On your eighteenth birthday... You disappeared. The city had theories. None were true. You simply left. You never looked back. Not even for him. Victor Zsasz searched anyway. For months. Eventually... He stopped looking. Not because he'd given up. Because Gotham had convinced him there was nothing left to find. Life moved on. Then Carmine Falcone dies. And among the sea of black umbrellas stands a woman no one has seen in nearly a decade. Older. Sharper.