The tiny device disappeared into the morning sky, leaving only the weight of uncomfortable questions hanging in the air.

  The engine hums low in the parking lot, but it's just background noise—easy to tune out. I'm parked in the shadow of a flickering streetmp, the kind that stutters like it's about to give up for good, just like this whole damn city. The motel sign blinks "Gotham Motel" like a broken neon heartbeat.

  I adjust the camera's lens, fingers numb despite the heater running full bst. A quick breath fogs the gss before I wipe it away, and there she is—Sara Lance, mixed martial arts teacher with her student framed in the dirty motel window across the lot. The light hits just right, casting half her face in shadow, the other half caught in that sick, cheap motel glow.

  *Click.* I freeze on a frame where their hands tangle, skin brushing skin—too intimate, too raw to look at for long. Through the telephoto lens, I watch as Sara pulls Ava closer, their mouths meeting in a kiss that's desperate and hungry. My finger hovers over the shutter button, steady despite the bile rising in my throat.

  I learned this work from my mentor, Bruce Wayne. His no-nonsense, stoic demeanor made me who I am today. When I was just starting out as a private eye, he took me under his wing and taught me that sometimes the truth hurts, but it's still the truth. Bruce showed me how to do this job without losing myself completely—though some days I wonder if I'm managing that part.

  *Click. Click.* The camera captures everything: Ava's hands threading through Sara's hair, the way they fall back onto the unmade bed, limbs intertwining. Sara's shirt hits the floor, followed by Ava's panties. I hate this. Hate every damn second of it. But bills don't pay themselves, and this is what Nyssa al Ghul is paying for—proof of her wife's betrayal.

  *Click.* Through the viewfinder, I watch them move, bodies pressing together in the pale motel light. The camera clicks softly as I document their intimacy, each frame another nail in the coffin of her marriage. No knight in shining armor here—just me, a shitty car, and a lens that sees everything but can't change a thing.

  The irony isn't lost on me. Nyssa al Ghul hired me to find out what's going on with her wife—the cold business of betrayal. The kind of work that makes you feel less human with every snap. I don't know if Nyssa wants justice or just answers. Doesn't matter. I do the job. I take the pictures.

  My mind drifts—like it always does—to the cases that still haunt me. Like the school shrink, Jervis Tetch. A man who wore a mask of trust but hid monsters underneath. I had to drag his secrets into the light. Took months to put that bastard behind bars. I can still see the look of betrayal in Alice's eyes as the man who she felt she was in love with was put away. That was the first time I tasted what Gotham's real filth felt like.

  Then there was Barbara Gordon—fragile but fierce. After she was hit by that drunk driver, Mr. J. the insurance company tried to wash their hands clean. Wanted me to lie, to say she was faking. But I didn't. Couldn't. Truth was a damn expensive currency in this town.

  ** And Mari McCabe—the animal rights activist with a picture-perfect image. She thought she could bury her past, but Edward Nygma kept the receipts: an animal sex video that could ruin everything and her marriage. She hired me to break into his pce and retrieve it. Risky, but I pulled it off. Mari's secret stayed secret—but the memories? They never really fade.

  *Click.* Another picture of Sara and Ava, naked, wrapped in each other's arms, their breathing finally slowing. The intimacy of the moment burns through the lens, and I feel like a voyeur in the worst possible way. This is someone's life I'm documenting, someone's private moment I'm turning into evidence.

  The car's heater kicks in again, blowing warm air on my hands, but the chill inside doesn't budge. I'm just a witness in a city that thrives on lies and half-truths. A hunter of shadows, trying to find a diamond in the crap.

  I lower the camera and run my fingers through my spiky red hair. God, I hate this city. But I love the work. Or maybe I just love the person I am when I'm doing it—the one who hopes, even when everything is against it.

  The lens zooms out, catching one st frame of the illicit affair before I pack up. I'm done here. But Gotham? Gotham never sleeps.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a fsh of light. When I open my eyes again, there's a man in a bck business suit walking past on the sidewalk, tall and familiar-looking. For a second I think it's Bruce, but I shake my head. Can't be him. Bruce is retired and probably at home asleep right now.

  ---

  The click of the apartment door is almost louder than I expect. The silence inside feels different—softer, safer. My boots thud against the worn floorboards as I step in, dragging the weight of the day with me.

  Tim's voice cuts through the quiet, calm and steady like always. "Hey. How was your day?"

  I shrug off my jacket and drop the camera bag by the door. No point pretending. "Same as usual, honey. Wading through the filth, trying to find a diamond in the dirt. Gotta pay these bills."

  He nods, eyes soft but knowing. Tim's the kind of guy who gets it without needing expnations. Without judging.

  He sets his students' papers aside and crosses the room in easy strides. Wraps me in a hug—careful, like he's holding something fragile.

  I close my eyes and lean against his chest and just breathe for a second. "You okay?" His voice is a whisper, but it carries weight.

  I pull back and meet his gaze. "Yeah. I'm gd I met you," I say, voice quiet but real. "You seem to be the only decent person left in this city."

  He smiles—the kind that makes you believe maybe, just maybe, there's hope left. I kiss him. Soft, like I'm trying to hold onto this moment before the city drags me back outside again.

  For a while, the noise of Gotham fades. And for the first time today, I'm not just a PI watching from a distance. I'm just Carrie Kelley. And maybe that's enough.

  The neon sign of the Gotham Motel flickered behind Bruce Wayne as he ventured deeper into the city's underbelly. Half the letters were burned out, casting sickly pink shadows across cracked pavement littered with broken gss and discarded needles.