Much later, as I reflected upon the events that ultimately marked the beginning of a new chapter in my carefully measured life, I realized with a wry smile, "That day began in the evening." The clock's hands pointed to a quarter to six when the phone rang—a call that would subtly shift the contours of my world.
"Good to hear from you, Detective," I greeted the caller, instantly recognizing her quiet urgency. "How are you?"
"Hello, Alex," came Renee Montoya's voice, trembling but strong, her usual composure fractured by a note of uncharacteristic worry. "Could you pick me up from the station? Right now?"
I sensed the gravity beneath her words. Whatever troubled her, I knew this was not the time for idle questions or analysis. So I replied immediately that I was leaving to get her, hoping my prompt assurance would soothe her frazzled nerves. As I ended the call, I detected a shift—her voice seemed lighter, the burden momentarily lifted.
I had no idea what had shaken Renee so deeply, but I was almost certain it was not the kind of catastrophe she imagined. Knowing her, I suspected that it might be another episode in her complicated relationships—a predicament stemming from her unabashed love for women.
Arriving at the parking lot adjacent to the station, I spotted Renee waiting near the entrance, her silhouette tense but patient as she glanced around for her would-be rescuer—that is, me. After parking, I walked toward her, rehearsing a clever greeting in my mind to lighten the mood. Before I could deliver my line, however, Renee closed the gap between us, threw her arms around my neck, and pressed her lips to mine with impulsive intensity.
I'll admit, the kiss caught me completely off guard. It was a delightful shock—a collision of vulnerability and affection. Caught in the moment, I wrapped my arms around her waist, responding eagerly, deepening the connection. Renee tensed at first, but allowed herself that fleeting intimacy. Any beautiful thing is destined to end, and this was no exception. Our lips parted, but we remained locked in each other's embrace. Renee rested her head gently against my shoulder and murmured softly, "Smile, and take me away from here."
Without saying another word, I complied. Exaggerating a cheerful grimace, I put my arm around her shoulders and led her back to the car. Silence reigned as we drove, neither of us uttering a sound—not even once we were finally alone together, transported away from the station and its suffocating scrutiny.
I drove us to Rickman Street, the busiest corner of Gotham City—a place brimming with life, illuminated with so many neon lights it felt like a miniature Las Vegas constructed in the heart of shadows. Despite Gotham's reputation as the most crime-ridden city in the world, tourism flourished here. Adventurers and thrill-seekers mingled with regular visitors, all drawn by the city's unique blend of gothic elegance and palpable gloom. Rickman Street, once the most dangerous stretch in Gotham, had become a little slice of paradise—thanks, in part, to the relentless vigilance of the Dark Knight.
Renee's apartment was situated nearby, a cozy haven she'd managed to purchase back when prices were impossibly low—a stroke of luck she seldom acknowledged. Yet that wasn't our only reason for coming here; more than anything, we wanted to escape, to let loose and enjoy ourselves—to indulge our demons in the relative safety and excitement of Gotham's brightest street. Indeed, this evening felt like a date. I was still publicly her boyfriend, or so the department believed.
We wandered among the throngs of people, searching for something to eat, something to distract and entertain us. Soon, we chanced upon a stand selling frozen treats. I bought two popsicles, handing one to my silent companion.
"I'm hungry," Renee confessed, voice barely above a whisper. "I don't think one ice cream on a stick will be enough."
"Would you prefer a hot dog?" I offered, scanning nearby stalls.
"They used to sell those hot dogs here, but they were so chilling," she joked, biting into her chocolate-covered ice cream. Her humor was dry, but I was glad to see some of her old spirit returning.
After a moment, I finally voiced the question that had hovered in the air since the station. "What happened to you today?"
Renee sighed, finishing off her ice cream before responding. "Someone started a rumor in the department that I'm a lesbian," she began hesitantly. "I don't know how they found out. Maybe they saw me at a bar with a girl once. Now, everywhere I go, I feel eyes on me—those meaningful glances, whispers that never quite fade. It's unnerving."
