John Ringer sat in the backseat of the taxi, watching rain slide down the window. Morning traffic was crawling, and Goat Home City looked as tired as he felt.

  The driver, Mohammed, was his usual ride. A deal they'd made years ago still stood—Ringer had helped him out on a case, and in return, Mohammed drove him wherever he needed, no questions asked.

  "Rain's slowing everything down," Mohammed said, adjusting the wipers.

  Ringer didn't respond. He stared out the window and spotted a man on the sidewalk trying to hail a cab. Drenched, well-dressed. No one stopped.

  "Pull over," Ringer said.

  Mohammed looked in the mirror. "What for?"

  "Let him in. He's getting soaked."

  Mohammed sighed but pulled to the curb. Ringer rolled down the window. "Need a ride?"

  The man stepped closer, nodding. "Yes. Thanks. Been out here a while."

  He climbed in beside Ringer, dripping water onto the floor mat. "Appreciate it."

  "This city doesn't treat people too kindly," Ringer said.

  "Yeah," the man replied. "Name's Bruce. Bruce Wayne."

  Ringer shook his hand. "John Ringer. I run a small private eye business."

  Mohammed cut in. "Where to, Mr. Wayne?"

  "Jack's Garden Supply And Groceries. Just a couple blocks up."

  "I'll drop you off first, then Ringer," Mohammed muttered.

  Ringer nodded. "Works for me." He reached into his coat and handed Bruce a business card. "If you ever need help, that's me."

  Ultimate Bruce Wayne read it. "Ringer & Bell Detective Agency. Got it." He tucked it into his coat pocket. "Thanks."

  The cab stopped again. "Here's your stop," Mohammed said.

  Bruce opened the door, then turned back. "Thanks again, John."

  "Anytime," Ringer said.

  Bruce stepped out into the rain and disappeared into the crowd.

  The cab pulled back into traffic, and Ringer leaned his head against the window.

  John Ringer stepped through the front door of the brownstone and gave his coat a quick shake before hanging it on the brass hook by the door. The office smelled faintly of old paper, weak coffee, and floor polish—same as always. Outside, the neighborhood was just starting to stir. Low-end, working-css block. Too early for trouble. Or so he thought.

  He gnced toward the front desk. Empty. Mary Bell's chair was pulled back like she'd just stepped away, but the crystal ashtray on the reception desk was nestling one half-smoked cigarette with its familiar red lipstick staining the butt. Mary Bell was a lot of things—talkative, impulsive, shamelessly bisexual—all contained in a six-inch-to-five-foot, barely dressed bombshell of a fairy.

  "Mary?" he called. Nothing could be heard but the hum of the radiator and the patter of rain against the window gss. Then he heard it—a soft moan, low and breathy. It came from his office in the back. Female. Not hurt. Not exactly.

  John moved down the hall, slow and quiet. He nudged the door open with the side of his shoe. The lights were off, but enough morning haze came through the blinds to paint the room in gray stripes.

  On the old loveseat beneath the window, Mary Bell was curled up with another woman—both of them five feet tall, half-dressed, tangled together like ivy and wire. Wings shimmered faintly in the dim light. Maybelle's blonde hair spilled over her shoulder. The other woman had darker curls and a face that looked like it had unched a thousand bedtime stories.

  John cleared his throat. His partner looked up from sucking on the other woman's breast, acting like this was a normal thing to be happening in his office at eight o'clock in the morning. "Oh. Hey, John. Morning."

  "Morning," he said. "Mary. What exactly are you doing?" She snorted. "What do you think I'm doing? You're thirty, not twelve. I'm pretty sure you know what sex looks like."

  "Yeah, I know what it looks like. I just didn't expect to find it happening on my loveseat. With you and her. In my office." The sexy fairy grinned and kissed the other woman's lips. "She's always been so adorable and you humans do call this a loveseat. This is Tinker Bell."

  Tinker Bell gave him a small wave from where she was still nestled in Mary's arms. Half-naked. Looking comfortable. "Wait," John said. "You're making out with the Tinker Bell of film and screen?"

  "Well, yeah," Mary said. "I'm sure I mentioned to you in the past she's my cousin." John blinked. "So you're making out with your cousin?"

  The ferry rolled her green eyes. "You humans and your ancient rules. We're fairies. It's not like I can get her pregnant. Well, technically I could, but I would need a certain love potion to make it happen. I don't think she would really want to do that because, you know, being an actress, having a baby would really, at this time, ruin her career. Right, Tink?"

  John leaned a hand on the doorframe. "Still. My loveseat, Mary." "I didn't expect you in this early," she said, finally sitting up and adjusting her blouse with her usual nonchance. "But she's here to hire us for a job."

  Tinker Bell sat up, her back against the arm of the loveseat, her bare feet in her cousin's p. "She's correct, Mr. Ringer. I want to hire Ringer & Bell Detective Agency." John raised an eyebrow. "I'm listening."

  Tinker Bell nodded. "We need you to find someone." John noticed she used the word "we," not "I," when she said it. "Who?" he asked.

  Mary answered. "Peter Pan." John stared at the two fairies for a long beat. "You mean Peter Pan Peter Pan?"

