The courthouse bell tolled midnight, each peal rolling across the drenched rooftops of Gotham.
Jonathan Wayne sat alone in the small loft above Crane's office, the city's storm-lit skyline framed in the cracked window. His hand still throbbed from Nina's blade.
The wound burned more than it should have, a reminder that every encounter with the Blackthorns cut deeper than flesh.
Below him, the city was turning.
Whispers had thickened into murmurs, and murmurs into accusations. The streets carried talk of Jonathan Wayne , Wayne the drunkard, Wayne the obsessed, Wayne the murderer.
The door beneath creaked.
Crane climbed the stairs, water dripping from his hat brim. His uniform was still damp with the rain, his revolver holstered at his side. His face looked older than the day before, lined with exhaustion.
"They've moved fast," Crane said without preamble. "Doolin called for a special inquest. They pinned the alderman's murder on you."
Jonathan rose, his shadow stretching across the warped floorboards. "Which alderman?"
"Foster. One of the last who wouldn't bend to Blackthorn. They found him in the garden behind the glassworks shot twice in the chest. Witnesses say they saw you leaving the scene."
Jonathan's fists clenched. "That's impossible. I was nowhere near"
"Doesn't matter," Crane cut in, his voice low and taut. "They've got the narrative. The papers'll run it by dawn: 'Jonathan Wayne, drunk and bitter, murders city official after feud.' Sheriff Doolin gave the order your face goes up on every wall by morning."
Jonathan paced the room, rain hammering against the glass.
"Doolin's Blackthorn's dog. This isn't justice. It's slaughter dressed in law."
Crane's jaw tightened. "I know that's why you need to move. Now."
From the shadows by the stairwell, another voice stirred. Isadora, wrapped in her cloak, stepped forward. Her eyes were rimmed with sleeplessness, but her stance was steady.
"Jonathan, they'll drag you through the streets in chains. You'll never get a trial. This is their way of finishing you without lifting a knife."
Jonathan met her gaze, torn between fury and weariness. "If I run, I prove them right. A Wayne who kills in darkness and hides in gutters."
"You don't run," Crane said, lowering his voice to a whisper. "You survive. There's a difference."
A knock thundered from below three heavy blows Jonathan's hand went to his revolver Crane cursed under his breath "They're early."
The loft went silent outside, boots sloshed through puddles, and the rattle of lanterns cut through the rain. Jonathan pulled the curtain back just enough to glimpse the street.
Dozens of deputies, rifles at the ready, spreading out across the block. Sheriff Doolin himself stood at their head, his broad frame unmistakable, his oilskin coat gleaming under the storm. His face was grim, but his eyes glimmered with satisfaction.
"They've come to collect me," Jonathan muttered.
"No," Crane snapped. "They've come to kill you."
The loft door shook as the deputies forced the lower office door open. Crane shoved Jonathan toward the back window. "Go. Now. I'll stall them."
Jonathan grabbed his arm "Crane" but Crane's face left no room for argument. "If you die here, it's over take the alleys head south. I'll meet you at the railyard if I can shake them."
Isadora was already moving, lifting the latch of the window. "Jonathan, please."
The office door splintered below men's voices shouted up the stairwell, rifles cocking. Crane drew his own pistol, leveling it toward the stairs. "Move!"
Jonathan forced himself through the window, the rain drenching him as he dropped into the alley. Isadora followed, her cloak flaring like wings as her boots hit the wet cobbles.
Shouts erupted above "Wayne! Jonathan Wayne!" followed by the thunder of gunfire. Crane's revolver barked in return.
Jonathan clenched his jaw but didn't stop, pulling Isadora down the alley. Bullets sparked against brick as deputies fired from the windows.
They ran blind through the storm, twisting through backstreets Jonathan knew better than the lines on his own palm. He led her through narrow passages, past shuttered taverns and shuttered doors, until the voices behind grew faint. Only the storm chased them now.
They collapsed beneath an overhang, lungs burning. Isadora gripped his arm, her eyes fierce despite her soaked hair clinging to her face. "They'll brand you a murderer. The whole city will believe it."
Jonathan's breath came ragged, but his voice was steady. "Then the city will learn how lies are forged."
He checked the revolver at his side three bullets left. Not enough. Never enough. His hand throbbed again, the cut from Nina's blade stinging as if her words were etched into his flesh.
Isadora touched his bleeding palm, her voice breaking just slightly. "You can't fight them alone anymore. They'll paint you as a monster until even Abe believes it."
At the sound of his brother's name, Jonathan's chest tightened. He thought of Nina's whisper: Your brother already wears the mask.
From somewhere in the distance, another bell tolled the alarm of the courthouse, ringing across Gotham. It carried with it the declaration that Jonathan Wayne was no longer a man, but a fugitive.
And every shadow of the city would now be hunting him.