The night dragged on, and March kept droning about his so-called adventures, the places he'd visited, the "fascinating" people he’d met—some ambassador here, a billionaire’s daughter there.

  It was all surface-level fluff, the kind of pre-packaged anecdotes guys like him threw around to sound worldly and accomplished.

  Bruce didn’t care. He nodded when it felt appropriate, let out a canned laugh when March’s story seemed designed to land a punchline.

  But as March rambled on about some yacht party in the Aegean or some conference that brought “visionaries” together (whatever that meant), Bruce couldn’t shake the feeling that this guy wasn’t worth his time. There was nothing under the surface. No tells, no slips. Just another self-important schmuck trying to claw his way back into Gotham’s elite, all while thinking he could charm his way into his good graces.

  Bruce let him talk, mostly to see if he’d screw up and say something useful. Maybe drop a name, mention the wrong place at the wrong time. But March was too polished for that—or maybe just too shallow. Either way, there was nothing here but hot air and ambition dressed in an expensive suit.

  Still, Bruce played the game: smiled when needed, asked an occasional question that sounded genuine but wasn’t. “Oh really? How did you manage to meet him?” or “That must’ve been quite the experience.” Automatic responses, just enough to keep March going while Bruce’s brain worked overtime on everything else.

  The harder truth settled in after a few minutes: Lincoln March wasn’t the guy he was looking for. Not tonight. Sure, he was still slimy—probably up to something shady in some other part of town—but whatever that was didn’t seem connected to Blackgate or Vale’s death. If anything, March was just another opportunist looking for a crack in Gotham’s foundation to exploit.

  Bruce let him finish his latest tale about some gala in Dubai and Monaco—he hadn’t been listening closely enough to tell—and gave him an easy grin before excusing himself.

  “Lincoln,” he said, “always a pleasure.”

  “You too, Bruce,” March replied, extending a hand.

  Bruce took it, a brief shake that betrayed nothing, and turned on his heel. He didn’t look back as he walked away, though he could feel his eyes lingering on him, like a predator assessing whether its prey had slipped out of reach or was still within striking distance.

  "You shouldn't have walked away from March so fast," Barbara said. "Something about him feels off."

  "He's clean," Bruce muttered under his breath, pretending to check his phone. "Just another failed politician trying to get back in the game."

  "Since when do you dismiss a lead without digging deeper? The guy vanishes for years then shows up right after Blackgate goes boom? Come on."

  Bruce moved to a quiet corner. "I watched him the whole time. No tells, no nervous tics, nothing. Trust me, if he knew anything about Vale or the explosion, he would've slipped."

  "Or maybe he's just better at hiding it than most," Barbara countered. "Run his financials again. Check his travel records. Something's gotta—"

  "Already did. Three times. He spent the last few years bouncing between luxury resorts and charity events. Nothing connects him to this."

  "Since when do you trust the obvious answer?"

  "I don't. But I know a dead end when I see one." Bruce grabbed another prop champagne glass as a waiter passed. "March is looking for an angle back into Gotham society. That's it."

  "Fine," Barbara sighed. "But I'm still gonna dig. And when I find something—"

  "If you find something, I'll buy you dinner and admit I was wrong."

  "Deal. Now get back to work. Clark's heading your way with that look on his face."

  Bruce ended the call just as Clark approached. Whatever he'd heard with that super-hearing of his, it wasn't good news.

  "Sorry. I got bothing. Not a damn thing."

  "What do you mean nothing? You're Superman. Your hearing doesn't just fail."

  "Look, I scanned every conversation in this room. Twice. The most suspicious thing I heard was someone planning to dodge their taxes," Clark said. "Either these people are really good at keeping secrets, or they genuinely don't know anything."

  Bruce frowned. "That's impossible. Someone has to know something."

  "Well, they're not talking about it here," Clark checked his watch. "Listen, I need to head back to Metropolis. Perry's gonna have my ass if I don't file something by morning, even if it's just party coverage."

  "Sure, run back to your puff pieces," Bruce said, but there was no real bite to it.

  "Hey, some of us have actual jobs to maintain," Clark straightened his rental suit. "Call me if you need anything else. And Bruce? Be careful with this one. Something feels wrong about the whole thing."

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  Bruce felt it too. That nagging absence, the feeling that the pieces he was holding onto weren’t part of the puzzle he thought he was solving. It wasn’t just that something felt missing—something was missing. Like trying to grip a shadow, no edges to hold, no substance to pin down. Worse, it wasn’t random. This wasn’t Gotham’s usual brand of crime, where leads were scattered like shrapnel and you just had to be smart—or stubborn—enough to find them.

  No, this was controlled. Someone wasn’t just covering their tracks; they were building an entire set of false ones, leading him away from what mattered and toward dead ends that smelled of freshly poured cement. Whoever they were, they knew him—how he worked, how he thought. They understood his obsessive need for control and they were exploiting it.

  Bruce hated threads like these: limp but unbroken, dangling just out of reach as if taunting him to pull harder, knowing they’d unravel into something worse once he did.

  If someone was controlling him—or trying to—then he needed to think like them for a moment. What would they want? Keep Batman busy chasing ghosts while something bigger unfolded in plain sight? Or make Bruce Wayne look somewhere else entirely while Gotham drowned under another wave of corruption?

  Too many questions without answers—and Bruce hated unanswered questions almost as much as he hated losing control.

