“Thirty years old.” Mrs. Gotham’s voice sliced through the air as she tapped her fork against the rim of her glass. Her eyes locked on Ray, cold and unflinching. “And tell me, what exactly have you accomplished, Ray?”Silence answered her.The Gotham dining hall gleamed with polished silver, tall candles burning steadily despite the evening breeze that slipped in through the open balcony doors.Crystal glasses sparkled under the chandelier, the table lined with delicacies brought in from three different continents. It should have been a night of celebration, Ray Anderson’s thirtieth birthday.But for Ray, it was another night of quiet humiliation.Maria, Ray’s wife, shifted uneasily beside him, her gaze flickering between her mother and her husband. “Mother, please”“Please, what?” Mrs. Gotham leaned forward, her diamond necklace catching the light. “Please let me continue feeding this deadweight at my table? Please let me watch my daughter’s life waste away while her husband plays ho

The crash of shattered glass still echoed as the masked figure lunged across the dining hall, moving with the speed of a predator. His target was clear, the box clutched in Ray’s hand.“Ray!” Maria screamed, scrambling back from the table.Ray twisted, instinct more than skill pulling him out of the attacker’s direct path. The intruder’s gloved hand grazed the box, but Ray jerked it close to his chest, stumbling against a chair.“Guards!” Mrs. Gotham shrieked. “Where are the guards?”But no footsteps came. The household staff had fled in terror. The intruder’s blade flashed, a short, curved dagger glinting under the chandelier. He slashed, narrowly missing Ray’s arm as Ray threw himself sideways.The Gotham relatives cowered beneath the table, whispering frantic prayers. The air was thick with fear, the only sounds the intruder’s steady breath and the pounding of Ray’s heart.“Give me the box!” the masked man growled, his voice rough, distorted.Ray’s grip tightened. “Over my dead bod

The Gotham mansion loomed behind him like a gilded cage, its windows blazing with candlelight against the night sky. Ray didn’t look back. He couldn’t.His footsteps echoed down the long driveway, each step pressing deeper into the wet gravel, as though the earth itself wanted to hold him back.In his pocket, the ring pulsed with faint warmth, and though he told himself it was only his imagination, some part of him felt it was alive, watching, waiting.The city stretched before him: shadows, alleys, the smell of smoke and damp stone. The night was restless, full of murmurs. Somewhere in the distance, a bell tolled, each chime folding into the silence like a warning. Ray drew his coat tighter.Don’t trust those closest to you. His mother’s words refused to leave him. He thought of Maria’s tear-streaked face, her trembling voice pleading for him to stop.Could he trust her? Or was she just another thread woven into Mrs. Gotham’s web? The thought cut deep. He shook his head, forcing it a

The lamp flickered, throwing shadows across the cramped backroom. The smell of dust and smoke pressed against Ray’s lungs as he stayed frozen between the shelves, the journal clutched against his chest.Frederick’s polished shoes clicked across the floorboards, deliberate, unhurried.“I can smell you, boy,” Frederick said smoothly. His voice carried the weight of authority, as though the ruined Gotham dining hall were nothing compared to the control he held here. “You think you can play shadow in my city? Step forward.”The old man’s voice cracked. “Leave him be, Frederick. He doesn’t know”Steel hissed. A flash of silver glinted under the lamp. Frederick pressed the tip of his blade against the old man’s throat.“Don’t lie to me. He has the journal, doesn’t he?”Ray’s knuckles whitened on the spine of the book. His heart hammered in his chest. The old man swallowed. “You won’t touch him.”Frederick’s laugh was cold, elegant. “You forget who you’re speaking to. I don’t need to touch h

The Gotham mansion slept under a shroud of silence, its grand halls dark, save for the soft glow of candelabras lining the marble staircase.Maria sat rigid in her dressing gown, untouched wine trembling in her hand. Her reflection in the mirror across the room was pale, haunted, every bit the woman torn between two worlds.The knock at her chamber door was soft, deliberate. Her heart lurched. She set the glass down, gathering her robe tighter. “Come in.”The door opened, and Frederick stepped inside. His presence swallowed the room, his dark coat glistening faintly with the night’s damp. He moved with unhurried precision, closing the door behind him.“Uncle,” Maria breathed, though her voice was strained. “It’s late.”Frederick’s smile was razor-thin. “Late for some, early for others. I bring you tidings, my dear.”Her eyes narrowed. “What kind of tidings?”He paced across the carpet, fingertips brushing the spines of her books as though he owned them. “A death. And a theft. Both, I