no one puts baby in the corner

“You hear back from the lit professor?”

“Yeah,” I respond, hands scrubbing over my face.

“I told you to take it with Ms. Drummond.”

“I know, but I had another class I needed for that time slot. His was the last one open!”

“And now you have both the pleasure and the misery of staring at him.”

“For four fucking hours a week, yeah. He would be hot if he wasn’t so goddamn arrogant.”

“He’s hot even with his arrogance.”

I throw a pillow across the living room, hitting her in the side. “Shut up, Rae.”

We both laugh it off, but the idea of my writing being lackluster plants itself in my brain and latches like the smallest leech.

A few days, and hours of reading, later— I end up back in the risers of your class. This time I have to listen to you go on and on about David Foster Wallace. The Infinite Jest wasn’t bad, it was even one of the books I like reading the most, but your reduction of it after our e-mail exchange just annoys me. You must be able to tell my attention is waning, because you call on me. I try to shake my head, tell you I don’t know so I don’t really have to say anything, but you persist.

“No, Miss Matchen, please- if my lecture is boring you then we should hear what you think about the reading,” and it’s the way you say it, like I’m not worthy of the opinion I hold, whatever it is.

So I take a deep breath, purely unamused by yet another man asserting power.

“Wallace sounds like he smoked ayahuasca once in the dessert with a native tribe that overcharged him for it and now he sees the meaning the flap of a butterfly’s wing. Sure, I get it, life is beautiful and tragic but did he need 1100 pages to say it? No. John Green did it in about three hundred with A Fault In Our Stars, and that guy got a movie deal.”

I earn myself a few snickers from around the room, and a heated stare from you.

I know why they're here and not in Drummond's class. Enough girls have lingered behind after class, tits pushed up and jeans skin tight, as if their desperation will lead to me bending them over my desk for a hard fucking. The temptation has been there, but I'm not a fool. I worked hard to get where I am, my past a hurdle that almost sent me down an entirely different path. So, the temporary satisfaction in 20-something pussy just doesn't scratch the itch for me. But, fuck, has it been a while.

I scan the room, my gaze stalling on a particular student sandwiched between a large group of lacrosse players. They ignore her almost as much as she does them, and much to my chagrin, boredom is written all over her face. I see a satisfying flash of panic as I stop and call out to her, asking for her input on my lecture. I remember her name immediately.

Nycole Matchen.

You were the one that sent me an email about your grade. My jaw ticks in irritation at the memory of you asking to know why I graded your paper the way I did. I had to read it again to refresh myself and I realized that, while your paper was astronomically better than anyone else in my classes, the gall of asking me to explain my reasoning was enough for me to respond as I did.

You seem to shed any trepidation to my inquiry and launch into a speech that immediately makes my nails bite into my palm. You mention John Green and I have to stop myself from rolling my eyes. As if a movie deal is the end result of anything put to paper. But the generational difference between us almost slaps me in the face at the realization that you're right. It doesn't matter how incredible the author is or the printed words, it's the impact it has on people. Books will always be loved, but nothing beats the adaption to film. Why read about Captain America in a comic when you can see him on the big screen?

I zoned out just long enough for you to conclude your little speech and the spatter of muted laughter across the hall has me glaring in your direction.

"Class is concluded."

The crowd of students lurch to their feet and there's a bit of chaos as they try to make it to the door before I change my mind. I turn away to pack up my bag, my shoulders feeling tense as I stuff folders and books inside. Several voices call out for me to have a good day and I give a faint smile to the students that brush a little too close to say it.

I step away from my desk just in time to bump into you, and we share a glare until I motion impatiently at the door for you to go first. With slight hesitation, you step forward, and I fall into stride behind you. Jesus, this view is better. I don't have to deal with that fucking look on your face, your shapely ass putting black leggings to the test. I can just barely see the faint outline of a tiny pair of panties and I wonder if you know that I can see it. It's a tiny victory that only I can enjoy and I follow you out into the hallway, as fate would have it, both of us going in the same direction.

