Wisps of smoke hung in the air despite the last cigarette being stubbed out hours ago. The thick, overwhelming stench would make anyone choke if they were to step inside, but not James.

Like most things in life, he had grown accustomed to it. Enjoyed it even. It was a horrible odor, yes. But it was one that reminded him of much happier times, times when smoking was the worst of his problems. Perhaps his worst problem.

If only Barbara could see him now. How disappointed she would be in him.

An aching pain shot through his chest at even just the thought of her name. With a groan, he adjusted his weight at a more comfortable angle. He knew this pain all too well by now. It started in his abdomen right where the scars were before rippling out to the rest of his body.

Scars. That's all he had now, all that remained. But they had been deep enough that no matter how much time passed, they would never completely fade.

But as James came to learn, some wounds never completely healed either.

So he did what he could to numb them. At first, he threw himself into his work. When that wasn't enough, he tried something stronger. Whether that be alcohol, cigarettes, or some of Barbara's leftover painkillers, he drowned out his sorrows until his mind was nothing more than a haze of incoherent thoughts and blurred memories.

It never worked.

His heart was broken beyond repair. And nothing could fix it besides maybe death.

Funny how he thought more about death now than he did when his life was actually in danger back as a detective.

He often imagined how he would do it. Pills would be the least painful, but would probably take the longest. A gunshot to the head would be the quickest, but also the messiest. Maybe he could just drive off the bridge and into the Gotham River. If the impact didn't kill him instantly, then the shock of the icy waters would.

But like the coward he was, he could never go through with. So he settled with his imagination, conjuring up more and more graphic deaths for himself. Anything to ease this aching heart of his.

Sometimes, he wondered if his punishment wasn't a gruesome death but an empty life. Hell wasn't burning in some eternal inferno, but rather stuck alone in the dark with no friends, no family, and no one you cared about.

A flash of blue eclipsed his face as the Gotham City News logo filled the screen in front. Was it time for the evening news already?

"Good evening, I'm Vicki Vale." The red-headed reporter smiled at the camera. She was no longer the young, pretty reporter James last saw her as, which was at the wedding shower. Time had left its mark on her in the form of crow's feet and thinning hair.

As if he had any right to talk. It wasn't like time had been kind to him either.

His attention suddenly shifted to the top right corner where a missing person's poster flashed on-screen. It was a poster he hadn't seen in years, not since the last of them were finally torn down by local delinquents or washed away by the harsh, unforgiving elements.

Of course, it was a poster he would never forget even if he wanted to. And oh, how he wanted to. He had been the one who created it, the one who had picked the image. It was one of the last photos he had of his daughter, taken at the shower. Bruce had been kind enough to give it to him after Barbara went missing, telling him he needed it more.

The reason it must be on TV filled him with dread. So this was it. Although he knew what was coming, hearing it along with the rest of Gotham would hit differently.

"After seven long years, Barbara Gordon has officially been declared dead," Vicki continued. "Gordon, who was the daughter of former police commissioner James Gordon, went missing back in 1982 after a devastating fire at the Gotham Superior Courthouse. Though most bodies were recovered, Gordon's was not, and the case was officially closed today. GCN reached out to the former police commissioner, but received no comment."

Why would he? What left was there to say that hadn't been said already?

But more than that, he saw through these hungry vultures who were always on the hunt for a new way to humiliate him. These people had ruined his reputation, his career by painting him out as the grief-stricken, barely functioning father obsessed with his missing daughter.

But by what right did they have to judge him? Had any of them lost their daughters?

Yes, he had spent every moment outside of work trying to find her. Spent every penny he owned too. On search teams, on posters, on anything that might help him find his little girl.

He talked to anyone who would listen. Did interview after interview, never once tired of repeating the same thing over and over again if it led to something.

It never led to anything. It was like Barbara had vanished into thin air.

A beaming smile quickly replaced the grim expression on Vicki's face as she flipped through the stack of papers in hand.

"Earlier today, Richard Wayne officially opened the One Gotham housing projects as part of his affordable housing program for the city. Construction started back last year and was met with overwhelming support. Mr. Wayne initially launched this program, hoping it would help families living beneath the poverty level."

The screen switched and Vicki was replaced by the tall, unbelievably handsome Richard Wayne. Eyes as blue as the ocean and hair as dark as the night, he was the spitting image of his father. Even after all these years, it still boggled James's mind that they weren't related in any way.

"Gotham has been my home for several years. But for many people, it has not. For the estimated thirty thousand homeless people and even more living beneath the poverty line, Gotham has not been their home." He glanced around at the crowd gathered in front of him, making eye contact with seemingly everyone. For a second, James even thought he was staring at him, somehow finding his gaze through the screen. He had that effect on people, making them feel like he was directly talking to them. It was the same effect Bruce used to have.

"I believe this new housing complex will finally provide the home so many of these people could only dream of." He offered up a bright grin to the crowd, one that instantly earned him a round of applause. "In my time of need, it was Bruce, my adoptive father, who did the same for me. I hope this program will honor his memory and the legacy he left behind in this city."

