Prometheus smmed his apartment door behind him, the sound echoing through the cramped space like a gunshot. His hands shook with rage as he loosened his tie, yanking it off and hurling it across the room. Twenty-seven years old, with a doctorate in forensic technology, and they'd treated him like a naive child.

  He colpsed into his desk chair, staring at the framed portrait of George Washington that hung above his computer. The first president's steady gaze seemed to judge him, asking the question that had haunted every Washington for generations: *What would you do if you truly could not tell a lie?*

  "They destroyed it," he whispered to the portrait. "Your legacy, our family's purpose—they threw it away because it was inconvenient."

  For a moment, he considered walking away. IBM was hiring. Microsoft always needed smart people. He could take his skills somewhere that would appreciate innovation instead of fearing it. Somewhere clean, corporate, safe.

  But then he thought of Vincent Marquez walking free. Three children dead, and their killer is probably celebrating with expensive wine right now.

  Prometheus turned to look at his home workshop—a converted closet filled with circuit boards, neural interface components, and half-finished prototypes. Enough parts to build another Truth Ray. Maybe two.

  His fingers moved almost without conscious thought, pulling components from shelves, his mind already designing modifications. If he was going to operate outside the system, he needed something more portable, more discreet. The original Truth Ray had looked like a TV remote—hardly intimidating.

  This one would look like what it was: a weapon against deception.

  ---

  The device in Prometheus's hands bore no resembnce to his original creation. Sleek bck metal with silver accents, it looked like something from the future —a pistol designed by someone who understood both form and function. The grip fit perfectly in his palm, the targeting system projected a thin red beam to help with aim, and the power cell could maintain the charge for hours.

  He'd test-fired it on himself repeatedly, fine-tuning the frequency until it was perfect. The effects now sted for approximately thirty to forty-five minutes, depending on the subject's neural resistance, and were completely reversible and non-violent.

  Completely terrifying to anyone who built their life on deception.

  But a weapon was only as good as the person wielding it, and Prometheus Washington, forensic technologist, wouldn't inspire fear in Gotham's criminals. He needed to become someone else. Someone who commanded respect through presence alone.

  The costume hanging in his closet was his masterpiece.

  He'd spent hours researching Revolutionary War uniforms, studying portraits of his ancestor, imagining what George Washington might look like as a shadow warrior. The result was striking: a bck military-style coat with silver buttons, fitted bck pants tucked into knee-high boots, and a bck tricorn hat that cast his face in shadow. White gloves kept his hands clean, and a bck mask covered the upper half of his face.

  It was George Washington as designed by today's tailor—colonial elegance meets modern intimidation.

  Prometheus stripped out of his civilian clothes and began the transformation. The uniform fit perfectly, transforming him from a fired b tech into something that belonged in Gotham's darkest corners. He strapped the Truth Ray to his thigh in a custom holster, its futuristic lines contrasting beautifully with his period-inspired outfit.

  In the mirror, he no longer saw Dr. Prometheus Washington. He saw the Confessor—a figure who would make Gotham face its sins whether it wanted to or not.

  ---

  The park was nearly empty, just a few homeless people sleeping on benches and the occasional jogger ignoring common sense. Prometheus moved through the shadows like smoke, his bck uniform making him invisible against the trees.

  He'd chosen his first target carefully: Marcus Riley, a mid-level drug dealer who operated out of the park's eastern entrance. Riley sold to kids, cimed to be a reformed man to the parole board, and had walked away from three arrests because witnesses kept disappearing.

  Tonight, Marcus Riley would tell the truth.

  The dealer sat on his usual bench near the old fountain, counting money from his test sales. Prometheus stepped out of the shadows, the Truth Ray already in his hand.

  "Marcus Riley."

  The dealer looked up, squinting into the darkness. "Who's asking?"

  Prometheus raised the weapon, its red targeting beam painting a dot on Riley's forehead. "Someone who believes in honesty."

  "What the hell—"

  The Truth Ray fired with a soft electronic whine. Riley jerked as if struck by lightning, then blinked in confusion.

  "What did you just do to me?" Riley demanded.

  "I removed your ability to lie," Prometheus said, stepping into the dim light cast by a nearby streetmp. His tall silhouette was imposing, otherworldly. "For the next thirty to forty minutes, you can only speak the truth."

  Riley ughed, pulling out his phone. "You're insane. I'm calling the cops."

  "Tell them you're completely innocent," Prometheus suggested.

  Riley opened his mouth to speak, then froze. His face twisted in confusion as he tried again. "I... I can't... why can't I..."

  "Because you're not innocent, are you, Marcus?"

  "No." The word burst from Riley's lips like a confession ripped from his soul. "No, I sell drugs to kids. I've been dealing for eight years. I've never been reformed, I just got better at lying to parole officers."

  Prometheus felt the familiar thrill of vindication. It worked. Even in this new form, even operated by a viginte instead of w enforcement, the Truth Ray delivered perfect, undeniable honesty.

  "Tell me about the witnesses who disappeared."

  Riley tried desperately to stay silent, his jaw clenched shut. But when he finally spoke, the words poured out like water through a broken dam: "I paid my cousin to scare them off. Told him to make sure they knew what happened to people who testified against the Riley family. Mrs. Chen moved to Coast City. The Johnson kid wound up in the hospital with a broken arm."

  Prometheus recorded every word on his phone, uploading the confession to a secure server he'd prepared. By morning, the police would have everything they needed to put Marcus Riley away for decades.

  As he melted back into the shadows, leaving the dealer weeping on his bench, Prometheus felt something he hadn't experienced since his first successful test: pure, righteous satisfaction.

  Gotham was full of liars. Politicians, criminals, corrupt cops, false witnesses—all of them hiding behind carefully constructed deceptions.

  But the Confessor was coming for them all.

  George Washington's descendant walked through the dark streets of Gotham, ready to burn away every lie in the city.

  Truth, he decided, was worth becoming a revolutionary for.