Rain had not stopped for three days.
It sluiced down the soot-stained walls of Gotham, turning alleys into streams and cobblestones into glass.
Jonathan Wayne moved through the storm with the grim silence of a man who knew death stalked him. Every step, every shadow, carried the weight of betrayal.
Scrap had given him the ledger; Isadora clutched it now, hidden beneath her cloak as they wove through the abandoned canal paths.
The city was narrowing around them. Deputies at every corner, whispers in every tavern, and the faint scrape of masked figures just beyond the lanternlight.
Jonathan led them into a warehouse at the edge of the docklands. It smelled of mildew and fish oil, but it was shelter.
A lantern hissed to life under his flint, throwing pale circles across crates stacked to the rafters.
Scrap collapsed against a barrel, his chest heaving. "We can't keep running like rats, Johnny. They'll sniff us out. The Owe, the sheriff, even the bloody priests they all want our blood."
Jonathan knelt to check the ledger again, flipping through names that read like scripture of corruption: aldermen, judges, merchants each inked line a nail in Gotham's coffin. "With this, we can tear their veil. We only need a moment a platform."
"A platform?" Isadora snapped, her voice ragged from lack of sleep. "Jonathan, they've painted you a murderer your name's mud in the streets who will listen to you now?"
Jonathan looked at her, eyes hollow. "Then we make them listen."
The words hung heavy no one spoke until a faint scrape of boots echoed from the warehouse's rear door. Jonathan's revolver was in his hand instantly, eyes narrowing into the dark.
"Johnny," a voice called, soft, hesitant. "It's me."
Abe stepped into the lantern glow, water dripping from his hair, his coat dark as the storm outside. His face was drawn, haunted, but his eyes those were alive, glinting with something Jonathan could not place.
Isadora's gasp filled the silence. "Abe…"
Jonathan lowered the revolver a fraction, though suspicion kept his finger tight on the trigger. "What are you doing here?"
Abe spread his hands. "Looking for my brother. The city says you've turned outlaw, that you killed a magistrate. But I know you, Johnny. I know that's not you."
Scrap bristled, his hand tightening around a knife pilfered from the crates. "You trust him?"
Jonathan ignored the boy. His gaze stayed fixed on Abe. "If you know me, then you know I'd never"
A sudden crash cut him off the warehouse doors burst inward, lanterns flaring in the rain. Deputies poured through, rifles raised, boots pounding.
Sheriff Doolin's voice boomed: "By order of Gotham's law, Jonathan Wayne, you are under arrest!"
Jonathan's heart clenched he spun to Abe. His brother's hands were still raised but now he saw the faint outline of wet mud on Abe's boots, the quick glance toward the deputies as if confirming their arrival.
Betrayal.
Jonathan's revolver lifted again, this time pointed squarely at his own blood. "You led them here."
Abe's jaw tightened. His eyes, once soft with shame, hardened like stone. "I gave you a chance, Johnny you chose war i choose survival."
The deputies advanced, rifles cracking jonathan dove behind a crate, Isadora dragging Scrap down with her. Splinters flew, the smell of gunpowder choking the air.
"Go!" Jonathan roared, firing back. A deputy fell, clutching his throat.
Isadora clutched the ledger, shielding Scrap with her body as bullets ripped through the wood around them. The boy screamed, more from fury than fear.
Crane's voice thundered suddenly from the rafters. "Over here, you bastards!" He had slipped in through the skylight, his rifle barking fire. Deputies fell, chaos breaking their line.
Jonathan surged forward, shooting until his revolver clicked empty. He grabbed Isadora, shoving her toward a side door.
"Run!"
But as they fled, a shot rang out sharp and true. Crane staggered, clutching his shoulder, blood soaking his sleeve.
"Crane!" Jonathan shouted, but his friend waved him off with a grimace.
"Don't stop! Get them clear!" Crane's rifle cracked again, buying seconds that cost him blood.
Jonathan's rage boiled over.
He turned on Abe, who stood near the deputies, face a mask of conflict yet unmoved. For a moment, Jonathan saw the boy he had grown up with the brother who had once laughed with him in the fields, who had promised never to leave his side.
But that boy was gone. In his place stood a man who had chosen mask over blood.
Jonathan's throat was raw as he shouted across the storm of bullets: "You've spilled your first blood, Abe. Don't think I'll forget it."
Abe's reply was a whisper swallowed by the chaos: "You never understood."
Jonathan dragged Isadora and Scrap through the side door, rain slashing their faces as they vanished into the night. Behind them, Crane's rifle fire echoed, then dimmed.
Deputies swarmed the warehouse, their shouts fading into the storm.
By the time Jonathan reached the riverbank, the betrayal had settled into his bones like ice. He stared at the black water rushing past, his fists trembling.
"First blood," he muttered. Not the city's. Not The Owe's. But his brother's.
The war for Gotham had claimed its first Wayne. And the wound would not heal.