"This is Vicki Vale reporting. In what police are calling a 'confession epidemic,' seventeen criminals across Gotham have surrendered to authorities in the past week, all ciming they were compelled to tell the truth by a mysterious figure calling himself 'The Confessor.'"

  The news footage showed Marcus Riley being led away in handcuffs, followed by images of other criminals: a loan shark, two corrupt city council members, a fence who dealt in stolen art.

  "Witnesses describe a figure dressed in colonial-era clothing, armed with some kind of futuristic weapon. Police Commissioner Gordon has issued a statement calling the Confessor 'a dangerous viginte who threatens the foundation of our legal system.'"

  The camera cut to Gordon at a press conference, his face haggard. "This individual is interfering with ongoing investigations and compromising our ability to build proper cases. We urge citizens to report any sightings immediately."

  ---

  Father Miguel Santos stood before his congregation of nearly three hundred, his voice booming through the cathedral's vast space. "Brothers and sisters, we must cast out the demons of greed, the false prophets of materialism!"

  The crowd hung on his every word, donations flowing freely into the collection ptes. Santos was Gotham's most beloved preacher, a man who'd supposedly given up a life of wealth to serve the poor.

  Prometheus watched from the shadows of the bell tower, the Truth Ray heavy in his grip. He'd researched Santos for days, following the money trail that led from the collection ptes to Santos's private accounts, his expensive apartments where he kept his male lover and his luxury car.

  As the service ended and the crowd dispersed, Prometheus made his move. He dropped silently into the nave, his bck coat billowing behind him like wings.

  "Father Santos."

  The preacher turned, his benevolent smile faltering when he saw the colonial figure emerging from the darkness. "My son, the cathedral is closed for—"

  The Truth Ray's red beam found its target. Santos jerked, confusion washing over his face.

  "Tell me about your calling to serve God," Prometheus commanded.

  Santos tried to give his usual speech about divine inspiration, but the words wouldn't come. Instead, truth poured out: "I became a preacher because people are stupid and generous. They throw money at anyone who quotes scripture and looks holy. I've stolen over two million dolrs from this congregation in the past five years."

  "And your vow of poverty?"

  "A joke. I own three cars and a house in the Hamptons. I told them I gave up wealth, but I just got better at hiding it." Santos fell to his knees, tears streaming down his face. "I don't even believe in God. I haven't since I was twelve. This is all performance, all theater."

  Prometheus recorded every word, then uploaded the confession before disappearing back into the night.

  By morning, the cathedral was surrounded by police cars and angry parishioners.

  ---

  The charity ga for "Children of Gotham" was in full swing, Gotham's elite writing checks and taking selfies to prove their generosity. Prometheus watched from the kitchen, having infiltrated the catering staff.

  His target was Isabel Thorne, socialite activist and humanitarian of the year. Her Instagram showed her visiting orphanages, feeding the homeless, championing every fashionable cause. She was Gotham's sweetheart, beloved by thousands.

  She was also a fraud.

  As Thorne posed for photographers near the silent auction, Prometheus emerged from behind a decorative column. The Truth Ray found its mark before she could scream.

  "Tell everyone why you really do charity work," he commanded, his voice carrying across the suddenly silent ballroom.

  Thorne tried to stay quiet, but the truth erupted from her like a broken dam: "Because it makes me feel superior! I don't care about poor children or homeless people—they disgust me. I do this because it gets me attention, because people think I'm special, because it makes me feel better than everyone else."

  The crowd gasped, phones capturing every word.

  "And the money you raise?"

  "Half of it goes to administrative costs—paying for my lifestyle, my apartment, my clothes. I keep telling people it's for overhead, but really I'm just stealing from children." She colpsed into a chair, sobbing. "I posted those photos at the orphanage for likes, not because I cared. Those kids are just props for my image."

  Prometheus melted back into the crowd as chaos erupted around the fallen socialite.