The night was not kind to Jonathan Wayne.
Sleep came only in fragments shadows stretched long across the room, whispers of voices in the dripping rain outside the inn.
When dawn finally broke, it carried with it no peace, only a thicker gloom that seemed to settle over Gotham like a burial shroud.
Isadora rose before him, already dressed in a simple grey gown, her dark hair tied back. She lit a lamp and spoke softly. "You thrashed again. Were you dreaming?"
Jonathan sat up, rubbing his eyes. "Not dreams. Memories, twisted somehow. My father's face… but it wasn't his eyes.
And the mark."
Isadora placed a hand over his. "This city infects the mind if you let it.
Don't give it that power."
But Jonathan could not shake the weight of the ledger from the day before.
His name written into Gotham's soil, tied to the same mark carved into the murdered.
He dressed quickly, fastening his coat with rough hands, and left the Hollow Rest to face the streets.
The city greeted him with silence. Too much silence. The usual chaos of carts and vendors was muted, as if the very air was holding its breath.
People avoided his gaze as he passed.
A newspaper boy shouted headlines, but his voice cracked halfway through and he turned pale when Jonathan's eyes met his.
Something was wrong.
At the station, Crane was already waiting, his scarred chin set firm as he tapped a file with one heavy finger. "Another body."
Jonathan's chest tightened. "Where?"
"Near the factories. Found at first light. Best we see it before the crows finish."
They took a carriage through narrow lanes until the air thickened with smoke from the ironworks.
The factory yards were half-buried in fog, chimneys coughing black clouds skyward.
A group of policemen stood in a tight circle near a drainage ditch.
The body lay faceup, eyes wide, mouth filled with ash as though the killer had forced it down his throat.
On his chest, carved deep into the flesh, was the symbol Jonathan now knew too well two circles crossed by a slash.
Jonathan knelt beside it, the mud soaking into his boots.
His pulse thundered. This was no random victim.
The man's clothing marked him as a clerk, ordinary but
respectable. Yet the carving was too deliberate, too clean.
Crane crouched low as well. "Same hand as the others. But this one's different."
Jonathan glanced at him. "How?"
Crane tilted his head. "Look closer."
Jonathan's eyes narrowed. For a moment he saw only the lines of the mark. Then he realized what Crane meant.
Beneath the symbol, in faint strokes, another word had been cut
into the skin.
Wayne.
Jonathan's stomach turned. His throat felt tight, as though the city itself had gripped him.
Crane's voice was grim. "They've noticed you. Marked you."
The silence of the factory yard pressed in, broken only by the hiss of steam from the pipes overhead.
The other officers whispered among themselves, glancing toward jonathan with suspicion and unease. Already the rumors would spread the newcomer from Bristol, tied to the city's
oldest curse.
Jonathan stood abruptly, his fists clenched. "This isn't coincidence. They're trying to draw me in. To frighten me."
Crane shook his head slowly. "No, Wayne. This is worse than fright. This is a claim."
That word followed Jonathan all day. Claim. It echoed in his ears as they hauled the body back to the morgue.
It lingered as Doc Tate, with his uneven gait, examined the corpse and muttered strange riddles about the knife strokes.
And it haunted him as he returned at dusk to the Hollow Rest, where Isadora waited with eyes full of worry.
He told her what had been found. He told her about the name carved into the flesh.
She covered her mouth, pale. "Jonathan… this is no longer investigation. This is war."
He poured a drink, hand trembling so badly the glass nearly shattered. "I cannot turn away. If they've chosen me, then I'll answer them."
Before she could speak, a small sound came from the window. A faint tap-tap-tap.
Jonathan froze. Slowly, he moved toward it, pulling back the curtain.
On the outside of the glass, pressed into the condensation, was a shape drawn by a child's finger the double circle, the slash.
And beneath it, smeared in what looked like soot, a single word.
Silence.
Jonathan threw the window open, but the street below was empty.
Only fog curling against the lamplight, shadows flickering between alleys.
He leaned out, searching, but saw nothing.
When he pulled back inside, Isadora was standing stiff, her face pale but resolute. "They're inside ourwalls now. Watching."
He went to her, gripping her shoulders. "Then we mustn't show fear."
Her eyes flashed. "Jonathan, fear is not weakness. It is warning. Promise me you won't charge blindly into this."
He said nothing. In truth, he could not promise.
That night, as Gotham's silence deepened, Jonathan lay awake beside her, his mind unraveling.
Somewhere in the darkness, the city had spoken and it had carved his name into its flesh.
The Owe was no longer a shadow whispered in the records. It was at his door.