Chapter 6: Shadows in Blue

The warehouse reeked of burnt gunpowder, bleach, and blood.

Detective James Gordon moved cautiously through the haze—one hand on the grip of his holstered sidearm, the other brushing aside coils of smoke still drifting from shattered light fixtures above. The place was a drug lab—or had been. Whatever operation ran out of this building had been dismantled with surgical, brutal efficiency.

Gordon was tall and wiry, mid-40s, with a jaw like granite and dark blond hair already streaked with gray. His mustache was neatly trimmed, his suit wrinkled from too many nights slept in his office chair. His coat, once brown, had faded to a weary shade of trench gray.

But his eyes—sharp behind wire-framed glasses—missed nothing.

He stepped over the first body. Not dead—unconscious, zip-tied at the wrists and ankles, his face a swollen pulp of bruises and broken pride. Gordon paused beside a forklift, noting a mound of bagged narcotics behind it. Some of the packages had been torn open—like someone had made a statement, not just a bust.

“Jesus,” came a voice behind him.

Harvey Bullock entered like a one-man storm. He was thick, barrel-chested, with a gut that strained the buttons of his cheap tan coat. His tie was loose, shirt stained with donut glaze and sweat. His fedora sat low over piggish eyes, and a stubby cigar clung to the corner of his lip like it was welded there.

He looked around the room and grunted.

“You smell that? That’s money burning.”

Bullock stepped past Gordon and nudged a bloodied thug with his foot.

“Bat-boy do all this?”

Gordon didn’t answer. He just kept moving deeper into the warehouse.

They found more bodies—alive, groaning, tied to steel beams or slumped against pallets of chemicals. Some had bruises, others clean fractures. All bore signs of being taken down hard and fast.

Taped to the wall above a smashed desk was a nightclub flyer.

“Tell Carmine I’m not impressed.” Scribbled in black ink.

Bullock read it and spat on the floor. “Real theatrical.”

Renee Montoya was already taking statements outside.

Twenty-five, barely out of the academy, she still had that fresh shine in her dark eyes—hope that hadn’t yet been beaten out of her by the city. Her hair was cropped short and neat, her GCPD jacket a size too big. She had a clean jawline, sharp cheekbones, and a small scar on the side of her neck that she never talked about.

She ducked back into the building as Gordon and Bullock exited the side door into the alley.

“Sir,” she said, pointing toward a figure on the curb. “One of the runners—he’s talking.”

The kid couldn’t have been older than nineteen. Blood dripped from his nose. His hands were cuffed behind his back, legs trembling as he rocked in place on the edge of the sidewalk.

Gordon crouched beside him.

“You saw him?”

The runner nodded quickly, lips trembling.

“Y-yeah, man. He came outta nowhere. Smoke and shadows. Just—bam—outta the fuckin’ ceiling.”

“You see his face?”

The kid shook his head violently. “Nah. Just—just white eyes. Like lights. I swear to God, I thought I was dreaming.”

Bullock rolled his eyes and exhaled a lungful of cigar smoke.

“Hear that, Jimbo? We’re hunting bloody ghosts now.”

Montoya couldn’t help but grin. “Come on, Detective. You gotta admit—it’s kinda badass.”

Bullock looked at her sideways. “You got a thing for maniacs in tights, Montoya?”

She shrugged. “Better than the maniacs in suits we’re working for.”

That drew a subtle twitch from Gordon’s mouth. The closest he came to a smile.

But it didn’t last.

He stood and looked down the alley, past the broken bodies and flashing lights, past the shadows beyond.

“This guy isn’t a myth,” he muttered. “He’s real. And he’s working faster than we are.”

“Which makes him a problem,” Bullock said. He drew his revolver, flicked it open, and checked the rounds.

“Next time I see this freak, I ain’t asking questions.”

Gotham Heights — Night

The door to the Gordon apartment clicked open against the quiet hum of the building. Jim stepped inside on tired feet, shutting it with the careful pressure of a man who’d learned the art of silence in a city that rarely gave him any.

The apartment was modest—two bedrooms, one bathroom, and just enough space for the family to live without tripping over each other. It smelled faintly of chamomile tea and lavender dryer sheets, the scent wrapping around him like a gentle reminder that the world outside was not all sirens and gunpowder.

