Alice forced her smile to stay in pce as she watched Jervis lift another forkful of scrambled eggs toward Tammy's lips. The young girl smiled and parted her mouth obediently, her hand briefly touching his wrist as she accepted the bite. They sat on either side of him at the long mahogany table—Jervis at the head in his burgundy bathrobe and leather slippers, completely at ease in his position of control, while she and Tammy were nude as he preferred them.
Alice kept her posture straight, maintaining the facade of contentment even as her stomach churned. She could see everything—every lingering gnce between them, every casual touch, every moment that reminded her that Tammy was getting more than her fair share of attention.
Tammy had spent the night. Again. It wasn't supposed to be a regur thing, but Jervis had insisted, and Alice had kept her mouth shut like she always did. Now Tammy was glowing with that post-intimate satisfaction, pying the role of the affectionate lover to both of them, touching Jervis's arm when she ughed, sending Alice those knowing smiles across the table.
"You're so good to me," Tammy purred to Jervis, accepting another bite from his pte. She was younger, softer, more innocent than Alice had ever been. And Jervis was eating it up, literally feeding her while Alice sat with her own untouched breakfast, watching the dispy.
*When was the st time he fed me like that? When was the st time he looked at me like that?* Alice thought, forcing her smile to stay fixed. He used to do those things when she was Tammy's age. Now she was twenty and Tammy was just a teenager. The bitch was getting everything Alice used to get.
"The quarterly meeting is tonight," Jervis said, finally turning his attention to Alice. "Thursday, seven o'clock, like always. You want to come this time?"
"Sure, why not," Alice replied smoothly, her voice betraying none of the jealousy running through her mind.
Tammy leaned closer to Jervis, whispering something that made him chuckle. Another forkful went to her lips, another intimate moment that excluded Alice entirely. The younger woman was working overtime to maintain her position, flirting with both of them but clearly focusing her energy where it would do the most good.
And Jervis... Jervis didn't care about Alice's feelings at all, as long as she didn't interfere with what he wanted. As long as she kept smiling and pying along with his arrangements.
*It's time,* Alice thought. *Time to get rid of the little slut.* She didn't mind sharing Jervis's bed, but she'd be damned if she'd let some young bimbo push her out.
"I'll be back in a minute," Alice said, rising from her chair.
"Okay," Jervis replied absently, already turning back to Tammy, already reaching for his pte to get her another bite.
Alice walked calmly to the bathroom, cell phone in hand, closing the door behind her before calling a familiar number.
"It's me," she said when Waylon's familiar voice answered.
"Good morning, Alice."
"It's time."
She ended the call and looked at herself in the mirror. Same composed expression, same perfect smile. When she returned to the breakfast table, nothing about her would seem different.
But everything was about to change.
---
The fire escape dder felt familiar under Carrie's hands now—two days of climbing up to this rooftop perch had become her workout routine. She crouched behind the abandoned office building's concrete ledge, telephoto lens trained on the brick building across the street, surrounded by the debris of a long surveilnce session: empty energy drink cans, protein bar wrappers. She took a swallow from her current can of liquid future cancer.
Hatter's Productions. The name still made her stomach clench every time she thought about it.
She'd only discovered this pce two days ago, following that scrap of paper she'd found in the destroyed Blockbuster. Yesterday had been reconnaissance—mapping the security setup, timing the guard rotations, figuring out which windows gave her the clearest view. Today was documentation.
*Crack.* She reached for another energy drink from the six-pack beside her camera bag, her fourth since returning this afternoon. The sugar rush hit her bloodstream like a freight train, sharpening the edges of everything until the world felt too bright, too real. But she needed the focus. Needed to stay alert for what she was witnessing.
Through the telephoto lens, she tracked another one of the fake vagrants as he shuffled past the building's entrance. Dirty clothes, matted hair, shopping cart full of garbage—perfect disguise for a professional security team. She'd learned their patterns yesterday: six-hour shifts, overpping patrols, radio check-ins every thirty minutes. Military precision hidden beneath Gotham's ignored faces.
But that wasn't what kept her coming back to this rooftop for the past several days.
*Click.* The camera captured movement on the third floor—a girl, maybe ten, pressing her face against the gss like she was trying to remember what freedom looked like. Behind her, Carrie could make out what looked like a common area: other girls scattered around bunk beds, some watching an old television mounted on the wall, others pying what looked like board games.
It looked almost normal. Like a group home or boarding school. But Carrie knew better.
On the fourth floor, through a window with curtains pulled back just enough, she could see the truth. Movement at the edge of her view—someone adjusting what looked like a boom microphone, the distinctive shape of a camera on a tripod. They were filming. Right now. In what appeared to be a cssroom with rows of desks and a chalkboard.
Her finger pressed the shutter release again, documenting the sick theater pying out across the street. Through different windows on that floor, she'd cataloged other sets: an upper-css living room with an expensive leather couch, what looked like a church sanctuary with wooden pews. All of it designed to create specific scenarios for whatever taboo fantasies Hatter's Productions was producing.
She'd told her anonymous client about this two days ago, described the whole operation in detail. His response? "Interesting, but that's not what I'm paying you for. Focus on the person disrupting Gotham's underbelly."
The tone was dismissive—not subtle. Carrie caught it. Her client didn't sound concerned at all. He was only interested in the disruption the mysterious, shadowy figure posed. And here she was, supposed to be tracking him down.
*Click.* Another photo of the girl at the third-floor window. She turned around, looking like she was talking to someone in the room that Carrie couldn't see. She could see her pulling at her clothing like she was starting to undress as she walked deeper into the room, away from the window.
