Capturing the Smith family was only the beginning.

Controlling Bella’s avatar, Vivi contacted her subordinates to take custody of the former mayor’s family. Superman then carried her back to town.

Even while in midair, Vivi could feel the chill radiating from the man beside her as Superman used his freeze breath to extinguish the flames engulfing the town hall. Covered in soot, the prison guards, still struggling to put out the fire, rushed over to report:

“Warden, the fire started in the study. We’re searching for ledgers…”

But since the fire originated in the study, the outcome was predictable.

By the time noon rolled around, Superman had long since departed. Meanwhile, the warden, Commissioner Gordon, and Officer Winston convened at the now-empty South Hinckley police station. Every local officer had been detained, as it was unclear who among them was complicit in the drug ring and who was innocent.

Winston spoke little, leaving most of the deliberation to Gordon and the warden.

“There’s no charge broad enough to implicate an entire town,” Gordon said, his brow furrowed so deeply it could trap a fly. “Out of the 4,000 residents, there are children and elderly involved. Detaining everyone for even a day would cause a public relations nightmare. Even if they were murderers, the elderly and children have immunity.”

“I agree to release the children,” the warden said, “but only those under five years old. They can be sent to a temporary shelter or the orphanage funded by Mr. Wayne. As for the elderly…” She turned to Gordon, her tone icy. “The oldest boy we rescued is eight. You know what that means?”

It meant that at least one innocent woman had been trapped underground for nine years.

And the so-called “elderly”? What had they been doing nine years ago?

“This case is too massive,” Winston interjected. “We must wait for the mayor to determine the next steps.”

The three of them had been working through the night. While the ledgers had been destroyed in the fire, the entire town hall had been dismantled and searched to no avail. The warden had interrogated the captured former mayor, her bloodstained cuffs not going unnoticed by Winston and Gordon, who tactfully ignored the matter.

The warden grimaced—

The ledgers were indeed gone.

Harold Smith was decisive, willing to blow up the mine and abandon the town. Burning the ledgers was just another calculated move. If he hadn’t encountered the mayor, he might have successfully escaped to Canada.

In his home, they found a mask—one connected to Black Mask.

The mayor had dealings with Black Mask but kept his operations tightly concealed. Black Mask provided covert protection, while Harold funneled a portion of the profits to him.

The problem now?

“I can make him confess everything under interrogation,” the warden said, rolling her stiff shoulders, “but in court, he’ll recant to save his skin.”

If he pinned the drug ring solely on South Hinckley’s residents, Gotham’s laws might only grant him a life sentence. But if he admitted connections to Black Mask and an international trafficking network, maneuvering the system could ensure his execution abroad.

Vivi was confident Bruce Wayne would help with this maneuvering, but they were stuck at the evidence-gathering stage.

Regarding public opinion, even Gordon said, “We should suppress this. Don’t let the press report it… It won’t bode well for Gotham.”

People wouldn’t remember that Gotham had dismantled a massive drug cartel. They’d only remember that Gotham had a town entirely devoted to drug production and trafficking. Gotham would be branded as America’s version of a drug haven.

Even if other cities faced similar issues, they wouldn’t publicize it. Their officials would deny it vehemently, and no one would blame Gotham for doing the same.

Who would want their beloved city—where they lived and worked—defined by the actions of criminals, scum, and monsters?

The warden glanced at the two men but said nothing further.

Meanwhile…

Jane felt the softness of the bed beneath her, far more comfortable than the gargoyle beast she had clung to before. Startled, she woke up.

The nurse cleaning her paused, offering a reassuring pat on the shoulder.

Bright lights. The smell of disinfectant. Quiet surroundings. It took a moment for Jane to realize she was in a hospital.

The initial brightness had stung her eyes, making her tear up, but even through the pain, she sat up abruptly and grabbed the nurse’s hand.

“Son! My son—” she choked out, struggling to speak after years of isolation.

Her nurse winced but maintained a calm smile. “He’s in the room next door. His health isn’t great, but don’t worry—he’s close by. You can see him anytime.”

This is a hospital, Jane told herself. I’m safe. It’s over. I’m safe now.

She lay back down, her body still tense, ready to flee at the slightest provocation. Slowly, her gaze shifted to the other patients in the room—familiar faces. Only then did she relax a fraction.