You try your best to ignore me, and I almost let you go, my hand closing around the knob to my office door.

I pack up my rented books and palm my iced coffee, heading down the row of desks while texting Rae about plans this weekend. She wants me to go to the Sigma Pi party, but I have a shift at the bar. I send the text and look up just in time to nearly crush my coffee between us. The look of disdain is unmistakeable. You say nothing, but motion me forward out of some obligation to polite. I cast my eyes down after a moment and walk away. My shoulders don’t relax, my coffee and my phone gripped tight. For a moment, I feel relief, knowing that your office is just a few steps away.

"Have a seat." I motion at the seat designated for students and wait until you're sitting to lean over and snatch the metal trashcan from the floor. Holding it out, I look at the coffee, and then at you. Instead, you lean forward and place it on my rich mahogany desk, a challenging humor in your gaze. Standing, I cross over before you, and swipe it into the trash can before perching myself where it used to be.

It gives me a high advantage over you and I cross my arms and ankles as I look down at you. Another pregnant pause stretches out between us and I'm the first to break it.

I set my face, cross my arms and lean back in my chair. Whatever you’re doing, whatever show of power this is meant to be, I’m not into it. It’s hard to keep eye contact with you, but I grind my molars together to keep my eye contact strong. Then you tell me that I’m an excellent writer, and my face betrays my thoughts.

"It was lackluster." I deadpan and your jaw goes to work again. "But I see the potential."

Med student tuition is astronomical, and working that hole in the wall to cover what I can without loans is killing me. It would be nice to chill out for a semester.

The packet is thick, I take it from you and thumb through it. It wants all of my information and accolades, as well as a creative writing piece. I chew my lip, wondering if I could add this to the never ending list of shit I already have to do— I figure I could give away a couple of my shifts and I’d probably be okay.

“Uh, yeah, okay. I’ll —uh, fill this out and get it back to you by next class?”

You agree and let me go, still sitting on the edge of your desk when I leave.

Rae is beside herself when I tell her.

“You mean to tell me he invited you personally to apply for the most prestigious literary mentorship on the east coast? And you’re a fucking med student?!”

“I… yeah? I guess?”

“Give me this—“ she snatches the paperwork from my hands and starts filling in my information.

“How do you even know my social?”

“I go through your shit when you’re not home.”

“Sensational.”

I throw myself back on the couch, warily rubbing my face.

“There’s a bit here about a writing sample, babe.”

“I know. I’ll just pull something out of my notes app and make it look pretty.”

She scoffs, shakes her head, fills in my GPA and phone number. I rifle through my phone and settle on a poem about a him from forever ago before opening my laptop to make it presentable.

I show up in sweatpants and a college branded sweatshirt, yawning with a large iced coffee in one hand. You drone on and on about Whitman, he’s another poet who had an overinflated ego for the writing he produced.

Eventually, you conclude class and I wait quietly for everyone to file out before handing over the envelope and following you to your office. I kick myself mentally for being nervous about this, but the piece I turned over was much more personal feeling than I anticipated.

You tell me I’m accepted and my eyebrows shoot up.

“Really? Just like that?”

“You hear back from the lit professor?”

“Yeah,” I respond, hands scrubbing over my face.

“I told you to take it with Ms. Drummond.”

“I know, but I had another class I needed for that time slot. His was the last one open!”

“And now you have both the pleasure and the misery of staring at him.”

“For four fucking hours a week, yeah. He would be hot if he wasn’t so goddamn arrogant.”

“He’s hot even with his arrogance.”

I throw a pillow across the living room, hitting her in the side. “Shut up, Rae.”

We both laugh it off, but the idea of my writing being lackluster plants itself in my brain and latches like the smallest leech.

A few days, and hours of reading, later— I end up back in the risers of your class. This time I have to listen to you go on and on about David Foster Wallace. The Infinite Jest wasn’t bad, it was even one of the books I like reading the most, but your reduction of it after our e-mail exchange just annoys me. You must be able to tell my attention is waning, because you call on me. I try to shake my head, tell you I don’t know so I don’t really have to say anything, but you persist.

