The rule of Falcone, when viewed through the lens of time, was nothing short of a brutal dictatorship, cloaked in shadows and enforced by bloodshed.

  No matter what business you ran in Gotham, you had to pay protection money to the families led by Falcone, or else you wouldn’t survive a single day in this city.

  Of course, they liked to call it “order,” but let’s face it, this protection money could easily be renamed “management fees.” Gotham had long been the pyground of the crime families.

  But this led to a bigger problem: the rich grew richer, while the poor sank deeper into despair. The lower you were in society, the more you were squeezed.

  It was like the food chain in the ocean—big fish ate little fish, little fish ate shrimp, and the shrimp ate mud.

  At that point, more than 90% of the people in Gotham didn’t even qualify as shrimp; they were just the muck at the bottom, struggling to get by on the most mundane jobs. After handing over their protection fees, they barely had enough left to survive, only to work for the families again next month.

  People rushed through their days, numb to the grind, doing whatever they were told under the watchful eye of the mafia. And if they ever dared step out of line, they’d face a brutal beating or worse—homes set on fire, streets raked with machine gun fire, entire families bound to concrete blocks and sunk into the ocean.

  Everyone was suffocating under this reign of terror. Nothing was safe. Nothing was sacred.

  Your husband was handsome? Taken.Your bike was in good condition? Taken.Your sofa was made of soft fabric? Taken.

  Though it wasn’t the Falcone family themselves doing this, it was the lowlifes who attached themselves to the bigger forces, who in turn, bowed to the greatest of all—the ten families.

  Elsewhere, when you asked children what they wanted to be when they grew up, the answers were diverse—scientist, priest, or firefighter, to name a few.

  But in Gotham? The answer was always the same—"I want to be the boss."

  Because for the kids of Gotham, the only way out was to dive headfirst into the dark, join a powerful leader, and become everything they once hated. They would rise through the ranks, step by step, committing every unspeakable act along the way.

  At that time, over half of the city officials took political donations from the ten families, and the rest lived in constant fear of threats. Gotham was a city without hope.

  And then, James Gordon, a retired military man, came back to Gotham and became a detective. His first case? The murder of the Waynes, shot down in an alley.

  He comforted young Bruce Wayne, promising to uncover the truth and bring justice to his parents.

  But all the leads pointed to the ten families, and as Gordon dug deeper, the darkness of Gotham revealed itself, its horrifying currents pulling him in.

  To be honest, life wasn’t all bad for Gordon back then. As a cop, he didn’t have to pay protection money. The thugs didn’t go after him or his men—not unless they had a good reason.

  Because, to the ten families, Gotham was their city, and the cops were there to maintain order for the families. Why would they need to pay protection money to themselves?

  Although Gordon had been born and raised in Gotham, he’d seen the world outside—bright, colorful, and far different from Gotham’s perpetual gray. He refused to accept his city in this condition.

  He was determined to clean up the streets, to restore some sembnce of light to Gotham.

  Even if half of the food he ate came from the Falcone family’s table.

  And so, he endured hardship—demotions, threats, false accusations, assassination attempts. As his investigation grew, so did the enemies’ tactics, pushing him to the brink of death more times than he could count.

  That was until, more than a decade ago, Batgirl arrived, and the two of them fought side by side for three long years, finally toppling the families...

  The ten families crumbled, leaving only one—the Cobblepot family, led by today’s Penguin. Her territory was no rger than a fraction of what it once was.

  Gordon had personally sent Falcone—the former king of Gotham—to Bckgate Prison.

  Though he was out soon after, he fled to Hong Kong, and Gordon never saw him again.

  From that point on, Gordon’s focus shifted to dealing with the endless stream of masked vigintes, but perhaps te at night, when he had a drink in hand, he would remember the dark days of his youth.

  And now, that memory walked back into the room.

  “Gordon, the young man I knew, you’ve gotten old now.”

  Falcone’s voice carried a note of nostalgia as he looked at Gordon. There was no hatred in his eyes, just the calm gaze of an old man watching his grandchildren.

  He still had that same air about him—his suit sharp, his manners polished. Everything in the room seemed to turn back time, back to the golden age of the “Romans,” the first time Gordon met him.

  Back then, Gordon had gone to Falcone looking for clues. Falcone had graciously welcomed him into his office, the emperor of Gotham and a humble detective talking across a desk.

  Just like today.

  Gordon wasn’t fooled, though. Maybe thirty years ago, he would have been, but not now. He still remembered how Falcone’s men “invited” him in.

  The Roman was back—and fully armed.

  “You’ve aged faster than I have, Falcone.”

  Gordon, even in the face of danger, never backed down. He shot back at Falcone immediately.

  Falcone only smiled, leisurely stroking his cat, which had fallen asleep by the firepce, yawning contentedly in his p.

  “Yes, we’ve both grown old. This world belongs to the young now. That’s why I decided to return here, before I die, to see it one st time.”

  “There’s nothing to see in Gotham. You should leave,” Gordon said, sitting across from him, meeting his gaze calmly.

  Falcone paused for a moment, then leaned down to smell the rose on his chest. He looked up, puzzled, at Gordon.

  “Yes, there’s nothing to see... I gave you a glorious city, and yet, you turned it into this?”

  “At least the people have freedom,” Gordon closed his eyes, leaning back on the sofa.

  “What is freedom? Tonight, they don’t even dare step outside,” Falcone chuckled darkly, as if Gordon had told a joke. Seeing him with his eyes closed, he added, “You and Batgirl tricked me. I don’t bme you, because I know what you wanted—a better city.”

  “I don’t bme her either. After all, someone in my family killed Brice’s parents. Even though it was the Owls who did the deed, I deserve that punishment.”

  ...

  Gordon remained silent.

  “Do you remember when I asked you what you wanted? You said you wanted a city where people could live in peace, where children could grow up healthy. So I let go. I handed it over to you, trusting you to do what I couldn’t. I let you lock me up. I let you become Gotham’s hope, and then I left. And this is what you give me in return?”

  Falcone calmly set the cat down on the carpet, watching it curl up and drift into sleep. He took a bottle of wine from his desk, pouring it into two gsses, the golden liquid catching the firelight.

  “Gotham... just needs time. It’ll get better,” Gordon said, almost believing his own words.

  “That’s why I had faith in you, Gordon. You always hold on to hope. You never give up.” Falcone smiled, shakily standing up, and handed Gordon a gss of wine. He lightly clinked his gss against Gordon’s.

  “Compared to that cripple from the Cobblepot family, you’re still my ideal successor.”