"Today's morning report: A major violent incident occurred last night in District 24. The identities of the forces involved remain unknown, though one side appears to have been the recently notorious motorcycle gang active in East Gotham. The current death toll stands at twenty-three. Residents in District 24 are advised to take proper safety precautions. Police have completed a preliminary investigation and confirmed that the perpetrator was not the Dark Knight."
The bar had gone strangely quiet by the time the anchor finished speaking. Every set of eyes in Emily's tavern was fixed on the television, and for a moment nobody seemed sure how to react. Then someone in the back slammed a palm against the table and shouted loud enough to shake the glasses.
"Good. About damn time somebody dealt with those bastards."
That broke the silence instantly. One voice turned into several, and then the whole room erupted into overlapping cheers, curses, and relieved laughter. The motorcycle gang had been causing trouble on Wallier Street for who knew how long, showing up drunk, violent, and convinced they owned every block they drove through. For the regulars at Emily's Tavern, people who worked hard, kept their heads down, and just wanted one peaceful place to breathe, that gang had become a constant source of anger.
The police, of course, had been useless.
Nobody in Gotham expected much from them anymore. If a squad car actually showed up on time, people talked about it like they'd witnessed a miracle. Most of the regulars had long since given up on law enforcement and settled for a different kind of fantasy instead. They just hoped that one night Batman might decide to sweep through their forgotten corner of the city and clean house.
Instead, someone else had done it.
Whoever had gone after the bikers hadn't just scared them off. He had slaughtered them. The result was horrifying on paper, but here in the bar, among people who had been pushed around and threatened for months, the prevailing feeling wasn't fear. It was relief.
Dam looked especially energized. The burly man nearly knocked into two chairs on his way across the room, weaving between tables until he reached Emily, who was busy organizing bottles on the shelf behind the counter.
"Emily," he said, lowering his voice just enough to sound serious, "where's Locke?"
Emily paused, then turned toward him with an expression that tried very hard to be stern. Her brows drew together and her lips tightened, but with her soft features and youthful face, the result was more cute than intimidating.
"Brother Dam," she said, "don't tell me you're planning to ask him to stand up for you again."
Dam blinked, then scratched the back of his head in embarrassment. "No, no, nothing like that. Ever since he helped me deal with those guys last time, they haven't dared mess with me again. I'm just asking."
Emily's expression didn't soften. If anything, she straightened a little, as if that gave her more authority. Morning sunlight filtered in through the tavern window and touched her face, making her skin look pale and clear like polished porcelain.
"Locke is my employee," she said firmly. "And from now on, he works for me. You're not allowed to drag him into dangerous things anymore."
Dam stared at her.
For a second, he looked so lost it was almost tragic. Then he awkwardly grabbed at his hair, mumbled something under his breath, and turned to shuffle away in defeat. Before he could make it to the door, Emily called after him.
"He went out shopping. He probably won't be back until noon."
Dam stopped, spun around, and immediately broke into a broad smile. "Thanks, Emily!"
He bobbed his head several times in exaggerated gratitude before finally leaving the tavern.
Not far from Wallier Street, over in District 29, Locke stood inside a beer processing factory wearing work overalls and a dark beret. His appearance was simple enough, but the look in his eyes was steady and observant as he studied the broad-shouldered man standing across from him.
"Uncle Jordanson," he said with a polite smile, "nice to meet you. I'm Locke."
"I know who you are," Jordanson replied, narrowing his eyes slightly. "You're that 'Locke' people on Wallier Street keep talking about. The guy who likes helping others and sticking up for the weak."
He studied him carefully as he spoke.
The young man in front of him was handsome in a way Gotham rarely produced. Clean lines, bright eyes, and a calm, open confidence all combined into something that stood out immediately in a city defined by exhaustion, suspicion, and violence. In a place where robbery, drugs, and murder were part of daily life, that kind of presence felt almost out of place.
"I hope you'll look after Emily," Jordanson said at last.
His gaze stayed locked on Locke's face, testing him.
Locke didn't flinch. His expression remained calm, and he answered with a simple nod. The composure pleased Jordanson more than he let show. Deep down, he approved of men who could meet a hard look without either shrinking or trying too hard to puff themselves up.
He raised a broad, rough hand and clapped Locke hard on the shoulder. The force behind it was enough to make most people shift their footing, but Locke didn't move at all. A faint glint crossed Jordanson's eyes at that, though he gave no outward reaction. Instead, he simply turned and gestured for Locke to follow him inside.