“No, Miss Matchen, please- if my lecture is boring you then we should hear what you think about the reading,” and it’s the way you say it, like I’m not worthy of the opinion I hold, whatever it is.

So I take a deep breath, purely unamused by yet another man asserting power.

“Wallace sounds like he smoked ayahuasca once in the dessert with a native tribe that overcharged him for it and now he sees the meaning the flap of a butterfly’s wing. Sure, I get it, life is beautiful and tragic but did he need 1100 pages to say it? No. John Green did it in about three hundred with A Fault In Our Stars, and that guy got a movie deal.”

I earn myself a few snickers from around the room, and a heated stare from you.

I know why they're here and not in Drummond's class. Enough girls have lingered behind after class, tits pushed up and jeans skin tight, as if their desperation will lead to me bending them over my desk for a hard fucking. The temptation has been there, but I'm not a fool. I worked hard to get where I am, my past a hurdle that almost sent me down an entirely different path. So, the temporary satisfaction in 20-something pussy just doesn't scratch the itch for me. But, fuck, has it been a while.

I scan the room, my gaze stalling on a particular student sandwiched between a large group of lacrosse players. They ignore her almost as much as she does them, and much to my chagrin, boredom is written all over her face. I see a satisfying flash of panic as I stop and call out to her, asking for her input on my lecture. I remember her name immediately.

Nycole Matchen.

You were the one that sent me an email about your grade. My jaw ticks in irritation at the memory of you asking to know why I graded your paper the way I did. I had to read it again to refresh myself and I realized that, while your paper was astronomically better than anyone else in my classes, the gall of asking me to explain my reasoning was enough for me to respond as I did.

You seem to shed any trepidation to my inquiry and launch into a speech that immediately makes my nails bite into my palm. You mention John Green and I have to stop myself from rolling my eyes. As if a movie deal is the end result of anything put to paper. But the generational difference between us almost slaps me in the face at the realization that you're right. It doesn't matter how incredible the author is or the printed words, it's the impact it has on people. Books will always be loved, but nothing beats the adaption to film. Why read about Captain America in a comic when you can see him on the big screen?

I zoned out just long enough for you to conclude your little speech and the spatter of muted laughter across the hall has me glaring in your direction.

"Class is concluded."

The crowd of students lurch to their feet and there's a bit of chaos as they try to make it to the door before I change my mind. I turn away to pack up my bag, my shoulders feeling tense as I stuff folders and books inside. Several voices call out for me to have a good day and I give a faint smile to the students that brush a little too close to say it.

I step away from my desk just in time to bump into you, and we share a glare until I motion impatiently at the door for you to go first. With slight hesitation, you step forward, and I fall into stride behind you. Jesus, this view is better. I don't have to deal with that fucking look on your face, your shapely ass putting black leggings to the test. I can just barely see the faint outline of a tiny pair of panties and I wonder if you know that I can see it. It's a tiny victory that only I can enjoy and I follow you out into the hallway, as fate would have it, both of us going in the same direction.

You try your best to ignore me, and I almost let you go, my hand closing around the knob to my office door.

I pack up my rented books and palm my iced coffee, heading down the row of desks while texting Rae about plans this weekend. She wants me to go to the Sigma Pi party, but I have a shift at the bar. I send the text and look up just in time to nearly crush my coffee between us. The look of disdain is unmistakeable. You say nothing, but motion me forward out of some obligation to polite. I cast my eyes down after a moment and walk away. My shoulders don’t relax, my coffee and my phone gripped tight. For a moment, I feel relief, knowing that your office is just a few steps away.

"Have a seat." I motion at the seat designated for students and wait until you're sitting to lean over and snatch the metal trashcan from the floor. Holding it out, I look at the coffee, and then at you. Instead, you lean forward and place it on my rich mahogany desk, a challenging humor in your gaze. Standing, I cross over before you, and swipe it into the trash can before perching myself where it used to be.

