The abandoned Blockbuster sat like a mistake in the middle of the strip mall that had seen better decades. Carrie pulled her leather jacket tighter against the evening chill as she approached the shattered storefront, her camera bag slung over her shoulder and a small fshlight in her hand. The neon signs from neighboring businesses cast sickly colored shadows across the cracked pavement, but none of them reached the dark mouth of the former video store.

  Sugar Buns had been reliable as usual, and the prostitute drag queen's information usually checked out. "Honey, that pce was Marcus's little kingdom," he'd said earlier, adjusting his sequined top in the dim light of the alley behind Club Bottoms Up. "Those Alley Cats used to hang there like it was their personal clubhouse. But something went down there real bad a few months back. Pce has been dead quiet since."

  Now, standing in front of the building's gaping entrance where the wooden doors hung askew on their hinges, Carrie could see why. The frames were splintered and broken, as if something—or someone—had torn them open with considerable force. She stepped carefully through the opening, her fshlight beam cutting through the darkness.

  The smell hit her first. Stale air mixed with something metallic and unpleasant that made her stomach tighten with recognition. She'd smelled it before at crime scenes, back when she'd been working with Mr. Bruce. Blood, old and dried.

  Her light swept across the interior, revealing a scene of systematic destruction. The old movie rental shelves had been overturned, creating a maze of twisted metal and scattered debris. Bullet holes dotted the walls in random patterns. Someone had been desperate and afraid.

  Carrie pulled out her camera, the fsh illuminating the space in stark white bursts as she documented the scene. Whoever had done this hadn't been interested in robbery—this was something else entirely. Something that looked almost... professional.

  Could this be connected to her mysterious client? The one who wanted to know about the new pyer disrupting Gotham's criminal ecosystem? The timing seemed right, and the level of destruction suggested someone with serious capabilities.

  She moved deeper into the space, stepping carefully around overturned tables and boxes of what looked like stolen goods. Marcus's operation had been small-time compared to some of Gotham's criminal enterprises, but he'd carved out his niche. Not the kind of business that usually attracted this level of attention.

  So why had someone gone to the trouble of dismantling his entire operation so thoroughly?

  Near the back of the store, her fshlight beam caught something that made her pause. A crowbar y discarded beside an overturned desk, its metal surface stained dark with what could only be blood. She photographed it from multiple angles, noting how it had been dropped rather than pced—as if whoever had used it had simply let it fall when they were finished.

  The desk itself drew her attention next. It had been ransacked, drawers pulled out and contents scattered across the floor, but something about it suggested the searcher had been looking for specific information rather than just causing destruction. Carrie knelt beside it, running her fingers along the edges of the drawers and checking for hidden compartments.

  Her fshlight caught a glint of white in the corner where the desk met the wall. A small piece of paper, folded and partially hidden beneath a scattered pile of receipts and business cards. She picked it up carefully, unfolding it under the beam of her light.

  The handwriting was neat, careful, and the words made her blood run cold: "Hatter's Productions" followed by an address in one of Gotham's seedier districts.

  Carrie had heard whispers about Hatter's Productions in the darker corners of the city's underground. A film company that specialized in content that satisfied the desires of those who liked them younger, rumored to operate within the protection of the upper css. The kind of business that thrived in Gotham's moral gray areas, where money talked louder than conscience.

  But what was Marcus's connection to them? Had he been a customer, sitting in some dingy room watching videos that made her skin crawl? Or had his retionship been more business-oriented—supplying girls, perhaps, or providing security for their operations?

  The thought made her stomach twist. She'd heard Marcus was involved in trafficking, but the idea that he might have been connected to something like Hatter's Productions suggested a level of organization and systematic abuse that went far beyond his level of sophistication.

  She photographed the paper, then slipped it into her jacket pocket. This could be the lead she'd been looking for, the connection between Marcus's destruction and whoever was reshaping Gotham's criminal ndscape. But it also raised uncomfortable questions about her anonymous client. Did they know about this connection? Had they specifically hired her to uncover it?

  In Gotham, coincidences were rare, and clients who paid double rates in cash usually had reasons that went beyond simple curiosity.

  Carrie took one st look around the destroyed Blockbuster, her camera documenting the scene with methodical precision. Tomorrow she would start looking into Hatter's Productions, following the thread wherever it led. But tonight, standing in this monument to violence and systematic cruelty, she couldn't shake the feeling that she was being maneuvered—that whoever was paying her had known exactly what she would find here.

  The question was whether she was investigating the mysterious figure disrupting Gotham's criminals, or whether she was working for them.

  ---

  Harley sat, knees bent to her chest on her narrow bed, her back against the wall as she watched Mr. J carefully arrange her small collection of belongings on the dresser. He moved slowly, methodically, the way he did everything—straightening her few books, adjusting the angle of her hairbrush, making sure everything was just right. It was almost 11 PM, well past when he usually finished his rounds, but she'd asked him to stay a little longer tonight.

  "Mr. J," she said softly, patting the space beside her on the bed. "Come sit with me for a minute."

  He turned, that gentle smile spreading across his face as he settled onto the mattress next to her. The bed creaked under his weight, and Harley immediately curled up against his side, resting her head on his shoulder. His arm came around her automatically, protective and warm.

  "You're always so good to me," she murmured, meaning it completely. In this building full of predators and broken girls, Mr. J was the only person who had never asked her for anything she wasn't willing to give. Never looked at her the way the others did. Never made her feel like a thing instead of a person.

  "I like taking care of you and the other girls, Harley," he said simply, his deep voice rumbling through his chest.