The crowd erupted into cheers as Richard was handed a pair of scissors to cut the blue ribbon draped across the building.

Bruce would be proud of him. Though he had started various charities and funded many social programs, it was Richard who ensured their survival, going so far as to increase their numbers and funding.

It was hard to believe this was the same hormonal boy he had kicked out of his house all those years ago.

A sad smile came to James's face at the thought. At least Richard got to grow old and have a future, something his Barbara might never have.

He hoped if Barbara was still out there in the world that she was at least happy. As much as it might pang him, he would rather it be she left on her own accord and just didn't want to be found. At least he could understand that, could live with it.

He never dared considered the alternative.

Not wanting to hear the weather report, James shut off the TV with a deep sigh. Running a hand over his unshaven face, he remained still for a few seconds, thinking about what he should do next.

He glanced at the glass dish filled with ash and burnt cigarette butts and heaved another sigh. Beside it was a picture of him giving Barbara a piggyback ride back when he could still carry her without his back hating him for it.

Back when the world was a kinder and less dangerous place. And the thought of his daughter didn't make him want to reach for his gun and shove the muzzle down his throat.

Just as he reached for the photo, there was a sharp knock, almost like a bang, pounding at the door.

For a moment, he froze, letting the picture frame slip from his fingers and hit the floor with a crash.

Something was wrong here. No one came to visit him, not anymore. And James highly doubted any salesperson would be out at this hour. Not unless they wanted to get mugged.

Frowning, James carefully made his way around the bottles and cans littering the ground towards the front door.

"Hello?" He pressed himself against the door, trying to see who was on the other side. But the only thing he could see was a bright green. "Who's there?"

The aggressive knocking cut off instantly.

"I asked, who's there?" he repeated, his patience quickly growing thin. Damn it, he didn't have time for this.

"Is Jim Gordon here?" a soft voice, almost like a child's, called out.

James faltered, alarms going off in his head. Had they just called him 'Jim?' That was a name he hadn't heard in years. Only three people had ever called him that. His ex-wife. Bruce Wayne. And his former partner.

"Uh, yes..." he trailed off before recovering his bravado. "This is him... Why?"

The voice didn't respond, and James would've thought they had left if it hadn't been for that same green outside the peephole.

Just what was that exactly?

There was a light chuckle from the other side. "Well, looks like today is your lucky day, Jim."

"What is this?" James slammed his fist against the door, tired of this cryptic game. "Who are you? How the hell do you know my name–"

"Relax, Jim." The crack in the person's voice told James it belonged to a teenager. A male one, to be exact. "I'm a friend. Or I'm about to be after you hear me out."

James blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Have you ever wondered what happened that night at the courthouse? What exactly it was you saw?"

What kind of question was that? Of course, he had. How many times had he lied awake at night, staring up at the ceiling, the image of Pamela's once beautiful face burned into his mind as it transformed into something hideous? Something inhuman.

It was an image no amount of booze could erase.

And though it haunted him day and night, James had kept it to himself, knowing no one would ever believe him. If he wasn't already knocking on Arkham's door, then this would for sure get him checked in. Maybe he and Harvey Dent could be cellmates.

So he convinced himself what he saw must've been an illusion, a trick of the light. After all, it had been chaos in there, and he wasn't exactly thinking clearly.

But deep down, he knew what he saw was no trick.

"All the time," he finally muttered.

"What if I told you what you saw wasn't a mirage or your mind messing with you?" the stranger continued, his voice dropping to something barely more than a whisper. "What if I told you about pale creatures with elongated faces and teeth as sharp as blades? Creatures found in the deep, forgotten pages of history who were said to appear when night fell, their eyes burning brighter than any fire?"

A lengthy pause followed as the words sank in, planting a seed of doubt in James's already fertile mind.

"Creatures touched by death and cursed with the taste of blood. Human blood."

James swallowed, his tongue glued to the roof of his hot, dry mouth. "I would say you're crazy."

The voice snickered. "Funny, your daughter probably thought the same thing."

It was as if a beast had been released at the mention of Barbara. "What do you know about my daughter?" James roared, his hand gripped tight over the latch. "You son of a bitch, what the hell did you do to her?"

"Me? I had nothing to do with that." His voice cracked again. "But I know who did."

James's face grew ashen, his mind short-circuiting with possibilities. "You–You do?"

Was this it? Was this finally it? After all these years, had the answer come quite literally knocking at his door?

No, he reminded himself. He would be a fool to get his hopes up now. How many times had he ended up disappointed before? This was probably just another scammer wanting the reward money.

"You people just never stop, do you?" James released his grasp off the latch and turned his back on the door. "Well, unless you bring her here, you're not getting a cent–"

"I don't want your freaking money," the voice interrupted. "What I want is much more valuable than any reward. And it's what you want too. You just don't know it yet."