It gives me a high advantage over you and I cross my arms and ankles as I look down at you. Another pregnant pause stretches out between us and I'm the first to break it.

I set my face, cross my arms and lean back in my chair. Whatever you’re doing, whatever show of power this is meant to be, I’m not into it. It’s hard to keep eye contact with you, but I grind my molars together to keep my eye contact strong. Then you tell me that I’m an excellent writer, and my face betrays my thoughts.

"It was lackluster." I deadpan and your jaw goes to work again. "But I see the potential."

Med student tuition is astronomical, and working that hole in the wall to cover what I can without loans is killing me. It would be nice to chill out for a semester.

The packet is thick, I take it from you and thumb through it. It wants all of my information and accolades, as well as a creative writing piece. I chew my lip, wondering if I could add this to the never ending list of shit I already have to do— I figure I could give away a couple of my shifts and I’d probably be okay.

“Uh, yeah, okay. I’ll —uh, fill this out and get it back to you by next class?”

You agree and let me go, still sitting on the edge of your desk when I leave.

Rae is beside herself when I tell her.

“You mean to tell me he invited you personally to apply for the most prestigious literary mentorship on the east coast? And you’re a fucking med student?!”

“I… yeah? I guess?”

“Give me this—“ she snatches the paperwork from my hands and starts filling in my information.

“How do you even know my social?”

“I go through your shit when you’re not home.”

“Sensational.”

I throw myself back on the couch, warily rubbing my face.

“There’s a bit here about a writing sample, babe.”

“I know. I’ll just pull something out of my notes app and make it look pretty.”

She scoffs, shakes her head, fills in my GPA and phone number. I rifle through my phone and settle on a poem about a him from forever ago before opening my laptop to make it presentable.

“You hear back from the lit professor?”

“Yeah,” I respond, hands scrubbing over my face.

“I told you to take it with Ms. Drummond.”

“I know, but I had another class I needed for that time slot. His was the last one open!”

“And now you have both the pleasure and the misery of staring at him.”

“For four fucking hours a week, yeah. He would be hot if he wasn’t so goddamn arrogant.”

“He’s hot even with his arrogance.”

I throw a pillow across the living room, hitting her in the side. “Shut up, Rae.”

We both laugh it off, but the idea of my writing being lackluster plants itself in my brain and latches like the smallest leech.

A few days, and hours of reading, later— I end up back in the risers of your class. This time I have to listen to you go on and on about David Foster Wallace. The Infinite Jest wasn’t bad, it was even one of the books I like reading the most, but your reduction of it after our e-mail exchange just annoys me. You must be able to tell my attention is waning, because you call on me. I try to shake my head, tell you I don’t know so I don’t really have to say anything, but you persist.

“No, Miss Matchen, please- if my lecture is boring you then we should hear what you think about the reading,” and it’s the way you say it, like I’m not worthy of the opinion I hold, whatever it is.

So I take a deep breath, purely unamused by yet another man asserting power.

“Wallace sounds like he smoked ayahuasca once in the dessert with a native tribe that overcharged him for it and now he sees the meaning the flap of a butterfly’s wing. Sure, I get it, life is beautiful and tragic but did he need 1100 pages to say it? No. John Green did it in about three hundred with A Fault In Our Stars, and that guy got a movie deal.”

I earn myself a few snickers from around the room, and a heated stare from you.

I know why they're here and not in Drummond's class. Enough girls have lingered behind after class, tits pushed up and jeans skin tight, as if their desperation will lead to me bending them over my desk for a hard fucking. The temptation has been there, but I'm not a fool. I worked hard to get where I am, my past a hurdle that almost sent me down an entirely different path. So, the temporary satisfaction in 20-something pussy just doesn't scratch the itch for me. But, fuck, has it been a while.

I scan the room, my gaze stalling on a particular student sandwiched between a large group of lacrosse players. They ignore her almost as much as she does them, and much to my chagrin, boredom is written all over her face. I see a satisfying flash of panic as I stop and call out to her, asking for her input on my lecture. I remember her name immediately.

Nycole Matchen.

