The wail of sirens echoed over Gotham as police cars sped down crowded streets, fully armed and on high alert. News had just broken—Gotham's Central Bank had been hit. Robbed. Nearly two million dollars in cash was stolen.
Even in a crime city like Gotham, robberies like this were rare. The Central Bank was sacred ground. It sent the police department into full panic mode.
"Repeat: lock down all ports and docks. Set up roadblocks on every major street leading in or out of the city. Stop and check everyone," barked Commissioner Gordon into his radio.
He had just started his night off when the emergency call came in. Now soaked in sweat and frustration, he paced the floor of the precinct. "Remind the squad that payroll for the entire department comes from the Central Bank. If we don't get that money back, our next few paychecks will be nothing but IOUs."
He slammed the phone down and gave a tired look to his partner, Detective Brock. "You were right. No one here works like they mean it unless a paycheck's on the line."
Brock took a long, smug sip from his Starbucks, clearly enjoying a few minutes where his drink wasn't just coffee but not precinct coffee.
"If you ran every dirty cop out of Gotham PD," Brock said, shaking his head, "you'd be lucky if three people were left. And they'd all be on desk duty."
Gordon chuckled bitterly. "What a team, huh?"
"Word is Black Mask is planning something," Brock added. "No idea who pissed him off, but I wouldn't wanna be them."
Gordon looked out the precinct window. In a city this broken, trust in the police had long been gone. But there was still one man Gotham believed in.
He turned to Brock. "Time to flip the rooftop light."
Brock groaned and asked, "Jim, again? Seriously? You and the Bat signal… You trust that guy too much. He's a vigilante wearing a cape. It's not law—it's a circus."
"When the police sell out their badges," Gordon said firmly, "then the law's already been trampled. We lost faith, Brock. People need something to believe in—someone to believe in. And when the system fails… I want hope to still have a fighting chance."
Outside, on the rooftop of Gotham Police Headquarters, the Bat-Signal powered to life. Its brilliant shape cut through the clouds, blazing the iconic symbol of the Dark Knight across the night sky.
It was a warning.
And from the shadows above, answering that call, Batman appeared—silent, dark, and watching.
Gordon didn't look surprised and said, "Glad you came. About an hour ago, someone blasted open the gates of Gotham Central Bank using C4—heavy stuff. They cleared a path with high-grade weapons and made off with cash quickly. We…"
But Batman raised a gloved hand, his deep-modulated voice already cutting through the night air. "I've already surveyed the crime scene."
He stepped deeper into the shadows, almost blending in with the stone and steel. "It's sloppy work. No preparation. These weren't professionals."
Brock scoffed, folding his arms. "You're joking. Central Bank security's no joke. You think a group of amateurs pulled that off? Please. This was military-level precision."
"They went in for cash," Batman continued, unfazed, "but left behind gold bars worth $200 million. Why? Because when they tried to move them, they realized too late that their vehicles couldn't handle the weight."
Gordon raised an eyebrow. That detail hadn't been in the forensics report yet.
"They wasted time trying, then scrambled for what they could still carry: cash," Batman said. "A mere $2 million when over $600 million total was inside. Sloppy timing. Poor planning. No proper escape mapped out. These were rookies."
Gordon whipped out his phone. "All units, adjust your grid—focus on the area near the escape sighting. Block surrounding streets. They won't have gotten far."
Brock, though annoyed, had to admit it all made sense. "Still hard to believe amateurs had access to bombs and rifles."
Batman turned his head slightly but didn't face him.
"Even goblins try to challenge gods when they find gold," he said. "What you should be asking yourself is—where did they get weapons like that?"
Before they could respond, he was gone. Without a trace.
Brock stared into the shadow, annoyed. "Why's it always when I'm finally enjoying my coffee? I waited in line for that—it's a limited edition roast!"
Gordon simply shook his head.
With Batman on the case, the crime unraveled quickly. Tracking tire marks led to an abandoned parking garage. Turns out, the robbers had panicked, ditched their car, and hijacked another vehicle before trying to disappear into the city. But Batman caught up with them before they got far.
By morning, they were all in an interrogation cell at Gotham PD.
Some officers joked it was becoming routine: big crime happens, Batman shows up, everything gets wrapped up by sunrise. The truth was that for the people of Gotham, Batman was never just a hero. He was the last line of defense. The city's shadow protector.
From a ledge overlooking the police station, the caped figure kept watch. He saw Brock burst from the door waving a thick phone book—Gotham's "old-school" method of extracting details without leaving bruises.
Batman let out a breath. "Another night saved… for now."
He stood and turned to continue his patrol—but then he saw it.
Right next to him, folded neatly and taped to the stone gargoyle where he had been perched, was an envelope.
In big, bold letters—cut out from newspapers, ransom-note style—it read:
BATMAN, OPEN ME ;)
His eyes narrowed. Instinctively, he ran a scan. No chemical traces, no explosive residue. Slowly, he opened it.
Inside: more cut-and-pasted letters from newspaper articles, forming just one sentence.
Tomorrow night, someone will escape Arkham Asylum.