Chapter 95 : False Leads and True Monsters
**Gotham City - Some old Apartment**
The apartment smelled of stale cigarettes, rotting takeout and alcohol. Water stains spread across the ceiling and s single overhead bulb flickered intermittently.
Ronald Dillion—"The Hooker," though he'd earned that nickname from his weapon of choice, not his profession—sat sprawled on a sagging couch. His prosthetic right arm, fitted with a curved hook where his hand should have been, rested on the armrest.
Across from him, his new friend Dave counted money on a coffee table scarred with cigarette burns and knife marks. Bills were spread out in neat piles—twenties, tens, fives, and a disappointing number of ones.
"We ain't done bad," Dave said, licking his thumb as he counted. "Must be a thousand bucks here, easy."
"Big deal," Ronald said, scratching his stubbled jaw with the curve of his hook.
"I'll tell ya, Dave, it's goddamn pathetic when guys like us are reduced to robbing orphanages at gunpoint. Orphanages, for fuck's sake. What's next? Stealing wheelchairs from cripples? Taking candy from babies?"
Dave shrugged, unbothered.
"Money's money man."
He finished counting and leaned back.
"A thousand and forty-three dollars. Not bad for an hour's work. This'll keep us going for a couple days, maybe a week if we're smart."
"A week." Ronald laughed bitterly. "Fifteen years I sat in that cage, and I get out to live like a rat on scraps. You know what the real joke is? The economy's so shit, even the crime doesn't pay anymore."
"How's getting out of that shithole faring you anyway?" Dave asked, lighting a cigarette and tossing the pack to Ronald.
Ronald caught it with his good hand, extracted a cigarette and lit it with a cheap plastic lighter. He took a long drag, held it, then exhaled slowly.
"That place was a fucking nightmare," he said. "Shit cell. Shit food. Shit people." He took another drag.
"Past is past, man. I dont even wanna think about that place. I ain't returning to that shithole ever again!!"
" Aghhhh!! You just had to ruin the mood by reminding me of it!!"
"Fuck it! You know what I want now?"
"What?"
"The touch of a woman."
Ronald's eyes looked hungry. "Fifteen years, Dave. Fifteen fucking years without soft skin, without curves, without that damn warmth. You ever go that long without it? It makes you crazy."
Dave grinned knowingly. "So hire a prostitute, man. There's a corner three blocks from here where they line up after dark. Forty bucks for a half hour, sixty for the full treatment."
Ronald made a dismissive sound, waving his hook in a gesture of contempt. "Nah. Those worn-out street walkers? They've been used more times than a subway turnstile. I need something fresh, Dave. Something that hasn't been passed around like a joint at a party."
"Fresh costs more."
"I don't want to pay." Ronald's smile slowly twisted.
"Remember that girl at the orphanage? The young one who hid behind that fat nun? Sixteen,maybe seventeen. She had that scared look in her eyes when I pointed the gun at her. All that fear and innocence." He leaned forward. "Now that's what I need now. Fresh meat."
Dave's expression shifted. "Ron, man, we just got out. You start doing that kind of thing, they'll throw you back in so fast—"
"Only if they catch me." Ronald stood, stretching, his hook catching the flickering light. "And also, I'm much more smarter now. I will be more careful. I know what I—"
A knock at the door.
Both men froze.
"You expecting someone?" Dave whispered.
"Hell no." Ronald moved toward the door, his hook hand behind his back. "Who knows we're here?"
Another knock.
Ronald approached the door carefully, standing to the side rather than directly in front of it. "Who is it?"
No answer.
"I said, who the hell is it?"
Silence.
Ronald glanced back at Dave, who had his hand on a pistol tucked in his waistband. Dave nodded—ready.
Ronald unlocked the door and pulled it open, his hook hand raised defensively.
A figure stood in the dim hallway. Average height. Black clothing. Face hidden in shadows.
"What do you want, boy?" Ronald asked, trying to sound threatening.
He scratched his chin with his hook, trying to intimidate by showing off his metal arm.
"You lost? Looking for someone? Because if you're trying to sell something, I ain't buying."
The figure said nothing. Just stood there like a statue.
"Ronald?" Dave called from behind. "Who is it?"
"Some punk who won't talk," Ronald said with some irritation. He turned his head slightly toward Dave. "Kid's just standing there like a—"
The Architect moved.
One moment he was in the hallway, the next he was inside the apartment. His hands twisted into razor-sharp biomass claws and plunged into Ronald Dillion's midsection.
Ronald's eyes went wide. His mouth opened to scream but only a blood emerged.
The Architect lifted him above the head effortlessly with the claws still sunk deep into flesh and organs. Ronald's feet dangled above and his hook hand twitched uselessly.
Then the Architect pulled his arms apart.
Blood sprayed across the walls in spurts as Ronald Dillion was literally ripped in half at the waist. His upper body fell to the left, his lower body to the right and his intestines spilling across the filthy carpet.
But the body didn't stay separate. The biomass that was the Architect flowed forward, tendrils extending from his form to wrap around the corpse. In seconds, Ronald Dillion's remains were being absorbed—pulled into the Architect's body, consumed, broken down into raw material and memory.
Dave screamed. He yanked out his pistol, hands shaking so badly he nearly dropped it, and fired three times.
