Six p.m., Twelfth Avenue, East End, Gotham City.
The rain had stopped three hours ago. Puddles on the road reflected the gray-white sky. The air carried a mixture of rotting garbage and exhaust from cheap diesel.
Bruce wore an unremarkable gray waterproof jacket and a black knit cap. His hands tucked into his pockets, he walked along the sidewalk at a steady pace.
He had not returned to Wayne Manor. After leaving 22 Lake Street, he had gone straight to a pay phone and asked Alfred to leave a miniature tracking kit and civilian clothes in a designated locker.
At the intersection across the street, James Gordon was patrolling along the curb.
The detective, who had only recently transferred to Gotham, wore a khaki trench coat over a pale blue shirt faded from washing.
He walked slowly, his right hand resting habitually on the edge of his holster. When the nearby vendors saw him, they averted their eyes and lowered their heads to straighten the goods on their stalls.
Thirty meters away, Bruce used the crowd and a roadside newsstand as cover, recording Gordon's every move.
Yang Ming had spoken highly of him. Bruce needed to verify that himself. After taking beatings in the slums and eating moldy brown bread, he no longer trusted words in a file. Gotham's mire could bend anyone's spine. He wanted to see how Gordon truly carried himself in that mire.
Twenty meters ahead, three uniformed officers stood around a cart selling hot dogs and cheap coffee.
Their leader was a potbellied man, Arnold Flass. He held a freshly grilled hot dog. Instead of paying, he took a huge bite, smearing mustard on his stubble.
"Old George, this month's public safety fee is due," Flass said as he chewed, tapping his greasy fingers against the