You were the one that sent me an email about your grade. My jaw ticks in irritation at the memory of you asking to know why I graded your paper the way I did. I had to read it again to refresh myself and I realized that, while your paper was astronomically better than anyone else in my classes, the gall of asking me to explain my reasoning was enough for me to respond as I did.

You seem to shed any trepidation to my inquiry and launch into a speech that immediately makes my nails bite into my palm. You mention John Green and I have to stop myself from rolling my eyes. As if a movie deal is the end result of anything put to paper. But the generational difference between us almost slaps me in the face at the realization that you're right. It doesn't matter how incredible the author is or the printed words, it's the impact it has on people. Books will always be loved, but nothing beats the adaption to film. Why read about Captain America in a comic when you can see him on the big screen?

I zoned out just long enough for you to conclude your little speech and the spatter of muted laughter across the hall has me glaring in your direction.

"Class is concluded."

The crowd of students lurch to their feet and there's a bit of chaos as they try to make it to the door before I change my mind. I turn away to pack up my bag, my shoulders feeling tense as I stuff folders and books inside. Several voices call out for me to have a good day and I give a faint smile to the students that brush a little too close to say it.

I step away from my desk just in time to bump into you, and we share a glare until I motion impatiently at the door for you to go first. With slight hesitation, you step forward, and I fall into stride behind you. Jesus, this view is better. I don't have to deal with that fucking look on your face, your shapely ass putting black leggings to the test. I can just barely see the faint outline of a tiny pair of panties and I wonder if you know that I can see it. It's a tiny victory that only I can enjoy and I follow you out into the hallway, as fate would have it, both of us going in the same direction.

You try your best to ignore me, and I almost let you go, my hand closing around the knob to my office door.

I pack up my rented books and palm my iced coffee, heading down the row of desks while texting Rae about plans this weekend. She wants me to go to the Sigma Pi party, but I have a shift at the bar. I send the text and look up just in time to nearly crush my coffee between us. The look of disdain is unmistakeable. You say nothing, but motion me forward out of some obligation to polite. I cast my eyes down after a moment and walk away. My shoulders don’t relax, my coffee and my phone gripped tight. For a moment, I feel relief, knowing that your office is just a few steps away.

"Have a seat." I motion at the seat designated for students and wait until you're sitting to lean over and snatch the metal trashcan from the floor. Holding it out, I look at the coffee, and then at you. Instead, you lean forward and place it on my rich mahogany desk, a challenging humor in your gaze. Standing, I cross over before you, and swipe it into the trash can before perching myself where it used to be.

It gives me a high advantage over you and I cross my arms and ankles as I look down at you. Another pregnant pause stretches out between us and I'm the first to break it.

I set my face, cross my arms and lean back in my chair. Whatever you’re doing, whatever show of power this is meant to be, I’m not into it. It’s hard to keep eye contact with you, but I grind my molars together to keep my eye contact strong. Then you tell me that I’m an excellent writer, and my face betrays my thoughts.

“You hear back from the lit professor?”

“Yeah,” I respond, hands scrubbing over my face.

“I told you to take it with Ms. Drummond.”

“I know, but I had another class I needed for that time slot. His was the last one open!”

“And now you have both the pleasure and the misery of staring at him.”

“For four fucking hours a week, yeah. He would be hot if he wasn’t so goddamn arrogant.”

“He’s hot even with his arrogance.”

I throw a pillow across the living room, hitting her in the side. “Shut up, Rae.”

We both laugh it off, but the idea of my writing being lackluster plants itself in my brain and latches like the smallest leech.

A few days, and hours of reading, later— I end up back in the risers of your class. This time I have to listen to you go on and on about David Foster Wallace. The Infinite Jest wasn’t bad, it was even one of the books I like reading the most, but your reduction of it after our e-mail exchange just annoys me. You must be able to tell my attention is waning, because you call on me. I try to shake my head, tell you I don’t know so I don’t really have to say anything, but you persist.

“No, Miss Matchen, please- if my lecture is boring you then we should hear what you think about the reading,” and it’s the way you say it, like I’m not worthy of the opinion I hold, whatever it is.

