The boarding house stood on the corner of Miller and Slate, its brick walls smeared with soot, its windows dim as though afraid to look out upon the street.
A crooked sign swung above the door: The Hollow Rest. The
boards creaked as Jonathan, Isadora, and Abe stepped inside.
The air was close, thick with the smell of boiled cabbage and pipe smoke. A thin woman behind the desk, hair tied back in a stringy knot, barely glanced at them as they approached. Her eyes flicked over Jonathan's uniform case marking him as a policeman and then slid away.
"Rooms?" she asked flatly.
Jonathan placed coin on the counter. Her hand swept it away with a speed that spoke of habit, not gratitude. No smile, no welcome. Just business.
Abe leaned an elbow against the counter, flashing his best grin. "Tell me, miss, where in this city does a man find whiskey that doesn't taste of rat piss and sawdust?"
The woman's expression did not change. "Depends how much coin you've got."
Jonathan gave his brother a sharp look, but Isadora touched his arm lightly, diffusing the moment. They were shown up narrow stairs to a cramped room with two beds and a view of an alley. Rats skittered on the cobblestones below. A drunkard lay face down near the wall, snoring into the muck.
Abe flung his coat onto the bed. "Home sweet home."
Jonathan said nothing. He set down his case, unlatched it, and began arranging his papers. Names. Reports. Old cases from the counties he had left behind. And now, a new one: the Gotham Murders.
A file so thin it was almost mockery, containing only a handful of yellowed clippings and rumors that
stretched back decades.
Isadora moved to the window, pushing it open for air. The fog drifted in, sour and heavy. From the street below, voices carried low, murmuring, like the drone of bees.
"Listen," she said softly.
Jonathan paused, straining to hear. At first it was only the muddled hum of men talking. But beneath it, a word surfaced again and again. A word spoken like a prayer.
Owe. Owe. Owe.
Jonathan's jaw tightened.
"They're drunk," Abe said, dismissive. "City folk chanting nonsense. Every city has its gutter hymns."
But Jonathan wasn't so sure. The sound dug under his skin.
That night, when the city had settled into a restless dark, Jonathan left the boarding house. Abe had already gone to chase drink and dice, and Isadora had retired with a book. Alone, Jonathan followed the whispers.
The streets of Gotham at night were worse than by day. Lamps sputtered but gave little light, leaving long stretches of shadow between the glow. Cats slunk across alleys. Beggars muttered in their sleep, hands clutching invisible
coins.
Jonathan followed the sound until he reached a narrow street pressed between factories, where iron doors sweated rust and chimneys bled smoke even at midnight.
There, in the flickering light of a single lamp, a group of men
huddled. Their clothes marked them as dockworkers, their faces rough, bearded, scarred. But their eyes were strange vacant, fever-bright.
They knelt in a half-circle around a barrel fire, and one of them was speaking in a low, rhythmic chant. Jonathan crept closer, staying in the shadows.
"…the city remembers. The city collects. The city is never owed without payment. Blood for coin. Coin for breath. Owe, owe, owe."
The men answered in unison, striking fists to their chests. The sound was soft but sharp, like the beating of a drum.
Jonathan's stomach knotted. This was no tavern song. This was ritual.
He drew back as quietly as he could, but the nearest man's head snapped up.
Eyes met his in the gloom cold, sharp, unblinking. Jonathan felt the weight of it like a hand on his throat.
The man smiled.
Jonathan turned and slipped back into the fog, heart hammering. He had not been followed, but the city itself seemed to close in behind him, streets folding like a maze.
By the time he returned to the Hollow Rest, dawn was bleeding faint light through the fog. Isadora sat awake by the window, knitting quietly, though her eyes betrayed worry.
"You were gone," she said.
"I walked," Jonathan replied, hanging his coat.
"You hunted."
He hesitated. "I listened."
Her needles paused. "And what did you hear?"
Jonathan looked at her. For a moment he thought of lying, of sparing her the weight of what he had seen. But Isadora was no delicate flower to be shielded.
"They speak of debt," he said finally. "Not coin alone. Something deeper. As if the city itself is a ledger, and we all owe it balance."
Isadora set down her knitting. "That sounds like religion. Or madness."
"Or both," Jonathan muttered.
Abe burst into the room then, smelling of smoke and whiskey, face flushed with a grin too wide to be real. "Gentlemen!" he announced, though there was only Jonathan and Isadora.
"And lady! You'll be pleased to know your humble brother has made acquaintances in high places already. A man named Redgrave showed me cards, drink, and more. Gotham isn't as grim as you'd have us believe."
Jonathan looked at him sharply. "And what did you wager?"
Abe laughed. "A few coins. Nothing more."
But Jonathan caught the flicker in his brother's eyes, the twitch in his smile. Already, the city had its hooks in him.
Jonathan closed the file on his desk, fingers tightening around it. He did not know yet who held Gotham's ledger, or what debts it demanded.
But he felt it like a shadow leaning over him.
Somewhere, someone was keeping account.
And soon, they would come to collect.