Jordanson had been a close friend of Emily's father for years. His brewery had been operating for more than two decades, and he had supplied Emily's tavern with beer for as long as anyone could remember. Because of the way the building was designed, sunlight filtered through the glass panels overhead and spilled across the factory floor, illuminating rows of machinery and workers moving through the brewing process with practiced familiarity.
The place smelled of grain, yeast, metal, and heat.
Jordanson led Locke to an area where boxed supplies had already been stacked and prepared for delivery. With a wave of his hand, he called over two thick-armed workers in jackets, and the men immediately started hauling crates toward the truck Locke had rented.
"I heard about the biker incident too," Jordanson said, leaning against a support pillar while watching the workers move. "Wallier Street will probably stay peaceful for a while because of it. So during that time, I hope you won't go looking for trouble. You're not alone anymore."
The words were direct, but there was something measured underneath them.
Jordanson had already formed a rough opinion of Locke. He didn't look like a bad kid. He had ability, he was willing to help Emily, and more importantly, he seemed steady. That was enough for a first impression. In Gotham, you didn't ask for perfection. You asked whether someone would bring danger to your doorstep or stand there when danger came anyway.
"Don't worry," Locke said.
Once the last crate had been loaded, he said his goodbyes and climbed into the truck for the return trip.
The moment he left, one of the younger workers stepped up beside Jordanson, his expression sour. "Boss, are you sure that guy's reliable?"
The young man's tone carried an edge he couldn't quite hide. He had always wanted to be the one helping Emily, only to get shut down repeatedly by Jordanson. Now some outsider had appeared from nowhere and earned the old man's approval almost immediately. It rubbed him the wrong way in every possible direction.
After all, before Emily's father had been killed in a gang-related shooting, she had basically been the treasured princess of their whole drinking circle. Even if none of them had ever been officially acknowledged, that feeling had lingered.
Jordanson turned his head slowly and looked at him. "Enough. Get back to unloading and kill whatever ideas you've got in your head about Emily. She's not someone you get to touch."
The young man stiffened at once.
"Got it."
Jordanson's face remained stern until the worker hurried off. Only then did he glance back toward the street where the truck had disappeared.
The drive back to Wallier Street went smoothly, thanks in part to Locke's occasional reminders to the driver. Even so, the route only reinforced how rotten the city really was. Before they made it back, he witnessed two separate robberies happening in broad daylight.
Broad daylight.
That was the part that stuck with him most. Gotham didn't even bother waiting for darkness anymore. Crime didn't creep through the shadows here. It walked right down the middle of the street like it belonged.
By the time he stepped back into Emily's tavern, the place was once again full of voices, laughter, and the smell of food and alcohol. The contrast made the idea forming in the back of his mind sharpen into something more definite.
As soon as he entered, Dam came wobbling over, a greasy piece of fried chicken in one hand and excitement written all over his face.
"Locke, you're finally back."
Locke's eyes narrowed slightly as he watched Dam reach out with fingers shining with oil. He shifted half a step and neatly avoided the incoming hand.
"Heh," Dam said, wiping his fingers on the front of his scarf with zero shame. "So tell me something. Were you the one who went after those guys last night?"
"No."
Dam leaned in anyway, clearly unconvinced. "Well, whoever it was, my friend down at the station says every one of them was killed the same way. Their necks were crushed clean through. That mysterious guy is definitely not normal."
Locke looked at the swaying little fat man in front of him and smiled. He hadn't expected Dam to have police connections, flimsy as they might be, but in Gotham even the loudest bar regulars tended to know someone somewhere.
"Oh?" he said lightly.
"And that's not even the best part," Dam continued, lowering his voice like he was sharing classified information. "The people talking about it already came up with a name for him."
Locke raised a brow. "Really."
Dam puffed out his chest dramatically, savoring the moment before delivering the punchline.
"They're calling him the Judge."
Locke let the word roll through his head once before nodding. "Judge. That's not bad."
"Exactly." Dam slapped the counter in agreement. "Gotham's only got one Dark Knight, and that's nowhere near enough for this city. There's no way one guy can handle all the freaks, gangs, and lunatics running around. But now we've got somebody else too. Just wait. Gotham's gonna outshine that green guy over in Star City."
"Green Arrow."
Dam pointed at him immediately. "Uh, yeah, Green Arrow!"
....
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