While Damian and Clayface talked atop Wayne Tower, someone elsewhere in Gotham was also waiting for a date.
Not everyone liked quiet places untouched by wind and rain. Sometimes, waiting on the rooftop of a small building with an umbrella and a cigarette was not a bad choice either.
The Bat-Signal lit up after a long absence. It should not have been lit.
But now, there was someone standing beside the searchlight in a brown trench coat, wearing old-fashioned glasses and holding a cigarette between his lips.
His gaze was fixed on the darkness beyond the horizon, as if dawn were still impossibly far away.
As though the past were repeating itself, cigarette butts were tossed down one after another and immediately extinguished by the rain. He waited patiently for the Dark Knight to arrive.
The sound of landing on the rooftop was insignificant amid the wind and rain. Her agile movements were enough to negate the drawbacks of high-heeled boots, but Barbara was currently filled with worry, and she was in a very bad mood.
In this city of lunatics, some people imitated Joker, while others imitated Batwoman. There were too many to count. But she had never imagined that someone would imitate her father—and do it so convincingly.
Was this some new kind of mental illness? Or a new Chameleon killer? What exactly did the other party intend by turning on the Bat-Signal?
That was why she had hurried to this familiar place, the Gotham Police Department.
After her mother died, her father had brought her here to play from a young age so he could look after her while working.
She ate lousy doughnuts as all three meals in the break room, did her homework on the desks in empty observation rooms, and secretly watched officers interrogate