  Tinker Bell sighed. "Yeah. Mr. Fly guy himself. Me, him, and Wendy are in a thing. You humans call it a 'throuple.' We all agreed—if he got Wendy or me pregnant, we would all raise the child together. Guess what?"

  "He ran," John said. Tinker Bell nodded. "Deadbeat disappeared. And we want him found."

  Rain dripped from the edge of the awning as Ultimate Bruce Wayne stepped inside Jack's Garden Supply And Groceries. The scent of soil and fruit greeted him. Shelves brimmed with enchanted produce—fire peaches, snow grapes, and the reason he came: magic beans.

  According to his Batcomputer, these beans could grow without sunlight or water. A single pod could feed a family for weeks. Bruce saw a future where Wayne agriculture using the beans to end famine back in his home universe.

  He moved down the aisle when he spotted them. A mother pulling a cart. A toddler sat in the seat, chewing a cloth strap. Behind her trailed a boy, about ten. Serious eyes. Bnk expression.

  Bruce didn't pay them much attention—until he caught movement in the corner of his eye.

  The boy looked around. Made sure no one was watching. Then pinched his sister's leg.

  She screamed. The mother turned. "What's wrong, Kara?"

  The boy stared at the ceiling, looking Innocent.

  Bruce watched. His instincts buzzed. He picked up a bag of beans but kept his eyes on the family.

  Aisle by aisle, he followed—pretending to still be shopping—quiet, casual.

  Then it happened again.

  The boy gnced over his shoulder, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a safety pin. He jabbed it into his sister's thigh just below her dress line.

  She howled. The mother sighed. "Kara, you're always crying. What is wrong with you?"

  The boy stayed quiet. Staring ahead.

  Bruce tightened his grip on his shopping basket handles. Something wasn't right.

  Near the cold section, the mother bent to grab eggs. The boy pushed the cart—aiming the toddler straight toward a metal corner.

  Bruce moved fast. He caught the cart before impact.

  "Careful," Bruce said calmly. "This thing almost rolled into the corner."

  The mother turned, startled. "Oh! Thank you, sir. I didn't see…"

  "Not a problem," Bruce said. He gnced at the boy. The boy's eyes were empty, watching.

  Bruce nodded to the woman. "I'm Bruce. I don't mean to intrude, but… your son doesn't seem to like his sister much."

  She brushed it off with a tired smile. "They're just siblings. Children will be children."

  Bruce said nothing. He'd seen that look of denial many times in his past. So he just nodded and walked away.

  At checkout, Jack stood behind the register. Gray-bearded, bright-eyed, wearing an apron covered in glowing runes and magical symbols.

  "Enjoy the beans," Jack said. "First bag's on the house if it's your first time."

  Bruce smiled. "Thanks. Looking forward to growing them."

  The family lined up behind him. Jack's eyes narrowed when he saw the boy.

  "Helping Mom today?" Jack asked.

  The boy nodded. "Yeah."

  Jack grabbed a jar. "Want some lollipops?"

  The mother smiled. "Sure, thank you."

  Jack handed the boy two suckers. "One for you. One for your sister. What's your name?"

  "Dahmer," the boy said.

  Jack nodded. "Well, Dahmer… make sure she gets one."

  The boy didn't answer. He slipped both into his pocket.

  They walked out. The cart wheels squeaked into the rain.

  Jack stood behind the counter, eyes still on the door as it swung closed behind them. The boy didn't look back. The mother pulled the cart into the rain, the sister rubbing her leg.

  He'd seen it too many times.

  The signs. The faces.

  The weeds.

  He used to speak up.

  The first time was a boy named Collin. Seven years old. Quiet. Smart. Too smart. Jack saw him at the community garden, breaking a rabbit's leg with a stick just because. Smiling while it screamed Jack told his mother. Told her he could feel it—that something was *wrong* with that boy.

  She said, *"He's just curious. Kids do things."* She ughed it off like it was nothing.

  Two years ter, Collin set fire to his neighbor's shed. A teenage girl was asleep inside. She didn't make it.

  Jack went to the funeral. Watched the mother of Collin cry, and wondered how much of that grief was gilt. It wasn't just kids.

  There was an elf once. Politician. Name was Ross Sturdy Branch. Slick smile, nice suit. Used to stop by the family store for "local PR." Shook hands, kissed babies, donated to schools. But Jack felt it—the coldness under the charm. The hunger.

  He warned a city councilman. Told him, *"That man doesn't care about people. He's going to hurt someone."*

  The councilman chuckled and said, *"Jack, he's not a monster. He's just ambitious."*

  Three months ter, Sturdy Branch was exposed for running a private clinic where he trafficked homeless patients for experimental drugs and magic. Paid off hospitals. Buried wsuits. Got rich while people died.

  Jack remembered standing outside that building, gripping sign in hand, thinking: *I told them.*

  That was the day he stopped warning.

  Because nobody wanted to hear it.

  Not the parents. Not the police. Not the teachers or the press.

  They called him paranoid. A crackpot.

  But he wasn't guessing. He could see it. **Feel it.**

  There was a *rot* in some people—not a wound to be healed, but a root that spread deeper with age. They didn't change. They just learned to smile better.

  So Jack changed instead.

  No more warnings. No more waiting. Just the lollipops that were specially created to handle problems like little Dahmer.

  Now, when he saw the weeds, he pulled them.