Everything they owned was in those cases. Clothes, a cracked phone, a few books, and a shoebox of photos that smelled like their mum's perfume.

The doors slid open with a hydraulic hiss. Outside, the Gotham sky was a bruised purple, the skyline jagged against the horizon. And there, idling at the curb like a whale breaching the surface, was a limousine. Black. Long. Absurdly shiny.

A man stood beside it. Elderly, with silver hair swept neatly back and a posture so straight it looked like a broomstick had been surgically attached to his spine. His suit was immaculate, his hands clasped in front of him like he was waiting for royalty.