At seven in the evening, dinner had just been set on the table.
"..." Lance stared at the meal in front of him, devoid of color, aroma, or taste, and pressed a hand to his forehead in pain.
"I'll cook next time," he said helplessly.
If he kept letting Waylana handle the kitchen, he might starve before ever becoming a famous lawyer in Gotham.
Waylana gave a quiet, uneasy hum. Lance saw straight through her concern.
"Asking you to cook is a bit much," he said. "Those kitchen tools are too small for you. It's normal that you can't manage them well."
"I can learn, sir!" Waylana said immediately. Her expression turned visibly dejected. "Please don't give up on me."
"Of course I won't give up on you." Lance looked at her oddly, not understanding where that thought came from. "I didn't bring you back just to cook. You have other uses."
If anyone else heard themselves described so plainly as a tool, they would feel insulted, even if they kept it to themselves.
Waylana was different. Instead of anger, a look of relief appeared on her face.
At that moment, Number 1 issued a prompt.
"Someone is approaching, sir."
The next second, there was a knock at the door.
Three knocks, steady and measured.
Lance signaled Waylana to open it. She cautiously cracked the door, then froze in confusion as a masked figure in a tight suit, with two pointed ears, stepped inside.
"Our guest has arrived." Lance remained seated at the table and raised his glass. "Right on time."
He shrugged. "You're unusually polite today. I expected you to skip the knocking entirely."
Batman ignored the remark. As he entered, his attention did not fall on the food, but locked directly onto Waylana Jones.
She instinctively took half a step back, a low growl rumbling in her throat.
"Hey. Be friendly." Lance frowned, clearly displeased, and shot Batman a warning look. "You're scaring her."
Batman withdrew his gaze and took a seat at the table. Lance handed him a set of cutlery and a glass of wine.
"Is this your new hobby?" Batman asked.
"You could say that." Lance shrugged.
"Waylana, this is Batman. Gotham's future most powerful law enforcer. The Dark Knight. A nightmare for criminals."
Lance struggled with the roast chicken in front of him, gripping a knife in one hand and a fork in the other as he tried to carve into what had effectively become charcoal.
"Batman, this is Waylana Jones. My... assistant."
Bruce studied Waylana for a few seconds before suddenly asking, "Have the scales on your face been spreading faster recently?"
The warning growl in Waylana's throat stopped. She reached up and touched her face, confused.
Lance set the knife down without hesitation. It seemed he would not be eating that chicken tonight.
"So Batman's picked up a few things," he said.
"There have been three similar cases in the East End recently," Batman replied, ignoring the utensils in front of him. "All teenagers. Reptilian traits, emotional instability, increased aggression. The source is likely an experimental genetic compound that entered the black market."
His gaze remained fixed on Waylana.
"Who have you been in contact with? Have you eaten or injected anything unusual?"
Waylana shook her head. "No. It's always been like this. Since I was a child, I..."
Batman clearly did not believe her. Just as he was about to press further, Lance cut him off.
"That's enough. This isn't your territory. Show some respect to my assistant."
He then turned to Waylana.
"Stay away from him. You don't want your eyelashes ending up in a lab tomorrow, cataloged for DNA testing, do you?"
Waylana Jones immediately moved away from Batman. If there had been more space, she would have retreated straight out the door.
"I wasn't planning to do that," Batman said in his own defense.
"Yes, yes, of course." Lance glanced at the hand Batman had hidden behind his back and replied flatly, "Clearly I'm the one who wants to do that, right?"
"Eat first." He pushed the plate toward him. "Did you cover Gordon's deposit?"
Bruce did not deny it. "Four million is excessive. I paid two million. The remaining half will be settled after Klein is convicted."
"Deal." Lance raised his glass. "To our cooperation."
That was the advantage of doing business with Batman. You never had to worry about a generous client defaulting.
And from the moment Lance took this case, Scarecrow's fate was sealed. Either prison or Arkham, for the rest of his life.
As for which one, Lance had not decided yet. It did not matter. Once the check cleared, he could take his time.
Bruce did not touch the glass. "How can you guarantee Klein will be convicted? The District Attorney's office has already been bribed."
"Simple." Lance took a sip of wine. "If the judge is compromised, we replace the judge. If the law cannot solve it, we adjust the way it is applied."
Batman's gaze sharpened. "You cannot resort to vigilantism."
"Who said anything about vigilantism?" Lance chuckled, raising an eyebrow. "Don't forget, I'm a lawyer. No matter how far I go, my strongest weapon will always be the law."
He paused briefly.
"It's just that sometimes, the law needs a little help to function properly."
"What does that mean?" Batman asked.
"It means I need a small, insignificant piece of evidence. For example, proof that Jonathan Crane's fear toxin research was funded by certain people from the very beginning. In other words, those so-called big shots are all accomplices. They won't abandon Crane for the sake of reputation, but they will hesitate when their stocks or other interests are at risk."
"You know Crane's research never received outside support. Not financially, not otherwise."
"Of course I know." Lance smiled. "But this is Gotham. If I want evidence, I can buy it."
Batman fell silent for a long moment before finally picking up his fork.
He took a bite of the roast chicken prepared by Waylana Jones. The next second, even the usually expressionless Batman showed visible strain.
He immediately reached for water and downed two full glasses.
Lance finally saw what he had been waiting for and laughed.
"Gordon wouldn't want to see this," Batman said.
"Of course not." Lance nodded with a faint smile. "Good cops don't need to know too much about the dirt. They only need to believe in the law. As for everything behind it, that's left to people like us."
He shrugged lightly.
"That's my job."
"What exactly are you, Prescott?"
"Me?" Lance laughed. "I'm a lawyer, but I'm also a businessman. Some people want justice, so I sell justice. Some people want silence, so I sell silence. Some people want..."
"...a city reborn from decay. So I sell rebirth."
The room fell quiet again.
After a moment, Batman spoke.
"Klein's trial begins in three days."
"I know." Lance leaned back slightly. "Will you be attending?"
"No."
"That's a shame." Lance shrugged. "I wanted to see you sitting in the gallery in a suit."
"But Batman will be there."
Batman stood. He walked to the door, then paused with his hand on the handle before turning back.
"One more thing, Prescott."
"Hm?"
"Take care of that child." Batman glanced at Waylana Jones. "She is not a pet."
___
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