After the warden finished speaking, Commissioner Gordon’s brow remained furrowed.

“I agree with you, Bettywen, but it’s not that simple… We’ll need to convince the mayor. Hmm? What’s that expression on your face?”

“Nothing,” the warden replied, her tone steady. “The mayor will agree. She wants justice for these victims just as much as I do. That’s why we stand together. Anna and I… we’re as close as one person.”

Gordon’s expression turned peculiar, while Winston lowered his head in silence. This was the moment Clark Kent knocked on the door—a little too quickly, making him wonder if he’d picked the wrong time to enter.

Luckily, Clark was familiar with Gordon, having crossed paths at various gatherings. The warden greeted him with a smile and nodded curiously at the young man behind him.

“This kid looks familiar…”

“I’m mentoring him during my time with the Gotham Gazette,” Clark explained simply before asking, “Mind if I take some photos?”

He wanted to report on their conversation but couldn’t—it was something he’d overheard with his super-hearing. The dialogue was too private; there were only three people in the room at the time. Publishing it would be inappropriate.

As expected, his request to take photos wasn’t denied. Not long after, the mayor called to approve Kent’s interview and granted him permission to report on the South Hinckley incident—provided the articles were reviewed before publication. This was already a much better outcome than Clark had anticipated.

He glanced at Bettywen, who didn’t seem surprised at all, and thought, The warden and the mayor must be battle companions, bonded by shared ideals… like me and Bats!

During discussions with military personnel, Clark noticed that Winston frequently pulled out his phone. Later, while Clark was interviewing Gordon, he split his attention and overheard a phone call. Winston took the call outside.

“I can’t openly defy the mayor’s orders… What’s the problem? Do we have someone involved in the South Hinckley case too?”

Clark’s brow furrowed.

“You’ve been acting more defiant lately, Wen,” a gruff male voice responded. “The Alek family has long been in decline, and Anna is a disgrace to that name. If not for—forget it. The SWAT team exists to protect the council. Don’t forget who put you in your position. And now you’re using the power we gave you to protect civilians who aren’t even from Gotham?”

“My subordinates are ordinary people,” Winston shot back. “If they knew the mayor ordered me to mobilize during South Hinckley, and I did nothing… what would they think of me? Everything I do is to solidify my standing within the team. Yes, you helped me enter SWAT, but I earned this leader’s position by defeating others. What’s next? Are you saying someone here took bribes from Black Mask? This mission has no issues, and I can use it to participate in follow-up actions to monitor the mayor on behalf of the court.”

Clark tilted his head slightly and activated his X-ray vision.

“Black Mask has been missing for a long time,” the voice replied, begrudgingly conceding the point. “And several court members disappeared with him. We call that day ‘Black Sun.’ It’s said the unknown darkness covered the entire city and dragged away many who opposed the mayor. As for bribes? Does the court need such petty benefits? I just want you to know your place, Win. After all, you’re my nephew.”

The call ended. Winston stared coldly at his screen before sending the recording to someone labeled Like Mother. Seconds later, Bettywen checked her phone. Clark, still using his X-ray vision, noticed her contact for the sender was labeled simply as Win.

Clark sighed internally. You Gotham people have such bizarre relationships.

The warden forwarded the recording to the mayor and looked up curiously. “Mr. Kent?”

Kent, grappling with shock and confusion, managed to finish the interview. He decided to send a message to Batman later, asking about this “court” and “Black Sun.”

After wrapping up his official interviews, Clark took Peter to speak with soldiers, police officers, and even some criminals temporarily detained in their homes. Finally, they visited the mine.

The mine was nearly impassable. Clark photographed remnants of explosives and the ice bridge below. The flames and icicles were long gone, but the bridge remained, now a structural support for the mine. Using his vision, Clark saw how precarious the upper levels were. Minor collapses had already occurred, and without the ice bridge, the entire ceiling would have caved in, burying all evidence in the rubble.

The more Clark documented, the heavier his heart grew. Peter, initially excited to shadow such an experienced journalist, became increasingly somber as he observed the scene.

Until you see hell with your own eyes, you’ll never truly understand what it is.

Accompanying them into the mine was Police Chief Tal White, one of the first-hand witnesses to the incident.

“How many people were involved in the rescue operation?” Clark asked.

“Six,” Tal began, his tone neutral. “One was my sister, who has since returned. Another was Red Hood, a newly emerging gang leader in Gotham. I won’t comment on what he’s done in the past—just what he did now. Then there were three others: Gotham’s criminal Mr. Freeze, his wife Nora, and lastly, a magician.”