So I take a deep breath, purely unamused by yet another man asserting power.

“Wallace sounds like he smoked ayahuasca once in the dessert with a native tribe that overcharged him for it and now he sees the meaning the flap of a butterfly’s wing. Sure, I get it, life is beautiful and tragic but did he need 1100 pages to say it? No. John Green did it in about three hundred with A Fault In Our Stars, and that guy got a movie deal.”

I earn myself a few snickers from around the room, and a heated stare from you.

I know why they're here and not in Drummond's class. Enough girls have lingered behind after class, tits pushed up and jeans skin tight, as if their desperation will lead to me bending them over my desk for a hard fucking. The temptation has been there, but I'm not a fool. I worked hard to get where I am, my past a hurdle that almost sent me down an entirely different path. So, the temporary satisfaction in 20-something pussy just doesn't scratch the itch for me. But, fuck, has it been a while.

I scan the room, my gaze stalling on a particular student sandwiched between a large group of lacrosse players. They ignore her almost as much as she does them, and much to my chagrin, boredom is written all over her face. I see a satisfying flash of panic as I stop and call out to her, asking for her input on my lecture. I remember her name immediately.

Nycole Matchen.

You were the one that sent me an email about your grade. My jaw ticks in irritation at the memory of you asking to know why I graded your paper the way I did. I had to read it again to refresh myself and I realized that, while your paper was astronomically better than anyone else in my classes, the gall of asking me to explain my reasoning was enough for me to respond as I did.

You seem to shed any trepidation to my inquiry and launch into a speech that immediately makes my nails bite into my palm. You mention John Green and I have to stop myself from rolling my eyes. As if a movie deal is the end result of anything put to paper. But the generational difference between us almost slaps me in the face at the realization that you're right. It doesn't matter how incredible the author is or the printed words, it's the impact it has on people. Books will always be loved, but nothing beats the adaption to film. Why read about Captain America in a comic when you can see him on the big screen?

I zoned out just long enough for you to conclude your little speech and the spatter of muted laughter across the hall has me glaring in your direction.

"Class is concluded."

The crowd of students lurch to their feet and there's a bit of chaos as they try to make it to the door before I change my mind. I turn away to pack up my bag, my shoulders feeling tense as I stuff folders and books inside. Several voices call out for me to have a good day and I give a faint smile to the students that brush a little too close to say it.

I step away from my desk just in time to bump into you, and we share a glare until I motion impatiently at the door for you to go first. With slight hesitation, you step forward, and I fall into stride behind you. Jesus, this view is better. I don't have to deal with that fucking look on your face, your shapely ass putting black leggings to the test. I can just barely see the faint outline of a tiny pair of panties and I wonder if you know that I can see it. It's a tiny victory that only I can enjoy and I follow you out into the hallway, as fate would have it, both of us going in the same direction.

You try your best to ignore me, and I almost let you go, my hand closing around the knob to my office door.

I pack up my rented books and palm my iced coffee, heading down the row of desks while texting Rae about plans this weekend. She wants me to go to the Sigma Pi party, but I have a shift at the bar. I send the text and look up just in time to nearly crush my coffee between us. The look of disdain is unmistakeable. You say nothing, but motion me forward out of some obligation to polite. I cast my eyes down after a moment and walk away. My shoulders don’t relax, my coffee and my phone gripped tight. For a moment, I feel relief, knowing that your office is just a few steps away.

Metal scaffolding pressed rectangles into the meat of my calves, the blood rushing to my head from where I hung upside down. The vat below me bubbled and frothed, a viscous white that could swallow me if I dropped. My nostrils burned on inhale. The same kind of burn you feel when you bleach your bathroom, sanitized and squeaky clean, melting the remnants of epithelial tissue until it’s nothing but a chromosomal slurry. If you mix it with ammonia you’d get mustard gas, and you’d hack up a pink mist of lung and bronchial tissue. 

