Not that anyone in Gotham was listening anymore.

Black smoke coiled into the bruised purple sky above Arkham Island, a crooked finger beckoning chaos across the river. From the mainland, you could hear them—the laughter, the screams, the distant pop of gunfire melting into the wail of police cruisers that no longer seemed to know where to go.

Somewhere in the Bowery, a bank exploded. The shockwave rippled through the streets.

On the rooftop of a derelict hotel, high above the chaos, you stood at the edge.

The wind carried ash and the smell of burning rubber. The city writhed below like a wounded animal, every district bleeding into the next. Blackgate was burning. The GCPD headquarters blinked emergency red into the smog.

Behind you, a door creaked open.