The room glowed with a deep red haze—dim, intimate, and almost too refined for a place like this. A long sofa stretched the length of the room, and in front of it, a polished pole gleamed under the low light. There was an air of unexpected luxury, but it struck Gordon as out of place—a place trying too hard to be something else.
"Have a seat," she said, her voice low.
Her hands pressed gently to his chest, guiding him toward the sofa.
Gordon caught her wrists. "I'm not here for a dance," he said. "I need to ask about Lan Nguyen."
The change was instant. The mask of seduction cracked, replaced by fear. She stepped back, eyes flicking toward the door.
"Wait," Gordon said, palms up. "Just hear me out."
"I don't know who—" she began.
"I'm a detective," he cut in. "This stays between us. To everyone out there, I'm just some stiff getting dragged in for a private show."
She hesitated, fear still written across her face, now mingled with suspicion.
"You filed the report, right? Cyrus Pinkney? The building—it was your spot, wasn't it?"
Her eyes narrowed. "How do you know that?"
Gordon said carefully, "You did it to help her. That's why I'm here."
Her shoulders sagged. She crossed her arms, suddenly self-conscious. Gordon slipped off his jacket and held it out. She took it after a moment, slipping her arms into it, covering her fishnet blouse as she sat down.
"What do you want to know?" she asked, voice softer now.
"You met her here?"
"Yeah, Lan used to work here for a few months," she said. "Before Mel took over."
"You both had the same style?" Gordon asked.
She nodded. "She was into punk—and the hard shit, you know, real metal. We'd hang out after work, hit clubs that played that kind of noise. She was cool. Not like some of the girls here. They can be real bitches."
"The stint in county—was that her way of getting out?"
"Yeah. She only started stripping after her dad died. Shit got expensive. It was either live on the street or—anyway. She called me after she got out, asked if she could crash at my place. After that, she got a legit job—well, sort of—she worked at a coffee shop that paid in cash. She was doing better."
"When was the last time you saw her?"
"Saturday night. We were supposed to meet at the Pinkney building—the one off Raspler in North B. It's fenced up for construction, but a bunch of us sneak in. She said she'd head there after hitting the Inferno. Anyway, she never showed up. Never came back to the apartment."
"Did she have any friends she went to the club with?"
"She wasn't great at making friends. She was shy unless she was drunk. She always had to be plastered when she was working here."
"What about a boyfriend? A guy she was seeing?"
"There was a guy. She said his name was Bayli—I think. I never met him, but I think she met him at the club."
"Did you get a last name?"
"People don't use real names at those places. But Lan said he had a motorcycle."
Gordon's memory flashed—him stumbling out of the sewer in the early morning, and a motorcycle's engine revving.
"Anything else about him?"
"She said he had a nice place. Most of the guys she met were losers—jobless, druggies. He wasn't like that. He had a job. A place. She liked that. And..." She hesitated.
"Any detail helps," Gordon said.
"He liked taking Polaroids of her. Said he'd have her pose."
"Did she say anything else about it?"
"No. Just that she didn't want to, but he was insistent, so she did."
"Did Lan keep anything at your place?"
"She didn't have much. Just clothes."
Gordon nodded just as the red light overhead snapped to a stark white—time's up. There was a sadness in her face that reminded him of Annh's sister. She stood up, handing him his jacket.
"Does any of that help?"
"It does," Gordon said.
As they walked back toward the main floor, her expression shifted. The emotion she'd shown was gone—her face tired but pleasant. The mask back on.
"See you around," she said without meeting his eyes.
Gordon passed the bar, but Mel called out, "Your tab."
He paused, then dug out his wallet. He absentmindedly handed her some bills.
"Disappointed?" she asked as she counted the cash.
"No," Gordon said, then paused. "She was helpful. I mean... good. Uh... I'm just not used to this."
"Divorced or separated?" she asked, eyeing his hand.
He glanced down at the pale band where his ring used to be. "Separated," he said, but just saying the word felt wrong. "We're not separated... she's just mad because... I don't know what I'm saying."
"Sometimes it just feels good to let it out," she said, handing back the change. "Call me Mel."
"Jim," he replied.
She gave him a smile. "Guys who come here don't use real names. They think we're gonna look them up in the book and threaten to call their wives."
"How do you know it's my real name?"
"It came out too easy. And you look like a Jim. Just a tip—save the truth for when it matters." She gave him a playful smirk.
"I'll remember to lie next time." He returned her smile and walked out.
Outside, the rain still hadn't let up. Gordon crossed the street and slid into the passenger seat. Bullock's cigarillo cut through the damp with a dry, bitter smoke. He tapped ash into the tray without looking at him.
"Well?" he asked.
"She talked," Gordon said, pulling a notepad from his bag. He recited the details to him while jotting them down.
"A motorcycle guy named Bayli?" Bullock asked.
"He had her pose for Polaroids," said Gordon.
Bullock exhaled smoke. "We'll need something solid. She'd have to come in and put her name on it."
"She won't. She was scared to talk, even when no one was listening."
"Well, shit. We need a way to tie them together."
Gordon leaned back, staring out the windshield. The silence stretched.
"I've got a source," he said finally. "I'll reach out."
Bullock turned slightly. "Who's your source?"
Gordon said nothing.
Bullock muttered under his breath and started the engine. The drive to the precinct was long and quiet. They rode in silence. Gordon mulled over the details of the two cases. The pattern was forming—taking shape. He glanced at Bullock, who looked irritated.
"You've got nameless sources, right?" Gordon asked at last.
"Sure," Bullock said, circling for a parking spot.
"Well, it's like that."
When Bullock finally parked, he stubbed out his cigarillo and checked the ember before placing it into his jacket pocket.
"You know what your problem is?" he said, voice lower now, quieter. "You make it really easy to dislike you."
Then he got out and slammed the door. Gordon sat there a moment, letting the words sting a little.
Beneath the city, the world changed.
The sewers surged with runoff, bloated and stinking. Water churned around his calves, thick with oil, chemicals, and the rest of Gotham's rot. His cape dragged through the filth, sodden and heavy. He pressed on, each sloshing step swallowed by the constant rush from the gutters above.
Most of the lower arteries were flooded, but up ahead, a hole had opened in the wall—narrower than a manhole cover. He crouched low, squeezing through in a slow crawl. Damp concrete gave way to patches of chalk-white stone.
"I've come to accept your fascination with filth, sir," Alfred said dryly in his ear, "But the catacombs? If you get yourself wedged down there, it'll make for quite the obituary."
The tunnel closed in tighter. He pushed forward, shoulders brushing crumbling stone. In the worst sections, he had to press his palms to the walls and shimmy through gaps made for no living thing.
"What should I do if you become incapacitated?" Alfred continued. "Besides sell your toys and take a long holiday?"
He said nothing.
At last, the tunnel opened into a larger chamber—he was inside the old catacombs. A partial collapse blocked the path ahead. He ran a hand along the wall—chalky, brittle. Dust clung to his glove. He braced, inhaled, and forced his way through the debris, exhaling in one slow, measured breath.
"Fox has requested feedback on the new mask," Alfred said. "He'd like to know how the vision fares. And he's asked about the gun. Again."
Still nothing.
"I do love these chats of ours," Alfred muttered.
A soft chime cut through the static.
"Dispatch just flagged something," he added. "Crime Alley. Robbery in progress. Corner of Brayburn and Wilkes."