The energy drink can crumpled in her grip. Two days of watching this, coming back each morning and staying until dark, and for what? So she could help some criminal protect his profits? So she could hunt down the one person making these bastards look over their shoulders?
She should be out there following leads on the bat creature. Should be checking hospitals for his victims, interviewing witnesses, doing the job she was being paid for. But every time she tried to leave this rooftop, she saw those faces behind the gss and her feet wouldn't move.
Problem was, even if she wanted to do something about it, who would she call? Half the cops in this city were on someone's payroll. The other half were too scared or too tired to stick their necks out. The DA's office would bury this so deep it'd take an archaeological dig to find it.
This was Gotham. The rot went all the way down to the roots.
Carrie pulled out her phone and scrolled to Tim's number. Her thumb hovered over the call button for a moment before she pressed it.
"Tim Drake."
"Hey, honey." Her voice came out rougher than she intended—too much caffeine, not enough sleep. "You between csses?"
"Just finished grading quizzes. How's the surveilnce going?"
She watched one of the fake vagrants check his watch and start another patrol loop around the building. "It's going. That's about all I can say for it."
"You sound tired. When's the st time you actually slept?"
"Sleep's overrated." She adjusted the camera's focus, catching movement in a fourth-floor window where someone was adjusting camera equipment. "Tim, can I ask you something?"
"Of course."
Carrie leaned back against the rooftop's concrete ledge, the rough surface scraping against her jacket. "What do you do when you know something terrible is happening, but everyone who's supposed to care either can't or won't do anything about it?"
There was a pause. She could almost hear him setting down his pen, giving her his full attention like he always did. "What kind of terrible?"
"The kind that makes you lose faith in humanity. The kind that makes you wonder if the whole system's rigged from the start." She watched another girl appear at a different window—older, maybe thirteen, staring out at the street like she was memorizing every detail of the world beyond those walls. "The kind that makes you think maybe the vigintes have the right idea."
"Carrie." His voice was careful, measured. "What are you looking at over there?"
She told him everything. The girls housed on multiple floors, the professional filming operation on the fourth floor, the security measures, her client's complete ck of interest in anything but the mysterious figure disrupting Gotham's criminals. By the time she finished, the energy drink can was crushed to half its original size in her free hand.
"Jesus Christ," he breathed.
"Yeah. And I'm supposed to be hunting down the person who's trying to stop this shit. Taking money to protect the very people who—" She stopped, swallowed hard. "What kind of person does that make me, Tim?"
"It makes you human. It makes you someone who cares enough to be conflicted about it."
"Caring doesn't help those girls."
"No, but it means you're not lost yet." His voice was steady, grounding her like an anchor in rough water. "What does your gut tell you?"
Carrie lowered the camera and rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand. The caffeine jitters were making her vision shake, or maybe that was just two days of barely sleeping finally catching up. "My gut tells me I'm working for the wrong side. That whoever this viginte is, he's the only one in this city with his priorities straight."
"So what are you going to do about it?"
Through the telephoto lens, she watched one of the real guards—not disguised as homeless—unlock a door and disappear inside the Hatter's Productions building. Shift change, probably. Or maybe they were moving girls between floors. Hard to tell from this distance, but her stomach clenched at the possibilities.
"I don't know," she admitted. "I could walk away from the case, but that doesn't help anyone. I could try to turn this information over to someone, but who? Everyone's either bought or too scared to act."
"What about going public? Media, internet, social networks?"
"And then what? Best case scenario, they shut down this location and move the operation somewhere I can't find it. Worst case, the girls disappear permanently to cover tracks." She shook her head, even though he couldn't see it. "This needs someone with more resources than a PI with a camera and a caffeine addiction."
"Someone like your mysterious viginte?"
The thought hit her like another shot of synthetic energy coursing through her veins. "Yeah. Someone exactly like that."
"So maybe the question isn't whether you should keep taking your client's money. Maybe it's how you can use this case to find someone who actually gives a damn."
Carrie smiled despite the heaviness pressing down on her chest. Leave it to Tim to find the angle she couldn't see through her exhaustion and rage. "You're saying I should do the job I'm being paid for, just not the way I'm being paid to do it."
"I'm saying maybe sometimes the best way to get someone's attention is to let them know they're being hunted."
Through the viewfinder, she watched the fake vagrant make another pass by the building's entrance.
"I love your brain, you know that?" she told him.
"I love yours too. Even when it's running on fumes and energy drinks."
She checked her watch—almost time for the evening shift change. Two days of monitoring had taught her that the real activity started after dark, when Gotham's monsters felt safe enough to come out and py. "I should probably let you get back to your papers. But Tim?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you for listening to me and being my sounding board. That's why I love you."
"Anytime, Carrie. You know that."
"I'll try to make it home tonight. Maybe grab some actual food instead of living on synthetic caffeine and whatever protein bars I stuffed in my coat."
"I'll be here. But you know how your schedule is—just let me know if you're coming. I'll make your favorite if you want."
She pressed the phone closer to her ear and made a soft kissing sound. "Talk to you ter, baby."
"Be careful out there."
The line went dead, and Carrie was alone again with the concrete and steel and the weight of what she was documenting. But something had shifted during that conversation. The energy drink buzz felt different now—sharper, more focused. Like she finally knew what she was supposed to be doing.
She raised the camera back to her eye, but this time she wasn't just documenting Hatter's Productions. She was looking for the best way to burn it down. Looking for the kind of evidence that couldn't be buried or bought off. The kind that forced people to act, whether they wanted to or not.
And maybe—just maybe—looking for a way to send a message to Gotham's mysterious protector. Let him know there was at least one person in this city who was on his side.