  If someone out there thought they could manipulate him or outmaneuver him, then fine—they could think that for now. Let them keep building walls around their secrets while Bruce found ways through them.

  Because if there was one thing he excelled at more than anything else—even more than intimidation or detective work—it was patience.

  Patience—and making people regret underestimating him.

  After Clark left, Bruce tapped his earpiece. "Oracle?"

  "Already heard. Looks like we're doing this the old-fashioned way."

  "Yeah. Start compiling a list of everyone who might have had access to Blackgate's security systems. Cross-reference with Vale's case files. We'll work our way down."

  "That could take weeks."

  "Then we better get started," Bruce set down his untouched champagne. "Send the first batch of names to the cave. I'll head there after this circus is over."

  Bruce needed to start with the ones who were desperate, the kind of criminals who’d sell out their own mother for a stale sandwich if it meant shaving a few years off their sentence.

  People like Harley Quinn. Sure, she was high-profile because of her history with the Joker, but without the Clown Prince pulling her strings, she wasn’t much more than a loud distraction running on fumes. She’d been laying low since Arkham sprung its latest leak. No big heists, no flashy schemes. Just whispers about sightings here and there.

  Harley had connections in all kinds of circles: mobsters, rogue scientists, washed-out hitmen. Most of them underestimated her, thinking she was all glitter and giggles with no brain behind it. That was their mistake. Bruce knew better—she played the fool when it suited her, but she had sharp instincts for survival. If someone was making waves in Gotham’s underworld—especially someone bold enough to take out Blackgate—Harley might’ve heard something.

  She’d be slippery to pin down, though. Always moving, never staying long enough in one place for anyone to get comfortable—or stupid enough to tip off the Bat. But she had patterns. Habits she couldn’t quite quit, no matter how hard she tried to reinvent herself post-Joker.

  Dive bars that catered to wannabe villains, abandoned amusement parks on the city outskirts, even those weird underground fight clubs where Gotham’s worst liked to blow off steam between jobs. Harley liked places like that—the edges of society where rules didn’t apply and people were too drunk or too scared to notice her hanging out in plain sight.

  If Harley didn’t pan out, Bruce could move on to others lower on the food chain—not the heavy hitters but the pawns who handled dirty work for whoever was really pulling strings in Gotham right now. Guys like Firefly. Not exactly criminal royalty, but his obsession with blowing stuff up made him a natural suspect whenever anything went boom in Gotham.

  Bruce doubted Firefly had the chops for something as intricate as Blackgate—military-grade explosives weren’t his style—but he might’ve sold materials or heard chatter about it through his network of arms dealers.

  Then there was Victor Zsasz: unpredictable and sick beyond belief, sure, but also deeply connected to Gotham’s criminal underbelly in ways most people didn’t realize.

  He wasn’t just a killer; he was a collector of secrets—one of those psychos who thrived on knowing every filthy detail about every player in town. Bruce wasn’t eager to deal with him—the guy always tried turning their encounters into some twisted game—but if there was even a chance he’d picked up breadcrumbs, he’d be worth a visit.

  Bruce would have to filter through these grunts—start wide and work inward toward whoever held real power in this mess. Low-level thugs like these were often too dumb or too reckless to keep their mouths shut when pressed by Batman’s particular brand of persuasion.

  And if nothing shook loose from them? Well, then he’d go deeper into Gotham’s shadows where dirt stained more than hands. The Penguin would follow after that: always scheming behind his iceberg lounge empire and pretending his dealings were “just business.” Cobblepot kept tabs on everyone; even if he wasn’t involved directly with Blackgate or Vale’s death, odds were he knew who was.

  For now, though? Harley first.

  "What about March?" Barbara asked.

  "Keep an eye on him, but he's not priority. Focus on people with direct connections to Blackgate or Vale."

  "Got it. Try not to have too much fun at your party."

  Bruce ended the call, already planning his exit strategy.

  The hard way it was—interviews, surveillance, good old-fashioned detective work. Just like the old days.

  At least nobody could accuse him of taking shortcuts now.

  Bruce slipped through the crowd, phone already pressed to his ear as he headed for the parking garage.

  The call connected on the third ring.

  "Hey," Dick's voice crackled through. "How's the party?"

  "Waste of time. Listen, I need you to do some legwork tonight."

  "Let me guess—Blackgate?"

  "Yeah. I'm going after Harley, but we need to cast a wider net. Hit up the usual spots—dive bars, fight clubs, anywhere the small-timers hang out."

  "You really think street-level guys would know anything about this?" Dick asked. "Seems above their pay grade."

  "Someone always talks. Check with Mouse - he tends bar at that shithole near the docks. And that pawn shop owner, Martinez. He sees everything on that block."

  "Fine, but I'm telling you, this feels bigger than street crime."

  Bruce pushed through the exit doors into the garage's fluorescent glare. "Maybe. But we start at the bottom and work up. That's how we've always done it."

  "Yeah, yeah. The hard way. You know, sometimes I think you just like making things difficult."

  "Just do it, Dick. And be careful - whoever did Blackgate isn't playing around."

  "When am I not careful?"

  "You want a list?"

  "Funny. I'll call if I find anything," Dick hung up.

  Bruce spotted Alfred waiting with the car, expression neutral as always. Time to trade one mask for another. Harley Quinn wouldn't talk to Bruce Wayne, but she might talk to Batman.

  If he could find her.