The bullets hit the Architect's back, punching through the black clothing. But instead of blood, there was only the brief flash of biomass closing over the wounds, healing instantly.
The Architect turned toward Dave.
"Please—" Dave managed.
The Architect's arm extended, biomass forming a blade that crossed the distance between them in a heartbeat. It punched through Dave's throat and out the back of his neck, severing the spinal cord.
Dave dropped like a puppet with cut strings, dead before he hit the floor.
The Architect retracted the blade and his hands morphed into tendrils which swept across the room and the corpse. When he was done, nothing remained of the two former occupants.
"Not the copycat."
"Still SCUM!!"
---
**Gotham City - Dr. Helena's Home**
Commissioner Gordon stood in the doorway of what had once been a wonderfully decorated living room. Now it was a nightmare rendered in blood and candlelight.
Dr. Helena hung upside down from a ceiling beam, suspended by ropes wrapped around her ankles. Her chest had been opened—not surgically like Michael Harris, but torn, as if something had simply ripped through flesh and bone to get at what was inside.
Her face, visible despite the inverted position, was frozen in an expression of absolute terror. Her eyes were still open, still staring at whatever horror she'd seen before death.
Around her body, arranged in that now-familiar circle, were dozens of burned-out candles. Their wax had pooled on the hardwood floor, mixing with blood.
And on the wall, written in blood that had dripped down in slow rivulets:
**FOR JUSTICE**
"Commissioner?"
Gordon turned to see Robin standing at the entrance to the living room. The young vigilante wore his full costume, the red and yellow a sharp contrast to the horror of the crime scene. His expression behind the domino mask was grim.
"Robin," Gordon acknowledged. "Where's Batman?"
"I am working separately from Batman for a bit," Tim said in a neutral voice. "Needed some time to... process some things."
Gordon nodded slowly.
"Fair enough," Gordon said simply, not pushing. "We could use your help anyway."
Tim approached the crime scene carefully. "What do we know?"
"Victim is Dr. Helena Smith, psychiatrist at Arkham Asylum. She was the primary therapist for several recently released patients." Gordon pulled out his tablet, showing Tim the list. "We were working through suspects for the copycat killings. Got lucky—or unlucky—on the first name. Cornelius Stirk."
"Lucky?"
"Lucky to confirm the suspect at the first try. Unlucky to prevent her death. We came here to question her about Cornelius Stirk. He was one of her patients, released recently."
Tim's eyes narrowed behind his mask. "And?"
"And we found this instead." Gordon pointed to an evidence bag on a nearby table. Inside was a GPS ankle monitor, the kind used for tracking parolees and released mental patients. "Stirk's tracker. Found it right next to the body. He cut it off and left it next to the body."
"So Stirk is your copycat."
"Ironic isn't it. Released a few days ago after twenty years in Arkham. His therapist—the woman who advocated for his release, who believed in his rehabilitation, who fought for him to get a second chance—is his second victim." Gordon's voice was heavy with bitter. "She saved him, and he killed her for it."
Tim walked closer to the body, studying the positioning, the candles, the blood message. "What was Stirk in for?"
"Attempted murder at sixteen. Severe hypothalamic disorder."
Gordon pulled up Stirk's mugshot on his tablet—a gaunt face with unsettling gray eyes.
"That is one ugly sone of a bitch," Tim remarked grimly.
"We're issuing an APB. Every cop in Gotham will have his photo within the hour." Gordon looked at the body again. "I'll do whatever I can from the official side. But if you can track him through... other channels..."
"I'll find him," Tim said with certainty. "I'll call in resources, run facial recognition on every camera in the city, cross-reference his known associates from his Arkham file."
Gordon nodded, grateful.
They stood there for a moment longer, then Tim activated his comm.
"Alfred, are you there?"
"Always, Master Tim," came the refined British voice through the secure channel. "How may I assist?"
"I need everything we have on Cornelius Stirk. Medical files, psych evaluations, known addresses, associates, behavioral patterns—everything."
"Accessing the files now. I'll have a complete dossier ready within the hour." There was a pause. "Master Tim... are you still upset with Master Bruce? About the Firefly situation?"
Tim was quiet for a long moment.
"I'm... conflicted," Tim finally said. "I understand his reasoning. I get the whole 'slippery slope' argument, the idea that killing one person makes it easier to kill the next. I understand it intellectually."
"But emotionally?" Alfred prompted gently.
"But just because something makes sense doesn't mean I have to like it," Tim said, frustration bleeding into his voice. "He chose his principle over my life, Alfred. Even if it was just a stageplay—Batman chose. And I can understand it and still be angry about it."
"Will you be coming back to the manor? Master Bruce has been quite concerned."
Tim looked at Dr. Helena's suspended corpse.
"I..I need more time to process it, Alfred." Tim said quietly.
Alfred was silent for a moment, then: "Very well, Master Tim. The files on Cornelius Stirk are being compiled as we speak. Do be careful."
"Always am."
The comm clicked off. Tim turned back to Gordon.
"I'll start searching tonight. If Stirk's in Gotham, I'll find him."
"Good." Gordon extended his hand, and Tim shook it. "Be careful, kid."
Tim moved to the window, grappling gun already in hand. Within seconds, he was gone—a shadow among shadows, hunting another monster in Gotham's endless night.