The morning brought rain. Not a cleansing rain, but the kind that slicked the streets with black water, carrying soot and ash into the gutters.
Gotham stank of wet coal and horse dung, and Jonathan Wayne felt it seep into his bones as he walked the narrow corridors of the Police Department.
The Gotham PD was housed in a building that looked more like a fortress than a hall of justice grey stone, narrow windows, iron bars on the doors.
Inside,the corridors were dim, walls stained with smoke from years of oil lamps.
Officers lounged at desks or muttered in corners, their uniforms unbuttoned, their boots muddy.
It was not the law Jonathan knew.
At the end of the hall, a man rose from his chair as Jonathan approached.
Detective Lionel Crane broad-shouldered, scar across his chin, eyes like weathered stone. He extended a hand.
"You're the new one," Crane said. His voice was gravel, worn down by years of drink and smoke.
"Jonathan Wayne," Jonathan replied, gripping his hand firmly.
Crane studied him for a moment before nodding. "You look too clean for this city. Give it a week."
Jonathan managed a thin smile.
They sat in Crane's cramped office, littered with papers, half-empty bottles, and the faint smell of tobacco. On the desk lay a stack of case files, some so old the ink had nearly faded.
"You came here because of the murders," Crane said.
Jonathan nodded. "The killings go back decades. Always unsosame mark left behind."
Crane slid a folder across the desk. Inside was a sketch charcoal lines showing a body laid open on a table. Symbols had been carved into the flesh, circles and slashes that meant nothing to Jonathan but made his stomach tighten.
"They call it the Harbinger's mark," Crane said. "Nobody agrees on what it means. Some say ritual, others say warning. Truth is, most here don't care anymore. Gotham has plenty of bodies. These just bleed a little stranger than the rest."
Jonathan's eyes lingered on the sketch. "And the families of the victims?"
Crane gave a short laugh with no humor. "Forgotten. Paid off, frightened off, or dead themselves. Gotham swallows its grief."
Jonathan looked up sharply. "But why keep the cases closed? Why bury them?"
Crane leaned back in his chair, tapping ash into a tray. "Because some debts aren't meant to be collected. And some names aren't meant to be written in the book."
Jonathan frowned. "What do you mean?"
The older detective's gaze hardened. "You're a Wayne, aren't you?"
Jonathan froze. The question came like a blade. "Yes. My family settled in Bristol County. Farmers. Nothing more."
Crane's eyes narrowed. "Maybe. But that name carries weight in Gotham. You'd do well to remember that."
Before Jonathan could respond, a knock came at the door. A clerk entered, pale-faced, carrying a stack of ledgers.
He glanced nervously at Jonathan before setting the books down. "Records from the archives, sir. Old land deeds, court registries. You asked for them."
Crane nodded, dismissing him. As the clerk scurried out, Jonathan pulled one of the ledgers closer. The leather was cracked, the pages yellow. He flipped through until a name caught his eye.
Wayne.
The entry was dated 1781. A land grant on the outskirts of Gotham, recorded under the authority of the city's first council. Beside the name was a strange symbol two concentric circles crossed by a vertical slash.
Jonathan felt his breath hitch. It was the same mark he had seen carved into the victim's flesh.
"Impossible," he whispered.
Crane watched him carefully. "That ledger says otherwise."
Jonathan closed the book sharply, his hands trembling. His father had never spoken of Gotham ties. Their family had always been farmers, distant from the city's rot. And yet here was the proof Wayne inked into Gotham's birth records, marked by the same symbol of death.
Crane leaned forward, voice low. "If I were you, I'd keep that discovery quiet. This city doesn't take kindly to bloodlines."
Jonathan swallowed hard.
When he returned to the Hollow Rest, the rain still poured. He entered their small room to find Isadora sorting through her sister's letters delicate parchment, words written in a looping hand. She looked up at once, sensing the storm on his face.
"What is it?" she asked.
Jonathan set the ledger on the table, opening it to the page. "My family was here. In Gotham. Before I was born, before my father. They were part of the city's foundation."
Isadora frowned, tracing the name with her finger. "Wayne. But why did your father never speak of it?"
Jonathan shook his head. "I don't know. And look here the mark. The same as the murders."
Her eyes darkened. "Then this isn't only Gotham's legacy. It's yours."
Before Jonathan could answer, the door burst open and Abe stumbled in, dripping wet, his coat soaked through. His face was pale, his charm stripped away.
"Brother," Abe said, breathing hard. "I saw something tonight. A meeting men in the shadows, chanting that cursed word. They knew me. They called me by name before I ever spoke it."
Jonathan and Isadora exchanged a look. The ledger lay open on the table, the mark staring up like an accusation.
Jonathan's voice was steady, though his hands were not. "Then we are not just strangers in Gotham. We are part of it. And whatever debt this city claims, it seems it has written the Waynes into its ledger."
Abe's face went white.
And for the first time since arriving, Jonathan felt the weight of legacy press down upon him like a shroud.