I hear from Dick that you lost your job and not long after your apartment. I almost break down and look for you, but I know you'll be better off without me. I have no idea that you're living the way you are, stitching up Gotham trash that I'm probably the one to fuck up to begin with. I think that perhaps you're okay, that you have found some peace after what happened.

I could barely look at you when the DNA results came back. Nothing about The Joker has ever been normal, but some of the markers matched what was on file. He raped you and I let him. He took you and broke you and I was too much of a fucking coward to put you back together. I thought it would be best to leave, to stay as far away as possible so that nothing like that would ever happen again.

I was wrong.

I stay busy, keeping my mind on my neverending quest to rid Gotham of its trash. Everything is as normal, until it's not. Bruce tries to contact me, but I refuse his calls, his presence at my door with my brothers trailing along immediately putting me on the defensive.

"What do you want?" I move deeper into my dim, messy apartment, kicking an empty beer can on my way to get one from the fridge. I hear something slap against the counter and I turn back to see a manila envelope. "What's that?"

"Something I need you to see."

I crack open the can and take a long sip. I know what's inside is going to be bad, especially since Bruce found it necessary to track me down. I slam the can down and snatch up the envelope, prying the metal prongs to open it. Shoving a clear spot on the countertop, I dump the contents. A stack of pictures fan out, each one more graphic than the last.

There's a lot of gore and somehow I manage to recognize the victim. A local politician that was accused of assaulting eight women, got off with nothing, not even a slap on the wrist. But now he looked deader than shit, something carved into his chest. My brow furrows and Tim is the one to identify it.

"It's an interrobang." I look from him and then back to the photo, throwing them back onto the counter.

"Okay, and?" Bruce sighs, his hands bracing in the edge of the counter.

"Look at the last picture, Jason."

I glare at him as I snatch up the pile, letting each one flutter down until the final one remains. The white wall is no longer pristine, crimson letters smeared along the plaster.

"It's a..." Bruce starts.

"Riddle." I finish.

~

The night is clear, light pollution from the city blocking out most of the stars. Wayne Tower is in the distance and I tear away my gaze to scan the street below. The killer hasn't been easy to locate, weeks spent moving around along with Bruce and my brothers and interrogating answers out of people.

They didn't know who it was, pretty much useless. Another body, or least a part of it, showed up on the front steps of GCPD, a riddle included.

What is harder to catch the faster you run?

"Your breath." I growl, the pair of lungs giving away the answer.

Testing proved it was another politician, another one that committed atrocious shit and got away with it.

Guess he got what he deserved in the end.

The building I'm standing on is across from a high rise, my binoculars on a lit window. Senator Jacob Smitz is entertaining, a woman that was almost certainly paid for her time. I guess he figured he needed a treat after getting away with fraud. As he begins to fuck the woman, my gaze shifts. I'm not here for him. I'm here for someone else.

The news was good about reporting terrible shit and when I saw the story on Smitz, I knew he was next.

Movement on the rooftop below catches my attention. A figure darts along the shadows, keeping cover as they move closer to the edge. I can see them look up and the moon catches their face, a mask obscuring the upper half. I move without a sound, dropping down and almost missing the ledge as I fall onto the building.

I have my gun out, aiming as I step around a central air unit. The figure is perched on the ledge, ready to jump down.

"Not so fucking fast." The figure freezes and I step closer, gun raised. "Get down."

They do as I say, slowly slinking down. I can see now, the figure a woman, the corset catching my attention. I'm distracted, not prepared for the sharp jab in my chest. I look down, a scalpel sticking out of the protective shell at my sternum. When I look back, the woman is throwing herself off the roof. We're easily ten stories up and I lunge forward just in time to see her slam into the concrete below.

"What the fuck!?!"

I watched Senator Smitz for a couple weeks after his trial aired, the image of his victim terrified behind the plaintiffs bench cementing itself in my head. I knew that if he got off those charges the cycle would just start over, and it turns out that he was an acquaintance of the first politician I made an example of. So really, it seems only fair that I dig all of them out at this point, like an exterminator only with a better wardrobe.