The rain had eased, but Gotham still dripped like a wound refusing to close.
Smoke clung low over the river as Jonathan, Isadora, and Scrap huddled in a rotting boathouse, their breaths steaming in the cold night air.
Crane was gone dragged off by the deputies, or worse Abe's betrayal still seared Jonathan's chest, a phantom pain heavier than any bullet.
But there was no time to grieve.
Scrap had muttered something through chattering teeth as they dried themselves by a candle stub. "If they got Crane, they'll go after Boone next. He's got more dirt on The Owe than any ledger. He's a walking gallows."
Jonathan had known it was true Silas Boone's library was more than just rows of dusty tomes it was a living archive of Gotham's sins, histories whispered in ink and parchment, secrets the city's masters had buried but never destroyed.
If The Owe wanted to choke out the truth, they'd burn the past itself.
They ran through back alleys and across the old market square, keeping low as patrols swept the streets. The city was turning against Jonathan fast his face nailed to wooden posts with the word Murderer stamped beneath it, whispers in taverns branding him outlaw.
Even those who once tipped their hats now crossed themselves when he passed.
When they reached Boone's library, the night cracked with orange light. Flames already clawed up the old brick walls, devouring the roof beams. Smoke billowed into the stars, thick and choking.
Jonathan froze, staring at the inferno his worst fear had already come to life.
"No," Isadora whispered, clutching his arm. "Not Silas…"
Scrap darted ahead before Jonathan could stop him, small and fast, weaving through panicked onlookers who stood gawking at the blaze.
A few men threw buckets of water, hopeless against the roaring fire the heat blistered skin at twenty paces.
Jonathan shoved through the crowd, his voice breaking. "Silas!"
He crashed through the half-collapsed doorway, smoke tearing into his lungs.
The library was a cathedral of fire shelves toppled like gravestones, books curling into ash, the air alive with sparks.
Through the smoke, Jonathan saw him.
Silas Boone, hunched at his desk, one hand clutching a leather-bound journal, the other pressed against his chest. Blood soaked through his waistcoat, seeping into the papers around him.
"Silas!" Jonathan dropped to his knees, dragging the old man upright. The heat was unbearable, but Silas's eyes flicked open, cloudy yet sharp with a strange calm.
"Too… late, Jonathan," Boone wheezed, coughing black soot. His lips twisted into something between a smile and a grimace.
"They came before you men in masks took my keys, my copies… left me this." His bloody hand patted his chest wound.
Jonathan's throat clenched "Who?"
Silas's voice rattled. "Blackthorn his voice… like ice he said knowledge is poison. Said the city must forget to survive." His head lolled, but Jonathan shook him hard.
"Stay with me, Silas tell me what they wanted."
Silas's grip tightened suddenly, the journal pressed into Jonathan's hands. "Not everything burns read There are maps… tunnels beneath the city the Court Below they… they…"
His words trailed into a groan his eyes fluttered once, twice, then stilled.
Jonathan stared, breath caught, as fire gnawed closer the library cracked around him, shelves collapsing in bursts of embers.
"Jonathan!" Isadora's voice shrieked from the doorway.
He rose, Silas's body slipping from his arms, the journal clutched to his chest.
He staggered toward the door, nearly blinded by smoke. Scrap grabbed his hand, tugging him through the choking air.
The three of them burst into the night as the library's roof collapsed behind them, sparks raining like fiery snow.
The crowd gasped some crossed themselves others whispered Jonathan's name as if he were a devil conjuring flames. Sheriff's deputies were already moving in from the far side of the street, rifles raised.
"Back alleys!" Scrap barked, tugging Jonathan and Isadora toward a narrow lane they vanished into the maze of brick and shadow, leaving the burning library behind.
They didn't stop until the city quieted, the sound of fire replaced by the drip of rain off gutters in an abandoned chapel, Jonathan laid the journal on a broken altar. His hands shook as he opened it.
Inside were maps, crude but clear, sketching Gotham's underbelly notes scrawled in Boone's hand marked tunnels beneath churches, courthouses, even beneath the sheriff's own station.
Words circled in red ink: The Court Below.
Isadora touched the page reverently. "He died for this."
Scrap leaned against the wall, eyes wide. "Johnny… this is bigger than any ledger this ain't just about bribes ,this is a kingdom under the streets."
Jonathan's jaw set the grief, the fire, the betrayal it all funneled into a single blade of resolve. He traced his finger along the map, stopping at a circle drawn beneath Gotham Square.
"They thought burning the library would silence him," Jonathan said, his voice low, trembling with fury. "But Silas gave us more. Knowledge doesn't burn. It lives here now."
He tapped the journal against his chest. "And I'll carry it into their graves."
Isadora looked at him, eyes wet but steady. "Then we fight with his last gift,for Silas,for Crane for everyone they've taken."
Jonathan closed the journal behind his eyes, fire still roared, and his brother's face still hovered in the smoke Abe had chosen survival Silas had chosen truth and Jonathan , Jonathan would choose war, even if it meant burning Gotham itself.
Outside, the last timbers of the library collapsed in a thunder of ash. The crowd that had once whispered dispersed into the rain, carrying with them a new rumor: Jonathan Wayne had walked from fire with a book that refused to die.
And for The Owe, that meant the war had only just begun.