She paused, her face shadowed by a mixture of embarrassment and anger. "Harvey's the only one who stood up for me. He tried to convince everyone I was dating a well-known guy. But no one believed him."
I understood the implication at once. "That's why you called me, wanted me to come to the station—to make it clear Harvey wasn't lying, and quiet the gossip. That's why you kissed me so publicly at the entrance?"
"Yes," Renee admitted, eyes fixed on her shoes as she spoke. "I'm sorry, Alex. I should have asked you before doing something like that." There was genuine regret in her voice—a vulnerability she seldom let slip.
"Don't blame yourself," I replied gently. "Honestly, I liked the kiss. We looked convincing—a real couple in every way." Renee lifted her head, her indignation flashing. "Shut up, Alex!"
Some passersby glanced at us suspiciously. Renee composed herself and added, more calmly, "I just had to do something to protect myself. I'm sorry. It wasn't fair to drag you into it. You're just collateral damage. I could have asked for help some other way."
I pretended to contemplate, teasing, "How about quitting your job as a cop and joining my company instead? You wouldn't have to worry about rumors anymore, and you could be honest about who you are."
"And what position are you offering?" Renee asked, genuinely curious.
"How about Head of Security?" I suggested.
She laughed, surprised. "That's tempting—but I'll have to decline. I'm not ready to leave the force yet."
"Well, the offer's always open. Whatever happens, I'll always have a place for you," I assured her.
"Thank you, Alex. Having a friend like you is a dream," she responded warmly, licking her ice cream with newfound cheer.
We spent the next hour exploring Rickman Street, vibrant characters popping in and out of our path—one dressed as Batman, another sporting the familiar symbol of hope from Metropolis, while a few wore costumes reminiscent of Iron Man, their chests glowing with imitation arc reactors. The atmosphere was one of playful chaos, a celebration of Gotham's enduring culture punctuated by costumed enthusiasts boldly declaring their allegiances.
Eventually, we wandered off Rickman's main drag into a small park illuminated by the old city's somber streetlights—a space quieter, cooler, perfumed by blooming night flowers and the aroma of freshly cut grass. As we strolled beneath ancient trees, a red-haired woman in a sharp, tight-fitting tracksuit suddenly jogged up to us. It was Natasha Romanoff—known to most as the Black Widow.
Natasha's appearance was well-timed but feigned. I observed her closely as she approached, her gaze sharp yet masked by a performance of surprise.
"Mister Alex," she greeted, voice breathless as she paused before us. "Here as well? And, I see, not alone." Natasha stopped to catch her breath, sweat glistening on her brow in calculated droplets—an obvious act for someone of her training and discipline. I knew her well enough to sense the deception; her stamina was legendary, unyielding.
"Night jogging?" I asked, feigning politeness.
"Yes," she replied, smiling. "This is the best spot in Gotham for running—and the safest, these days. Still, I didn't expect to see you here." Her tone was casual, but I heard the lie echoing behind her words. Natasha was following me, and not for the first time. Her subtle tactics rarely fooled me—she was seeking information; her methods always wrapped in charm.
Renee eyed Natasha with a mixture of curiosity and caution, sensing the tension but saying nothing. I kept my own doubts to myself, determined not to betray anything in front of either woman. Natasha's reputation as S.H.I.E.L.D.'s finest operative preceded her—save for Clint Barton, perhaps, though their rankings were always subject to debate.
Despite the underlying tension, I maintained a relaxed demeanor, exchanging pleasantries with Natasha while keeping my guard up. Renee, loosening in the presence of company, managed a polite smile, though her gaze remained wary. For a brief moment, the evening's earlier anxieties faded, replaced by a curious energy—a sense that, even in Gotham's darkest corners, life could surprise with moments of unexpected warmth and camaraderie.
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