The lights of Wayne Tower remained in the previous scene, like a charity bill that had just been closed.
The view sank downward, underground. Stone walls swallowed the rain, leaving only the mainframe's low hum and dripping water in the Batcave, cold as Gotham's last scrap of conscience.
The man sitting before the screens was no longer Bruce Wayne.
The suit, the tie, and the smile fit for the entire city to curse at through media cameras were gone. A black cape hung behind the chair like an unsigned arrest warrant.
When young Master Wayne could not solve something, it was Batman's turn to administer justice, meow.
Batman chose to look at delivery first.
Crime loved logistics. It loved routes, signatures, receipts, and spreadsheets, because once the wheels started rolling, a great many sins looked like ordinary work.
The lunch batch for East End No. 7 Public Middle School appeared on the main screen.
Loading, dispatch, arrival at school, acceptance, completion. Five timestamps lined up neatly, as pretty as a carefully crafted, heavily padded résumé.
Temperature control records: compliant throughout. Abnormality
records: none.
The cowl did not offer a frowning service, but his chin alone made it clear that the bat was in a decidedly ugly mood.
The corners of his mouth dropped by 36.666°.
The delivery truck's GPS route was pulled up. A white refrigerated truck had departed South Shore Central Kitchen and followed the main roads to East End No. 7 Public Middle School, with no detours, no unusual stops, and no signal loss.
Even its waits at traffic lights matched the average traffic model.
Very well-behaved.
Too well-behaved.
That alone was already wrong.
A Gotham vehicle driving from the South Shore to the East End ought to encounter at least one junkie who staged accidents for a