathan knew the man was smiling behind his mask.