The nurse continued to soothe her with gentle words until Jane, worn out, drifted back into sleep.

She was utterly exhausted. As soon as her mental defenses relaxed, sleep overtook her.

After the nurse left the hospital room, she entered the restroom to wash her hands and remove her gloves and sleeves. Her forearms and the backs of her hands were covered in bite marks and bruises.

What Jane didn’t know was that her reaction—despite the trauma—was among the best. She at least had no language barrier. Others, however, had been tormented so long that some were blind, and many lashed out at anyone who approached, including the nurses administering care.

After washing and disinfecting her hands, the nurse grimaced and adjusted her uniform again, only to hear faint sobbing from one of the stalls.

It was her colleague, Lena.

“What’s wrong?” the nurse asked immediately. “A difficult patient? Or…”

“No, it’s not that,” Lena said, shaking her head and sniffling. “I just… I can’t take it… One of the patients I’m caring for… her lower body is completely ruined…”

The two women exchanged a wordless glance. The nurse leaned her forehead against Lena’s in a quiet gesture of solidarity, then patted her shoulder. “Go on, take a moment.”

After a grueling morning shift, the nurse—who was in her early thirties—requested leave. Even amidst the hospital’s chaos, the head nurse granted her request with a single glance.

She left the hospital and hurried to City Hall.

When she pushed open the meeting room door, her colleagues were already there.

The “New Council.”

Among the group were workers, railway dispatchers, and even a small-town police officer. Each had a full-time job but still participated in the mayor’s newly formed assembly. None had resigned from their day jobs.

The leader of this assembly wasn’t the mayor but an AI with a distinct British accent. During initial discussions about reforming Gotham’s East End, these individuals—ranging in age from 22 to 45, some inexperienced and others seasoned—learned that the one reviewing their proposals was an AI. Yet, none dared show disrespect toward Jarvis.

Unlike traditional councils, which ignored the voices of ordinary citizens, this new assembly was led and audited by an AI and comprised of individuals from the grassroots. They gathered when needed, returning to their regular lives when their input wasn’t required.

This gave the nurse a profound sense of mutual aid. She was actively helping others like herself—ordinary people.

We can change this city, she thought. And she believed it wholeheartedly.

“The question facing Gotham now is…” one of her colleagues began, “how to handle the aftermath in South Hinckley.”

In movies, the protagonist punishes the villains and hands them off to the police who always arrive just a moment too late. But films never show what happens next—how the police ensure the villains face justice, how they handle the victims, comfort their families, or enforce reparations. The criminals’ lives in prison remain a mystery, and the victims’ suffering becomes a forgotten past. The hero moves on to the next battlefield because somewhere, someone else needs saving.

But Clark Kent didn’t think that way. That’s why he became a journalist.

Clark Kent, full-time reporter for the Daily Planet, was a Pulitzer Prize-winning war correspondent and a chronicler of real-world crime. Everyone who knew him regarded him as upright and kind.

Of course, Clark had a side hustle. Known as Kal-El, the Kryptonian orphan and Earth’s most famous superhero, Superman protected Metropolis. While his counterpart Batman patrolled Gotham, they were both members of the Justice League—partners but also occasional rivals.

For this reason, Superman rarely interfered in Gotham’s affairs, trusting his partner to handle everything. But where Superman refrained, “Clark Kent” the journalist could intervene.

Clark brought his Gotham Gazette intern to South Hinckley. As they drove, he appeared lost in thought, his face unusually stern. Suddenly, he smiled—a rare sight.

Peter Parker, the perceptive young intern, noticed immediately.

With his super-hearing, one of Earth’s most powerful beings had caught snippets of a conversation inside South Hinckley’s police station—

“Everyone knows Gotham is a city of crime,” a familiar female voice said. “Dangerous yet thriving, its reputation for law enforcement and safety is already in the gutter. This won’t make it any worse. And even if we suppress this, people will still know the truth. The nurses treating the victims will know. The prison guards watching the criminals will know. Everyone involved will know. So why not take this opportunity to expose the rot to sunlight—”

“Let them see that in Gotham, crime is punished. And the police will always protect innocent lives.”

“Always.”