Hall Randolph stepped out of the office building, and the biting cold instantly wrapped around him.
He felt the air he breathed was filled with an icy chill, as if his lungs were inhaling countless tiny needles of ice. He wrapped his coat tighter and walked toward the parking garage, the frosty road crunching beneath his feet.
The brightly lit shop windows along the street were filled with artificial warmth: ribbons, fairy lights, and grinning stuffed reindeer. But these couldn't shield him from the fierce wind.
He quickly reached his car, preparing to unlock the door. His fingers were numb from the cold, causing the key to scratch against the keyhole a few times before failing to enter.
Suddenly, in the reflection on the car window, illuminated by the streetlamp, he noticed a tall shadow wearing a ski mask behind him.
The hairs on the back of his neck shot up. But before he could turn around, a forearm as thick as a steel bar locked tightly around his throat from behind.
Another hand, covered by a leather glove, brutally clamped over his mouth, the force instantly cutting off both his breath and any chance of a cry.
Hall's feet left the ground as he was dragged with brutal force toward the dense darkness behind a nearby dumpster.
In the dark, the sharp tip of a knife with tiny serrations pressed precisely beneath his left ribs.
"Shh… Santa came early with a gift. You'd better cooperate."
A voice, raspy like metal grating, sounded from behind him, and the cold metallic touch penetrated his expensive wool coat and the suit underneath. The chill was worse than the Gotham wind, striking straight to his heart.
All his muscles instantly tensed and froze, leaving only an uncontrolled, electric-shock-like tremor.
"Don't… don't hurt me… My wallet is in… in my inner suit pocket. Please, I swear… I won't call the police!"
The man behind him smelled strongly of fish, likely a dock worker, mixed with cheap tobacco and sweat, making Hall's throat churn.
Hearing Hall's words, one of the man's hands searched his suit, fumbling for a moment. Soon, the hand awkwardly unclasped a metal buckle and pulled out a wad of cash.
"A pleasant surprise… I was only meant to deliver a message for someone else today." The raspy voice chuckled. "Hall Randolph, you are the Program Supervisor for Child Protective Services."
"Y-yes… yes… yes, what are… what are your orders…"
"Listen up. Sal… uh, Lord Falcone informed me that regarding the two siblings at the Gotham Charitable Clinic, you had better drop the CPS intervention. It's for the best for everyone. Otherwise…"
The hoarse voice leaned into Hall's ear and quietly recited his home address.
"You wouldn't want your son to be taken away by CPS, would you?"
The knife left his ribs, slowly moving up along his coat, finally pressing against his chin. The blade, like a distorted mirror, clearly reflected his face, squeezed and deformed in the other man's grip.
Hall's vision blurred, not from tears, but from pure, freezing terror. His gaze was fixed on the narrow flat area of the short knife near the hilt.
"Yes, yes… Lord Falcone's will…"
Hall was still terrified, but ironically, he felt a measure of calm.
It's only two children. I'll just refuse to take them into custody. It's no big deal.
"Very good. I hope you don't forget. Merry Christmas, Mr. Randolph."
The arm around his neck loosened, and Hall bent over, coughing violently. When he finally caught his breath and straightened up, he looked around.
The area was empty. The person was long gone. Only across the street, in a giant storefront window, a finely crafted plaster angel model floated above a glittering "Happy Holidays" sign, gently smiling down upon the street.
"The performance should have been flawless…"
Jay slipped into the car. He removed the old coat he had specially procured, vigorously rubbed his face, and pulled a small square box from around his neck.
"Nygma's voice modulator is really good," he muttered, starting the engine.
After driving a few blocks, the car pulled into an empty underpass. Jay took out a discarded fuel drum, tossed the coat, gloves, and mask into it, poured gasoline over them, and lit a fire.
"No wonder so many people like being villains. Being a bad guy is genuinely exhilarating."
He used the firelight to count the cash he had swiped—about five or six hundred dollars in various denominations. "Power over life and death, quick money, and no taxes. It's truly difficult to be good, and so easy to go bad."
Will I truly become like this someday?
He watched the flames burn for a while. After they gradually died down, he got back into the car. Beneath the night sky, the sound of gunfire in the city grew louder and more intense.
"Good night, Gotham. But… I'm afraid it will be difficult."
Over the next few days, a miracle occurred: nothing of consequence happened.
As expected, Child Protective Services refused to take custody of the Harper siblings, citing failure to meet medical conditions, leaving them at the clinic.
Their father, Marcus, finally surfaced at the Central Precinct, but the reason was theft and aggravated assault.
Jay figured he wouldn't be getting out anytime soon.
Aside from that, everything was quiet.
Since the return of the "Scourge of Gotham," Jay had developed a habit of reading the newspaper daily.
But the papers only reported that the billionaire Bruce Wayne was maintaining his schedule of attending group meetings and dating supermodels.
There were no reports whatsoever of the Dark Knight.
"He has this much patience?" Jay glanced at his watch.
It was a Rolex steel model, sent to him by Waylon from Metropolis not long ago, retailing for about five thousand dollars.
He had initially thought about selling it for cash. But thinking it was a gesture from Waylon, he decided to keep it and wear it himself.
Well, that's good. The later young Master Wayne starts messing around, the later Gotham will descend into chaos.
The only thing that annoyed him was that Wayne Enterprises, out of respect for James Gordon, donated a batch of equipment and supplies to the GCPD Central Precinct.
The East Precinct didn't get a single hair.
Now Jay finally understood Bob's mood. But there was nothing to do except have the Chief swallow his pride and apply to Central again later.
He looked out the window at the pure white, snow-covered rooftops and streets, then looked at the officers in the hall decorating with ribbons and ornaments. He turned to Allen and asked, "Today is Christmas Day. Are you a believer?"
"Yes, Sir. My whole family is."
"Good for you," Jay said.
Just then, his phone rang. Jay pulled it out, glanced at the screen, shook his head, and stood up, walking into the outside corridor.
"Don't you dare tell me you checked yourself out of the hospital!"
"Of course not. Actually… actually… ha! I got caught by the nurse." Wilson's voice was still cheerful and cheeky. "Who would want to spend Christmas in a hospital, after all!"
"If you want to be a cripple for the rest of your life, keep on messing around." Jay's decent mood from the morning vanished, and he couldn't help but sigh. "So what is it?"
"So are you coming to the hospital tonight to celebrate Christmas? The Lisa sisters are coming, and I hear that Selina chick from last time is also showing up."
"No way!"
Jay immediately refused the suggestion. "I'm on duty at the precinct tonight."
"WTF? That bastard Bob is making you work tonight?"
"I asked for it. I don't believe in the whole virgin birth story anyway." Jay lowered his voice and chuckled. "Honestly, I pity Joseph the carpenter."
Wilson's laugh on the phone was a loud, honking cackle. "Bro, if a believer heard that, they would absolutely kill you!"
"Otherwise? Why do you think I snuck out to the corridor to take this call?"
"You were ready to commit that blasphemy all along, weren't you?"
Hahahahaha…
Both men burst into unrestrained laughter. It feels as if everything in Gotham is beautiful.
——————
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