“A magician…” Peter interjected, his curiosity piqued. “Wait, do you mean that viral street magician? The one who can make the gargoyles fly?”

Tal nodded. “He used his magic to help evacuate those in the mine who couldn’t move—many of the victims were disabled. He gave them the chance to get medical treatment in time. But he didn’t appear in person.”

Under the influence of certain forces, Peter didn’t notice the oddities in Tal’s explanation. He nodded slowly. “Then he sounds like a really good guy.”

Clark, however, felt something was off. How had this magician known about the South Hinckley incident so quickly? Did he have informants here?

But that was the police’s job to investigate, and Gotham’s seemed diligent enough. Clark decided to keep his suspicions to himself.

Apart from Tal, who was accompanying them into the mine, forensic teams had already completed their evidence collection. Anything related to drug production had been swept out of the tunnels, though the lingering smell was unpleasant.

Tal continued, “Based on preliminary investigations, there were 2,122 people in the mine—mostly women, with a few disabled men and the children born to those women. There were almost no girls. It’s not that they didn’t give birth to girls; the girls were taken away.”

Clark’s brow furrowed, and Peter’s expression grew pained.

“…We’re tracking down those girls now,” Tal said, recalling the blood-soaked aura of the warden. His voice firmed. “We’re close to getting leads from the main culprits.”

“The mine was guarded by a small militia of about 300 people hired by the Smith family. Officially, South Hinckley’s forces knew about everything but didn’t directly participate. During our raid, the militia was sent to delay the police while the Smith family tried to escape by boat. They’ve all been detained now.”

“Human trafficking, rape, murder, drug production, and distribution, forming a private militia, illegally stockpiling heavy weaponry…” Tal listed off. “These are just a few of the Smith family’s crimes. The ledgers were burned, so now we only have over 2,000 witnesses, but fewer than a third of them can speak English. Most of them have psychological issues. Doctors recommend not making them testify.”

The trauma could worsen their conditions.

The atmosphere turned heavy and oppressive as they completed their work in the mine. Tal accompanied them to Wayne Hospital, where many of the rescued individuals were receiving treatment.

From what Tal knew, patients at Wayne Hospital were the most stable emotionally and might be open to interviews. Many were women with children, and the hospital had taken extra care to ensure all staff working with them were female, per the mayor’s orders. Entire floors were sealed off, and only those with explicit permission from the mayor could enter.

Still, they hit a wall. All three of them were men, and a significant number of patients outright refused to engage. Those who were willing to speak often knew English but reacted poorly to Clark’s camera. They’d shout and demand he leave the room.

Peter, with his unassuming, neighborly demeanor, fared better. His youthful and non-threatening appearance allowed him to exchange a few words here and there.

Clark, for all his natural warmth, was hampered by his profession. In America, journalists were often viewed with suspicion, and their reputation for invading privacy didn’t help. Many patients—already scarred by trauma—associated Clark’s camera with potential harm, even when he promised not to photograph their faces.

Their final stop was Gotham General Hospital.

Here, Tal encountered familiar faces—women from the East End Cathedral. The hospital, strapped for staff, had employed temporary female workers, and some of the cathedral’s women had taken up these roles.

This was rare. Tal knew these women rarely left the cathedral, let alone worked in public. Even during the cathedral’s construction, they had avoided contact with hired male workers, fearing some might be former clients.

Tal himself had been cautiously accepted because of his amnesia. In the eyes of the older women, he was more like a harmless child than a man.

One of the women, Millie, approached during a break. She greeted Clark politely before lowering her voice to speak to Tal.

“How’s Vivi? You were the one who took her out.”

“She messaged me,” Tal replied, his tone slightly sheepish. “She said she’s just tired and will recover soon.”

“Hmph…” Millie didn’t say much, turning to Clark instead. “If you’d like to conduct an interview, I can ask around and see if anyone is willing.”

Clark breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you for trusting us, ma’am.”

Millie smiled faintly. “I trust the Mayor.”

After speaking to a few patients, Millie brought a woman into the lounge. The only person willing to be interviewed was named Jane. She stood by the lounge window, holding her young son close.

Millie whispered to them, “Jane has come to this spot several times now. Perhaps she likes the view from the window.”

Outside the window was a barren high wall adorned with grotesque gargoyle carvings.

When the journalists entered, the woman flinched, trembling, but she didn’t scream. Instead—

She stepped forward, gathering all her courage as though it cost her every ounce of strength, and extended her child toward them, the boy still sucking on his fingers, almost placing him in their arms.

Shaking, Jane stammered, “E-Evidence!”