"Let me tell you my darkest secret. Whenever one of my officers died in the line of duty, I hated the feeling of having to notify their family as commissioner."
In the darkness, a gloomy voice rang out. There was no light in this cell, because it was located beneath the Hall of Justice, inside Batwoman's private dungeon.
A man spoke just like that, recounting his innermost thoughts to the people on the other side of the specially reinforced glass.
His voice trembled, sounding utterly sincere.
"Gotham's officers always died tragically. They died from Joker gas, were turned into little pigs by Professor Pyg, or torn to pieces by Bane. Day after day, it kept repeating."
"I couldn't possibly have known every victim well, so most of the time, I had to pretend to be sad, go to their homes, tell their loved ones the bad news, and then lie."
As he said this, the person in the prison shuffled forward with difficulty. His entire body was trapped in a straitjacket, the kind commonly kept in asylums.
He moved close to the glass, revealing a pale face filled with madness. His eyes were pitch-black, but he wore a smile.
"I told their grieving families that they had died heroically, that they had saved a child or something else before they died. I never told them the truth—that their deaths had been utterly meaningless."
"This was Gotham, wasn't it? Everyone knew Batwoman would arrive soon enough. We police were always in an awkward position, and the law protected the perpetrators too. They died for nothing, merely letting those lunatics stay in Arkham a few more days to rest. Everyone knew that."
"But my lies were never exposed, because both the victims' families and I could find comfort in them, find meaning