The mayor's mansionn loomed at the edge of Gotham Square like a fortress dressed in velvet.
Its wide stone steps glistened in the drizzle, flanked by iron gas lamps burning steady and proud. Inside, laughter spilled out in waves a gala for the city's elite.
Carriages clattered as liveried footmen helped Gotham's wealthiest citizens ascend the steps, their jewels and polished boots sparkling in the lamplight.
Jonathan stood qcross the street in the shadows, his coat collar pulled high.
He had never felt so out of place. His boots were caked with ash from the docks, his uniform still smelled faintly of coal smoke. And yet, this was where the trail led.
The circle, the murders, the whispers they all bent toward Marcellus Graye.
Crane appeared at his side, grumbling as he lit a cigarette. "You're a madman, Wayne. You think the mayor himself is gutting people in alleys?"
"No," Jonathan said flatly. "But I think he holds the knife. Or gives it to the ones who do."
Crane blew smoke and shook his head. "If you're wrong, we'll both be in irons before midnight."
"If I'm right," jonathan murmured, "we'll be in graves."
Inside, the air was thick with perfume, smoke, and the low hum of violins. Crystal chandeliers rained golden light across marble floors.
Men in tailored coats and women in silken gowns moved gracefully, laughter ringing like coins dropping into a well.
Jonathan and Crane slipped in under the guise of patrolmen providing security a thin excuse, but no one questioned men in
uniform at a gathering so well-guarded.
And there, at the top of the stairs, was Marcellus Graye.
The mayor was younger than Jonathan had expected, perhaps in his forties, with hair as black as coal and a jaw carved from stone.
His smile was charming, disarming the smile of a man who could win elections with a single photograph. But his eyes…
his eyes were sharp steel, cutting through the room with quiet command.
He welcomed his guests with handshakes and glib remarks, but when his gaze drifted toward Jonathan, it lingered. Just a fraction too long.
Jonathan felt it like a blade against his throat.
Later, Jonathan excused himself from the crowded hall and found his way into a side corridor lined with oil paintings of Gotham's founders.
Men in dark coats, women in stiff collars, all staring sternly from gilded frames.
One painting caught his breath a man with Marcellus Graye's face, or nearly so, painted over a century ago. An ancestor.
"They say the blood remembers," came a voice behind him.
Jonathan turned. Mayor Graye stood in the hall alone, a glass of wine in his hand.
"Officer Wayne, isn't it?" Graye's tone was smooth, practiced. "New to Gotham. Yet already making waves."
Jonathan's hand twitched at his side. "Doing my job, sir."
Graye sipped his wine, eyes glimmering. "Some jobs require knowing when not to do them." He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "I admire men of conviction, but conviction without caution becomes martyrdom."
Jonathan met his gaze. "And what is Gotham, sir, if its leaders refuse to face the blood in its streets?"
Graye smiled faintly ."Gotham is what it has always been a city of opportunity for those willing to seize it. You could rise here, Officer Wayne. Your name carries weight, though you may not realize it."
Jonathan stiffened "What do you know of my name?"
The mayor leaned closer his words were soft as velvet, cold as winter stone. "The Wayne line runs deep in Gotham's soil.
Deeper than you know every family pays its tithe,
one way or another. Even yours."
Jonathan's pulse quickened.
Graye's smile widened, as though he could hear it.
"Take care where you step, Officer," the mayor whispered.
"There are knives hidden in this city and not all are meant for criminals."
He pressed his empty glass into Jonathan's hand and walked away without looking back.
Jonathan stared at the glass, at the faint smudge of red wine like a bloodstain, and felt the weight of the unspoken threat settle into his bones.
Later that night, jonathan found himself outside again, standing beneath the cold drizzle. Scrap darted out of the shadows, his eyes wide.
"Jon! I seen him! The mayor!" Scrap whispered frantically. "He met with a man in the alley behindthe kitchens. Black ring on his finger the Owe's mark. I swear it."
Jonathan's gut tightened confirmation. The mayor was not just complicit he was one of them.
But before he could speak, a figure appeared from the mist. A woman in a crimson gown, her hair like ink, her eyes sharp and dangerous Nina Blackthorn.
She smiled at jonathan as if they were already acquainted.
"You shouldn't linger here, Officer Wayne," she said smoothly. Her voice carried both music and menace. "My father would be most displeased to learn you've been trespassing."
Jonathan froze "Your father?" her smile deepened "Elijah Blackthorn."
The name struck like thunder he had heard whispers a patron of the city, a reclusive industrialist. And now his daughter stood before him, beautiful as a dagger's curve, warning him away.
"Consider this a kindness," Nina said softly, stepping close enough that he could smell roses laced with smoke. "Gotham is a maze, Officer. Men who wander too deep rarely find their way back."
Her hand brushed his chest as she passed when he looked down, a silver knife was pinned into his coat a small blade, its hilt engraved with a circle.
Jonathan pulled it free, his heart pounding.
A knife, a warning and a promise.
Back in his modest home, Jonathan laid the blade on the table. Isadora stared at it in silence, then at him.
"They know you," she whispered "They're watching."
Jonathan sat heavily, his head in his hands "Not just watching ,they're inviting me into their circle."
Outside, the rain tapped the windows like patient fingers. In the distance, a bell tolled midnight, and Gotham's heart beat darker.
Jonathan knew then that the war had truly begun.