I watch her expression when Harvey’s name passes between us. The way her lips press together tells me enough. Dent is still a ghost in Gotham, and some ghosts linger longer for certain people. I don’t push it too hard.
“Harvey Dent left a long shadow on this city. My dad used to say that before everything… he was one of the few people in Gotham who genuinely believed the system could be saved from the inside. That kind of belief isn’t easy to maintain here. And people who worked closely with him usually saw that side of him better than anyone else.”
I say thoughtfully as we step out toward the car park and before my tone softens slightly. When she speaks about control and chess, I smile faintly.
“Chess is perfect for Gotham. Everyone thinks they’re playing the winning strategy, but half the board is missing pieces and the other half is cheating. Still, someone has to keep track of the rules. Otherwise it’s not a game anymore. It’s just chaos.”
I reply and glance sideways at her. Her comments about vigilantes draw a quiet laugh from me.
“You’d get no argument from my father about the inconvenience part. He spends half his time trying to clean up the aftermath. Masked heroes crashing through windows, criminals escalating just to prove they’re not afraid of them… sometimes it feels like an arms race with costumes. I grew up hearing those stories over dinner. Police corruption, vigilantes interfering with investigations, evidence becoming unusable because someone in a cape decided to play judge and jury first.”
I say and shrug lightly. When she mentions the danger to civilians, I nod.
“That’s the part people forget. It’s easy to celebrate rooftop theatrics until someone’s caught in the middle. My dad always says Gotham’s worst nights don’t happen on rooftops… they happen in alleyways where normal people are trying to get home.”
Then she circles back to the story about Batgirl. My smile turns a little more amused.
“Oh, I’ll tell you. It’s not nearly as dramatic as you might expect. Let’s just say she once interfered with something my father had been carefully building for weeks. Evidence, informants, the whole delicate structure… and suddenly a masked acrobat drops into the middle of it. You can imagine how thrilled he was. It ended well enough, but it convinced me that vigilantes rarely understand how fragile actual investigations are.”
I say and shake my head with mock exasperation. When she mentions villains like the Joker and Scarecrow escalating because of Batman, I tilt my head thoughtfully.
“That’s a theory my father has heard before. Remove the symbol and the theatrics fade. Personally, I’m not sure Gotham’s that simple. This city’s always had a talent for creating its own monsters.”
I admit and give her a small smile. Then she accepts the dinner arrangement. Her apartment. That earns a brighter expression from me.
“Four blocks? That’s practically convenient. I appreciate the invitation, Ms. Ward. Letting a near-stranger into your home takes confidence.”
I say with a light laugh. When she mentions wine, I raise my eyebrows with playful interest.
“Excellent taste in wine and an exceptional courtroom presence? You’re setting a very high bar for this evening.”
I tease gently. She speaks about routine again, saving the specifics for dinner.
“That’s fair. A good conversation deserves the right setting.”
Then she suggests the time.
“Friday at eight works perfectly. I’ll call beforehand so you know it’s me. Wouldn’t want you thinking some uninvited vigilante showed up at your door.”
I confirm and give her one last friendly smile before we part ways.
“I’m looking forward to it, Ms. Ward.”
Saturday evening settles over Gotham slowly, the sky fading from bruised violet into the dim, smoky darkness that seems to hang permanently above the city.
I’m sitting at my desk in my apartment, the warm glow of a desk lamp spilling over scattered papers, an open laptop, and a mug of coffee that went cold a while ago. In the corner of the screen, the clock reads 6:02 p.m.
I lean back in my chair, fingers loosely steepled beneath my chin. The courthouse conversation from earlier in the week keeps replaying in my mind, every careful word Rowan Ward chose, every pause that felt less like hesitation and more like calculation. Rowan doesn’t waste language. She selects it the way a chess player selects moves: slowly, deliberately. I smile faintly to myself.
I murmur. The comparison had been hers, but the more I think about it, the more accurate it feels. Rowan Ward treats conversations the same way she treats courtrooms: controlled, strategic, deliberate.
Across the room, Gotham hums through the window. Traffic murmurs in the distance. A siren briefly cuts through the air before fading again. This city never really quiets. It just lowers its voice.
I glance toward the skyline for a moment. Somewhere out there, rooftops are beginning to stir. Shadows moving between gargoyles and fire escapes. The night shift of Gotham. But tonight I’m not part of that world. Tonight is different. Tonight is Rowan Ward.
I reach for the small notebook beside my keyboard. A page already holds a few short notes I scribbled earlier in the week. Nothing obvious, just fragments to keep things straight in my mind.
Rowan fascinates me. A defense attorney with a mind like a scalpel. Someone who openly despises vigilantes yet navigates Gotham’s corruption with almost surgical calm. Someone who talks about balance and discipline like it’s a philosophy she lives by. And yet she agreed to dinner. Not a restaurant. Her own apartment. I tap my pen lightly against the page. That choice alone says something. Either Rowan Ward is extremely confident… or extremely curious. Possibly both.
My eyes drift to the clock again. 6:17 p.m. Plenty of time. I push my chair back and stand, stretching a little before heading toward my bedroom. The closet door slides open, revealing rows of clothes that are mostly practical and understated. Tonight I avoid anything dark, sleek, or athletic, anything that might accidentally echo the silhouette of someone Gotham sometimes sees on rooftops.
Instead, I settle on something intentionally ordinary: a soft cream-colored sweater, a light gray skirt that falls just below the knee, sheer black tights, and simple brown ankle boots with a modest heel. Comfortable. Civilian. Harmless. Exactly the opposite of Batgirl. I study the outfit briefly in the mirror. Approachable. Normal. Nothing that would make someone like Rowan Ward look twice.
Satisfied, I brush out my hair and let the red curls fall naturally around my shoulders before loosely pinning half of it back with a small clip. Casual, but neat. When I step back into the living room, I glance at the clock again. 6:41 p.m. Still good.
On the kitchen counter sits a bottle of wine I picked up earlier this afternoon. Rowan sounded very confident about her own collection, but showing up empty-handed would feel strange. I pick up the bottle, turning the label toward the light.
“Let’s hope you survive the comparison.”
I mutter with a quiet laugh. I set it beside my bag, then pause by the window again. Gotham is darker now, streetlights flickering on below.
Rowan Ward believes Batgirl is insignificant. The thought lingers in my mind. A small smile creeps onto my face.
“Let’s keep it that way.”
I check the time again. 6:55 p.m. Perfect. Calling now gives me plenty of time to walk over and still arrive comfortably before eight.
I pick up my phone and lean lightly against the kitchen counter. For a moment I pause, not because I’m hesitant, but because I’m curious. Rowan Ward is careful. Dinner tonight won’t just be dinner. It’ll be observation. A quiet game of curiosity. I scroll to the number Rowan gave me earlier in the week. My thumb presses the call button. The phone begins to ring.
