"Jude, where's that pumpkin you carved yesterday?"
"Yeah, I remember it being pretty unique. Didn't you bring it in today?"
Santos and Castro's questions sounded casual, curious. Innocent.
Jude's smile felt like it might crack his face.
He shouldn't have carved that pumpkin in the restaurant yesterday. Now his coworkers were asking questions he absolutely could not answer honestly. Could he admit the murder pumpkin was his? To Falcone members?
The deceased was Falcone's nephew. The godfather had thrown a lavish celebration for the nephew's wedding just months ago. Spared no expense.
The Falcone organization might be reasonable people. Might listen to explanations.
But probably not when one of their own got assassinated and the key evidence pointed to someone they knew.
Sweating, Jude immediately created a save point. Current moment. Just in case.
Then, with a strained laugh, he pulled out the tiny pumpkin lantern reward from his system inventory.
"Nah, when I was trying to sell them yesterday, I realized nobody wanted something that ugly." He held up the miniature lantern. "Look, still got it right here."
The three men examined it carefully. The pumpkin in Jude's hand was definitely different from the one on TV. But it was similar to yesterday's carving in one critical way.
They were both spectacularly ugly.
"I still feel like these two pumpkins have similar energy," Rick said, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "The style is too close. They both radiate the same abstract ugliness."
"Please don't discriminate against me." Jude's confidence grew as they hesitated. "There are billions of people in the world. Some of us just can't carve pumpkins well. It's not like I'm the only terrible artist out there!"
He drew himself up indignantly. "You're acting like I'm some criminal, but I'm a law-abiding citizen!"
The TV in the corner droned on, filling the awkward silence.
"—according to information provided by the Gotham City Police Department, approximately twenty million dollars in cash stored in a warehouse caught fire on Halloween night, reducing the entire sum to ash. Testing of several samples that escaped the blaze revealed all currency in the warehouse was legal tender, not counterfeit."
Jude's voice trailed off mid-protest.
"However, the amount of funds was exceptionally large, and their origin remains unknown. Police speculate this money was illegally obtained by a criminal organization using the warehouse as temporary storage."
Real money?
Twenty million?
"This also demonstrates that the criminal group in question has been unable to complete their money laundering operations for quite some time, showcasing the efficiency and reliability of the Gotham City Police Department and its ability to deter criminal forces."
Gordon's voice finished the broadcast.
Jude's mouth hung open slightly.
Santos slammed his fist on the table. "Those bastards went too far! If it weren't for that bank manager, the family company would have been—"
"Enough." Philip's voice cut through the outburst. The supervisor walked into the staff area and switched off the TV. "Don't be so crude. We still have customers to serve today. Don't let this affect your work."
Santos gritted his teeth and nodded.
"What's the rush?" Philip's tone carried dark certainty. "Everyone knows you don't touch the Godfather's money casually. No matter who it is, if they dare challenge Falcone's authority, they'll pay the price eventually."
He turned to Jude. "Mr. Sharp, today's conversation was just casual chat between colleagues. I trust you're not one to gossip?"
"Haha, of course! Haha, absolutely." Jude's laugh sounded strangled. His smile looked worse than crying.
Everyone assumed he was nervous about overhearing family business.
Nobody could understand his actual terror.
Twenty million dollars. Real money. Falcone's money.
Three facts. Each more significant than the last. Combined, they brought Jude a special kind of existential dread.
If his previous anxiety level equaled facing a backpack full of blank homework on the last day of summer vacation, his current anxiety equaled the teacher announcing students had to arrive a day early.
While the school was on fire.
And he'd started the fire.
System! You set me up!
"Jude, are you alright?"
Philip suddenly appeared at his shoulder. "Are you sick? Do you need the day off?"
Jude forced another smile and waved the supervisor away. Then he grabbed the newspaper, scanning it desperately. Maybe the reporter had made a mistake. Maybe he'd misheard the broadcast.
Please let it be counterfeit. Please let it be someone else's money. Please let it be a typo.
After thorough verification, he finally lowered the newspaper.
His expression shifted.
Relief washed over him.
Peace. Serenity. Complete acceptance.
[Serenity.jpg]
Well then.
According to the timeline, the cooperation between Falcone Imports and Gotham Bank had dragged on for over half a year. During that period, the Falcone family's money laundering operation had stalled at the final step. Which meant the twenty million dollars represented all of the Falcone organization's current dirty money, waiting to be cleaned through the company.
Not only that—the Falcones were likely coordinating with gangs from other regions. Judging by the company's business scope, probably crime families from New York, Metropolis, Chicago, maybe more.
By burning the money at this critical juncture, Jude hadn't just fought crime.
He'd slapped Falcone across the face.
Publicly.
Great. Wonderful. Fantastic.
So when Falcone discovered that some nobody named Jude Sharp had left his signature ugly pumpkin at the nephew's murder scene, then learned this same person had burned twenty million dollars of family money...
The residents of the East End could enjoy a fireworks show. The kind that launched people and buildings into the sky together.
I can never tell anyone. Ever. Because if I expose myself, I will actually die.
"I want that arsonist dead! I want that cowardly rat, that mysterious murderer, that lawless criminal DEAD!"
In the penthouse apartment overlooking all of Gotham City, Carmine Falcone paced like a caged predator. Three scars marked his face, testament to decades of survival in Gotham's underworld.
"I'm going to cut off their heads and hang them from Wayne Tower! Dump their bodies in the streets! Show everyone in Gotham what happens when you cross the Falcone family!"
This rage was uncommon for him. As Gotham's godfather, as a man known for excellent self-control and refined manners, he rarely lost composure to this degree. Ordinary provocations didn't merit this response.
But today, his network of spies and informants across the entire city had carefully collected every scrap of information about the warehouse fire. They'd investigated, interrogated, searched.
Found nothing.
No leads. No suspects. No one to punish.
That was what broke his legendary calm. He had no target for revenge.
When confronting this kind of situation, he had nowhere to direct his fury. A feeling he hadn't experienced in years. The last time he'd felt this helpless had been facing masked vigilantes like Batman.
Because he couldn't find them. Couldn't find their families. Couldn't make examples of them.
Twenty million dollars, gone. His nephew, murdered. And the perpetrators remained ghosts.