The alley behind the Iceberg Lounge.
Rain poured down, washing grease and garbage off the ground. Bruce leaned against the weathered brick wall and ripped off the bow tie of his bespoke Armani suit, letting the icy rain soak his expensive tailored shirt.
In his earpiece, Alfred's crisp keystrokes rattled in a frantic, uneven rhythm as the old butler tracked the two vehicles involved. On the other end of the comms, Harvey Dent's hoarse shouts still echoed through the rainy night, seething with agitation and violence.
Lives hung in the balance on both sides.
On the left was Jack Napier. The lowly porter who had handed him half a piece of moldy bread in the mud. A coward who could not even bring himself to kill a chicken, who wanted nothing more than to buy a crib for his unborn child, was being dragged toward the toxic chemical district by Loeb's crooked cops.
On the right was James Gordon. The ally within the system whom Bruce had personally chosen, a man who could cut out Gotham's cancer in broad daylight. A father driven into a corner was walking alone into Loeb's death trap, carrying the Cipher Ledger that could turn Gotham upside down.
Which side should he choose?
Gotham had mercilessly slapped this bloody choice in his face.
He was only one man. He could not be in two places at once. If he saved one, the other would die.
Reason offered the coldest answer: save Gordon. The ledger was the only key to bringing down the corrupt system, and Gordon was the cornerstone of the order they would rebuild.
Jack was merely an ant crushed beneath a vast machine. Countless Jacks died in the East End's filthy gutters every day. He was insignificant.
Yet Bruce's legs felt filled with