Only one light was on—a soft yellow glow spilling from under the kitchen door. The rest of the place sat in shadow. He hung his coat on the peg by the door, unclipped his holster, and set the weight of his service pistol quietly on the counter. His shoulders sagged.

It had been a long day. Hell, it had been a long week. His palms were still gritty with city grime, his stomach empty since the stale coffee and bagel he’d had at dawn. But he didn’t care. Coming home was its own kind of meal.

“Daddy?”

He turned.

His daughter greeted him in a gray hoodie and sweatpants. Barbara Gordon. Fifteen years old. Beautiful in the way that made protective fathers lose sleep. She was tall for a girl, long-legged and toned from gymnastics, volleyball, and some fencing classes she never let him watch. Her long, bright red hair—inherited from her mother—fell down her back in a thick wave, and her blue eyes seemed almost luminous in the dim light. He loved her more than he could put into words ... and in a city like Gotham, he was absolutely terrified for her.

“Babs,” he said, his voice softening into a smile. “You’re still up?”

She shrugged, padding into the kitchen. “Mom fell asleep on the couch watching that cooking competition—you know, the one where everyone cries when they burn soup?”

Jim huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah, I know the one.”

Barbara poured herself a glass of orange juice, leaning on the counter. She looked like a kid and a young woman all at once—dangerous territory for a father.

“There’s another news report about him,” she said.

Jim’s smile faded just slightly. “Him?”

Her voice dropped to a whisper. “The Batman.”

He didn’t answer.

“They said he stopped a human smuggling ring last night—guys moving girls through the harbor district. Took out six men before the cops even showed up.”

Barbara’s eyes searched his face. “Do you think it’s true? About the armor? The cape? The eyes?”

Jim raised an eyebrow. “You believe in boogeymen now?”

“I believe in justice,” she replied without hesitation. “Even if it has to wear a cape.”

They stared at each other for a moment before Barbara’s lips curled into a smirk. “You don’t like him, do you?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you’re thinking it.”

He ruffled her hair on his way past. “You’re too smart for your own good.”

She grinned, sipping her juice. “Maybe. But if I ever meet him, I’m getting an autograph.”

“Go to bed, Babs.”

“Make me,” she called over her shoulder, sticking her tongue out playfully as she disappeared down the hall.

A soft voice came from behind him. “Don’t tease your father, Babs,” Sarah called as she entered the kitchen, robe tied loosely at the waist, her eyes warm despite the yawn tugging at them.

Jim turned toward her, his fatigue easing in her presence. She stepped close, resting a hand on his chest. “Long night?”

He nodded, too tired to find the words.

She smiled faintly. “Come on. Sit. I’ll warm up some tea.”

And for the first time that day, Jim Gordon felt the knot in his chest loosen. The city could wait until morning. Tonight, he was just a husband, a father, and—for a few stolen minutes—a man at peace.

Warehouse on Harlowe and 9^th – Midnight.

The warehouse sat in grim silence, a forgotten relic nestled between shuttered storefronts and cracked sidewalks. Its weather-beaten siding hung loose in places, rust eating through metal sheets like decay itself had claimed it. No flicker of security cameras. No official signage. Only a battered padlock holding back the secrets within, and a solitary yellow bulb overhead that flickered sporadically, casting a sickly glow over the loading dock.

But Gordon had learned to read between the shadows.

The tip was too specific to ignore—an anonymous voice dropping breadcrumbs across three recent cases. And with each clue, the whisper grew louder, the suspicion sharper. That voice ... it felt like something with wings, haunting the edges of Gotham’s rot.

Inside, the GCPD tactical team moved like ghosts. Ten officers, lean and ready—pistols silenced, bodies armored beneath their coats. Gordon led the charge, Montoya at his side, her expression razor-sharp. Behind them, Bullock grumbled, his heavy boots thudding against the concrete.

“This better not be another wild goose chase,” Bullock muttered under his breath, voice thick with skepticism. “Last time I followed one of your gut feelings, I ended up with two cracked ribs and a dead rat in my car.”