Falcone fired into the dark. A shape moved—too fast, too wrong . Then the cigar was plucked from his lips. He looked down. The thing was kneeling before him, head cocked, lenses reflecting his own sweating face.
“No, sir. He said, and I quote, ‘Tell him the signal’s broken. I’ll get it fixed.’ Then he hung up.” Batman Begins
The rain over the Narrows was a lie Gotham told itself—a curtain of filth washing nothing clean. Beneath it, on a rooftop slick with grime, a figure crouched. Not a man, not yet. A silhouette fraying at the edges, cloak snapping like a war banner in the chemical wind. Falcone fired into the dark