  Harley closed her eyes for a moment, letting herself feel safe in his arms before she had to become what she needed to be. A maniputor. A survivor. Someone who used the only person who genuinely cared about her.

  The guilt sat heavy in her stomach, but Harley had learned long ago that guilt was a luxury she couldn't afford. Not in this pce.

  "Mr. J, can I ask you something?" She tilted her head to look up at him.

  "Sure, Harley."

  "You have keys to the whole building, right? For your cleaning?"

  He nodded slowly. "Most pces. Mr. Tetch gave me keys so I can clean everywhere."

  "Even upstairs? To his room?"

  Mr. J's expression grew uncertain, and Harley could see him trying to work through why she was asking. "Well, yeah, but... I'm not supposed to go up there unless he tells me to. Only when he needs me to fix something or clean something."

  Harley's heart started beating faster. This could work. This could actually work.

  "When does he usually leave?" she asked, trying to keep her voice casual while her mind raced through possibilities.

  "Um... Tuesdays and Thursdays he goes to the bank. And sometimes weekends he goes to see people about business stuff."

  Harley felt a surge of hope. She knew Jarvis was talking about expanding his operations, which meant meetings with investors, with distributors, with the corrupt officials who kept his business running. That meant predictable absences.

  "Mr. J," she said carefully, "what if I told you that I think Mr. Tetch might hurt more girls if we don't do something?"

  His arm tightened around her slightly. "What do you mean?"

  Harley had spent months watching, listening, learning how this pce worked. She'd seen girls disappear when they got too close to Jarvis, or when Alice decided they were a threat. She'd watched him gradually escate his demands on each new girl until they became too old for the business. And she'd seen that he kept a rge amount of money in his safe when she was up there one night with him and Alice.

  "Mr. J, I bet he keeps all that money upstairs. Money he uses to buy new girls, to pay off the police, to keep this whole thing going." She looked up at the maintenance man, seeing the confused concern in his eyes. "If that money was gone, he couldn't keep hurting people."

  It was true, mostly. The part she wasn't saying was that the money could also buy her and Mr. J a way out of Gotham entirely. Bus tickets to somewhere far away, maybe somewhere with better programs for people like Mr. J, somewhere she could finish school and try to build something resembling a normal life.

  "But that would be stealing," Mr. J said slowly.

  "Would it be stealing if we used it to help people? To stop him from hurting more girls like Tammy?"

  Harley hated herself for using Tammy as emotional leverage, but she'd seen how Mr. J's face softened whenever the newer girl was mentioned. He wanted to protect people—it was just his nature.

  "I don't know, Harley. It sounds dangerous."

  She shifted so she was facing him more directly, taking his rge hands in both of hers. "Mr. J, you're the only person in this building I trust. You're the only one who's never tried to hurt me or use me for something awful."

  His face flushed slightly at the praise, and Harley felt another stab of guilt. But she pushed it down. This wasn't just about manipution—she did trust him, did care about him. That's what made this so hard.

  "What if we could leave together?" she continued. "What if we could get somewhere safe, both of us?"

  "Leave?" The concept seemed to confuse him. "But I have a job here. Mr. Tetch needs me to clean."

  "Mr. Tetch is a bad man, Mr. J. He hurts girls like me, and he's mean to you. Remember what he calls you all the time?"

  She saw the hurt fsh across his face, and immediately regretted bringing it up. But she needed him to understand that Jarvis wasn't his friend, wasn't someone worthy of his loyalty.

  "He doesn't mean it," Mr. J said quietly, but there was doubt in his voice.

  "Yes, he does." Harley squeezed his hands. "But we could go somewhere where people would be nice to you. Where you could have a job that pays you fairly, where people would appreciate how hard you work."

  She could see him trying to process this, the slow careful way his mind worked through complex ideas. Harley had infinite patience for this—unlike everyone else in the building, she'd never once felt frustrated by the time it took him to understand things.

  "How would we get the money?" he asked finally.

  Harley's pulse quickened. He was considering it. Actually considering it.

  "You said he leaves on Tuesdays and Thursdays for the bank. Next Thursday, you could let me come up with you when you're cleaning. I could figure out how to open the safe while you keep watch."

  "What if we get caught?"

  It was a fair question, and one Harley had been thinking about constantly. "We won't get caught. Believe me. But Mr. J, if we don't try something, we're both going to be stuck here forever. And he's going to keep bringing in new girls like Tammy and hurting them."

  Mr. J was quiet for a long time, staring down at their joined hands. Harley waited, letting him work through it in his own time. She'd learned that pushing him only made him more confused and resistant.

  "Would we really leave together?" he asked eventually. "You wouldn't leave me behind?"

  The question broke her heart a little. How many people had taken advantage of him over the years? How many had promised things they never intended to deliver?

  "I promise," she said, and meant it completely. "We're a team, Mr. J. I wouldn't leave you behind."

  Another long pause. Then, slowly, he nodded.

  "Okay, Harley. If you think it will help people, we can try."

  Harley felt a mixture of relief and guilt wash over her. Relief that he'd agreed, that she might actually have a chance at escape. Guilt that she was putting him at risk, that she was using his good heart and trust in her for her own survival.

  But as she curled back up against his side, feeling his arms wrap around her protectively, Harley reminded herself that this wasn't just about her. Mr. J deserved better than this pce too. He deserved to be somewhere that valued his kindness instead of exploiting it.

  And if stopping Jarvis's operation saved even one future girl from ending up in this building, then maybe the guilt would be worth it.

  "Thank you for trusting me," she whispered against his shoulder.

  "I'll always trust you, Harley," he said simply. "You're my friend."

  The word 'friend' settled warm in her chest, even as she began mentally pnning every detail of the robbery and escape.