Gotham didn't have sunrises. Just transitions—between pitch-black silence and faint, washed-out smog. It wasn't morning. It was simply less night.
Draven sat atop an abandoned tenement building in Burnside, a rusted skyline looming like the skeletal remains of a forgotten world. His coat flapped in the cold wind, the city's ever-present sirens a distant wail beneath him. Bandages clung to his ribs. The pain was constant now. Less like a warning—more like a friend that refused to leave.
Behind him, Selene emerged from the stairwell door, her footsteps soft despite the broken gravel.
"You don't sleep," she said quietly.
"Gotham doesn't either."
She handed him a tablet, cracked at the corners. "I pulled what I could from old intelligence nodes. Most of the digital trails are wiped. Burned, like someone's trying to make it like you never existed."
Draven scrolled through the files. Lines of corrupted code, blurred images, deleted entries. Then, he stopped.
A single line of redacted information, a mission log: Project Halcyon. Status: Discontinued.
A photograph appeared next—grainy, black-and-white. It showed him. Younger. Cold. Standing over a body in a dimly lit corridor.
"What the hell was Project Halcyon?" he asked, voice low.
Selene hesitated. "You were."
His hand clenched around the edge of the tablet. "Start talking."
Selene folded her arms, biting her bottom lip before answering. "You weren't just a soldier. You were part of a prototype task force created by Gotham's deep shadows—the real power. The ones that bankroll elections, own the cops, fund Arkham from the shadows. Halcyon wasn't about creating elite operatives... it was about creating obedient weapons. Clean slates. Reprogrammable minds. Soldiers that didn't ask questions."
"You mean I was one of them."
"You were the prototype," she confirmed. "But you didn't follow the script. You started asking too many questions. Then you vanished."
Draven stared out over the city.
"And now they want to finish what they started."
"They're not just cleaning records, Draven. They're erasing the past—and anyone connected to it."
His breathing deepened. The fog of the past had always haunted him, but now it had a name. Halcyon. A shadow that never left.
"Do you remember anything?" she asked gently.
"Fragments," he said. "Rooms with no windows. Screams behind walls. A doctor with dead eyes. And... a voice. Giving orders."
"Who?"
"I don't know. But I remember the fear. Not mine—theirs."
Suddenly, a scream cut through the silence.
It wasn't far.
They moved instantly—over the ledge, down the fire escape, boots clanging against rusted steel.
In a graffiti-littered alley, three masked thugs circled a girl no older than fifteen. One had a knife. Another, a metal pipe. The third whispered something that made her shrink against the wall.
They never saw Draven coming.
The first attacker turned as Draven crashed into him, slamming his head into the concrete. The second swung the pipe wildly—Draven caught it mid-air, twisted, and sent the man sprawling. The third tried to run.
Selene stepped from the shadows. Her boot met his jaw mid-step, and he crumpled into the dumpster.
Silence returned.
The girl trembled. "They... they said I saw something. A painting. Kept asking about it. I don't know what they meant... I swear..."
Draven knelt. "You're safe now."
"Did they say where they were taking you?" Selene asked.
The girl nodded shakily. "A place... called Black Hollow."
Draven stood slowly. The name echoed through his mind like a shot in a church.
Black Hollow.
Not a place. A memory.
A sealed wing beneath Gotham's asylum. A location scrubbed from maps and minds. Rumors said it was once a laboratory. Others said it was a graveyard for failed experiments.
Selene whispered, "That name hasn't been spoken in over a decade."
"They're bringing it back," Draven muttered.
A sick, heavy realization settled in. Ash Circle wasn't just eliminating people.
They were rebuilding Halcyon.
Suddenly, Selene turned. Her eyes scanned the rooftops. A chill ran through her. "We're being watched."
Draven followed her gaze. But it was too late. The rooftop was empty.
Except for a faint, echoing laugh.
A twisted, delighted chuckle carried by the wind.
Draven's expression darkened. "He was here."
Selene's eyes narrowed. "Joker?"
"He's watching the chessboard," Draven said. "And he's waiting for me to make the wrong move."
As they vanished into the darkness, the camera would pan out—high above the city, where Joker stood at the edge of a cathedral rooftop, a yellow balloon in one hand, the wind tugging at his purple coat.
"Dear Draven," he mused, eyes wide with mischief. "You're the most fun I've had in years. Shall we see how far down the rabbit hole goes?"
He smiled wide.
Then popped the balloon.