James glanced over his shoulder, his brows knitting together. "And what is that?"

"The head of the man who did this." Venom dripped from his every word, but it was the next two that made James's blood run cold.

"Bruce Wayne."

"That... That's not possible..." He shook his head. "Bruce would have never... And even if he did, he's dead!"

A cackle rang out from the other side. "Oh, you poor bastard! If only you knew!" He laughed again, but it wasn't a normal type of laugh. No, this sounded cold and void of any humor. Like how a dead man would laugh.

"What? You saw a funeral on TV and thought Bruce was lying in that casket?"
The stranger howled with laughter. "Well, he's been lying all right."

James fell back against the wall, his hand clutching his racing heart. "I don't understand–"

"It's easy to do when your son shares the same face like you."

What? He couldn't mean... Richard? The thought was almost too much for him, and if he hadn't caught a glimpse of something even stranger in the form of Pamela, his brain might've actually splintered in two.

No. There was no way Bruce could be Richard. That was beyond any realm of possibility. James had watched that funeral procession like the rest of Gotham. He had seen the casket, the mourners, Richard. Granted, it wasn't the young man James last saw him as, but now a fully grown man–

Oh, God.

"He's stolen something from you, Jim. Just like he stole something from me too. From all of us." His words drifted past the door, sounding as if he were standing right beside James instead of on the outside. "But I can help you get it back."

"No. You can't." James pressed his forehead against the cool wood of the door, still trying to process what he had just learned.

There was a time when James thought he knew everything and everyone. As a former detective, he couldn't afford to have the wool pulled over his eyes. But how much had he really known his friend? About as well as he knew Pamela?

"Bruce ain't dead..." The stranger's soft hiss brought James back to reality, a reality where he was completely and utterly alone. "And neither is your daughter."

James snapped his head up, his nightmarish reality suddenly shattering to pieces. "What?"

Either the stranger hadn't heard him or didn't care enough to answer since he continued talking, seemingly to no one in particular. "You see, that's the funny thing about the truth."

"Enough games! Tell me where she is!" James's fist was clenched back over the latch, his trembling fingers struggling to undo the deadbolt.

Every instinct in him was begging him not to unlock that door, but he didn't give a shit. He knew this was potentially a setup and the moment he opened this door, he'd be shot. He knew there was something off about a young teenager conversing with a grown man so late at night. He knew whatever was on the other side of this door was not good, but if it could give him even the smallest scrap of hope, then he would gladly invite it in.

"You can try hiding it."

This was what he had been reduced to, a scavenger greedily chasing after traces of his daughter. And he would continue chasing after her until he found her, even if it came at the cost of his life.

Besides, what did he have to lose that hadn't been lost already?

"You can try killing it."

Damn it! Why couldn't he get this stupid lock opened?

"But you can never bury it."

"Who are you?" The door swung back as James stormed outside, only to find nothing but the flickering porch light on the other side.

"What the hell..." He glanced around into the night, listening for the faintest sound of where they had run off to. But not even the sole of someone's shoe as it padded across the pavement echoed through the darkness.

How–How had they left so fast? And without even making the slightest noise? That wasn't possible. No one was that stealthy.

Shivering, James wrapped his arms around himself and started to turn back. But as he did, he noticed something left by the door that definitely wasn't there before.

A black duffel bag.

He could only imagine what was tucked inside, but there was really only one way to find out. Fearing the worst, James took a deep breath of the crisp November air and slowly unzipped the bag.

It was the last thing he ever expected.

Dozens upon dozens of wooden stakes were neatly arranged in the bag. They were all roughly the same size, but where they differed was in their color. Some were light as if they had been carved from spruce wood, while others were dark and looked as if they had come from a cherry tree.

He shifted through the bag, confused as to why this had been left here. What did these stakes have to do with anything? With Barbara?

Barbara.

At the thought of her name, his fingers brushed against a piece of paper. He seized it in his hand and brought it up into the light, a sharp gasp leaving his throat once he realized what it was.

Though it was faded and badly creased, there was no mistaking what it was. Not with her smiling face staring right at him and the words 'MISSING' directly above it.

Clutching the poster in his fist, James gazed at the bag lying by his feet with a chilling stare. This wasn't the first time he had come across such an object.

And it wasn't the first time Bruce and Richard's names had been associated with said object.

Barbara, the stake, Pamela. It was all starting to come together. Yet, the question remained, just what exactly had happened to his daughter? What had she stumbled across? And most importantly, what did Bruce Wayne have to do with all this?

Yes, there was a time when James thought he knew everything and everyone. But the truth was he knew nothing. He was as blind as blind could be.

Now, he intended to change that.

The time of being lost in the dark, stumbling around, was over. Even if it meant burning down this whole godforsaken city himself, he would find the light again.

He would find his daughter.

With the poster gripped tight against his chest, James stared up out into the night and listened. From far in the distance, the familiar wails of sirens cried out, loud and miserable.

Just like the rest of Gotham.