Jude woke up on the sidewalk.
No memory of being moved. No sensation of travel. One moment he'd been talking to Batman in the hotel room, the next he was outside in the cold, his breath misting in the pre-dawn air.
Classic.
"That's the end of this matter." Batman's voice came from somewhere above. A shadow among shadows. "Next time you encounter something, call Gordon directly. Don't take any more risks. Gotham is dangerous enough as it is."
"Wait."
Jude dug through his jacket pocket and pulled out a small glass bottle. The liquid inside caught the streetlight, amber and innocent-looking. He tossed it gently into the darkness.
Batman caught it without a sound.
"Specially made apple juice," Jude said. "Heals wounds fast. Battle-ready. Don't ask about the recipe because I won't tell you." He paused. "If you don't want it, throw it away. I don't care."
Silence.
No response. No bottle hitting pavement.
Jude waited another three seconds, then turned toward the hotel entrance. Behind him, nothing. Batman had already vanished, taking the juice with him.
Some things never changed.
The next morning, the Wayne Charitable Foundation made two announcements.
First: free reconstruction aid for all properties damaged in last night's fire. Materials, labor, the whole package. Gotham's residents would wake up to find their destroyed homes already being rebuilt.
Jude read the notice and felt nothing. Not his house. Not his problem.
Second announcement hit harder.
The Wayne Foundation was cutting thirty percent of the Gotham Fire Department's funding, effective immediately. The press release was professionally diplomatic, but the message was clear: If fire trucks can't arrive within five to fifteen minutes of a call, they don't need this much money.
Not an unreasonable demand. Wayne money had paved Gotham's roads, expanded the subway system, modernized the airport. The infrastructure was there. The fire department just chose not to use it.
Last night had been deliberate. Everyone knew it. The Foundation knew it.
Batman definitely knew it.
Jude folded the newspaper and smiled grimly. Nothing said "I'm disappointed in you" quite like a billionaire cutting your budget.
But Gotham's real headline wasn't corporate punishment or reconstruction efforts.
It was snow.
Heavy, thick, relentless snow that had started falling sometime around 3 AM and showed no signs of stopping. By morning, the entire city wore white like an ill-fitting suit, transforming Gotham's usual noir grimness into something almost... pretty.
Jude stood at the hotel window and stared.
Ice coated the buildings. Snow buried the streets. The bare trees looked like skeletal hands reaching for a sky they'd never touch, and the evergreens sagged under the weight of their winter burden. Somewhere below, children shrieked and threw snowballs, their laughter sharp in the cold air.
December had arrived in full force.
He breathed deep. The air burned cold in his lungs, turned to mist when he exhaled. Through the hotel window he could see it: Santa Clauses painted on storefronts, strings of pale yellow lights being hung across streets, the occasional person wearing a Christmas hat despite it being weeks away from the actual holiday.
People were smiling.
In Gotham. Actually smiling.
It was deeply unsettling.
The Christmas atmosphere reminded him of something else, something older. The New Year. The lights, the decorations, the anticipation of family and food and a brief window when the world felt less hostile.
He used to love it as a kid. The whole month of celebration. Not just one day, but weeks of preparation and joy. His family would visit the shrine together, hang the bamboo decorations, spend days simmering stocks and packing the lacquered food boxes, scrubbing the house until it gleamed.
Now? He hadn't heard the temple bells in years. Didn't have time to deep-clean anything. Rice cakes and soba noodles weren't special anymore, just starch. New Year's Eve was spent working. The elders were dying off one by one, and the family connections were fraying like old rope.
Was it him? Had he gotten too cynical, too numb? Or had life just gotten... smaller? Fewer surprises. Less magic. More bills.
Jude wasn't sure. What he did know was that even though the celebrations had faded, he still missed them. Missed the warmth. Missed belonging to something.
You only miss home after you've left it.
And his home was now several realities away. Out of reach didn't even begin to cover it.
He leaned his forehead against the cold glass. Outside, snow continued to fall.
Maybe I should make Toshikoshi Soba, he thought absently. It's not New Year's Eve yet, but who cares? If I want to slurp those noodles, I'll do it.
The thought settled something in his chest. Small comfort, but comfort nonetheless.
Of course, boiling broth and noodles required a kitchen. Which required a home. Which brought him back to his current problem: he was technically homeless.
The Burnley hotel was fine. Clean, safe, boring. But expensive. Not can't afford it expensive—his $35,000 stash could cover months of hotel living. Just... wasteful. He'd spent too long being poor to feel comfortable burning through money on something as basic as a roof.
Old habits died hard.
"Right," he said to the empty room. "Car first. If nothing else works, I'll sleep in the Death Car tonight. At least it's got heating."
And a reputation that kept thieves away. Small blessings.
He grabbed his jacket and headed out.
The newsstand on the corner was run by an old man who never smiled and always overcharged. Jude bought a newspaper anyway. Fifty cents for yesterday's news.
He flipped through it while walking. The usual Gotham fare: gang shootout in the Narrows, three hospitalized. GCPD corruption scandal, page six. Batman spotted in East Town, no arrests made. Some Falcone lieutenant found hanging upside-down from a gargoyle with a concussion and a broken wrist.
Standard weekday.
Then something actually useful caught his eye.
WAYNE FOUNDATION EXPANDS WINTER RELIEF EFFORTS
As temperatures drop and heavy snowfall blankets Gotham City, philanthropist Bruce Wayne has announced increased funding for local orphanages and homeless shelters. "No child should freeze in winter," Wayne stated at a press conference yesterday. "Gotham takes care of its own."
The Wayne Foundation has established emergency relief centers throughout the city, offering temporary shelter, hot meals, and winter clothing to Gotham's homeless population. In addition, the Foundation is hiring for paid positions assisting with public welfare work. Interested individuals should contact their nearest relief center for details.
Jude stopped walking.
Paid positions. Winter work. Exactly what he needed.
He read the article twice more, memorizing addresses. The nearest relief center was in Burnley, ten blocks north. Easy walk. And if Wayne was funding it, the pay would probably be decent. The man threw money at Gotham's problems like he was trying to bury them under dollar bills.
Sometimes it even worked.
Jude refolded the newspaper and tucked it under his arm. The system was being unusually quiet, which meant it was probably cooking up something—
SYSTEM NOTIFICATION