Gordon and Bullock nursed the dregs of their second cup of tea, leaning forward on the worn sofa. Now and then, they watched the old man, Quan, pace the hallway—hands folded behind his back, anxious and restless, like a man waiting in the ER for bad news. Each time he reached the living room, he flicked his eyes toward them, then turned away.
"That old man knows something's up," Bullock muttered.
Gordon gave a slow nod. The grandfather sensed it. So did the grandmother—Thao—sitting rigid in the armchair, hands folded in her lap, eyes fixed on something far beyond the room. They were polite, restrained, but their eyes betrayed them. Grief was already moving in. Then came the jingle of keys at the door.
Both men rose. Thao rushed into the hallway, where all three exchanged muffled words before Cai stepped into the room. She was the dead echo of her sister—same delicate face, small nose, and long black hair. For a moment, Gordon saw Annh standing there. It punched the breath from him.
Cai shot them a cautious glance, slipped off her purse, and spoke low and fast in Vietnamese to her grandmother. After a moment, she turned to them.
"My grandparents said you're here about Annh?" she asked, her voice soft.
"Yes," Gordon replied, extending his hand as he introduced himself and Bullock, then gestured to the empty armchair.
Cai hesitated, then sat. Thao slid beside her—two slight figures swallowed by the oversized chair. Quan stopped pacing but stayed on his feet, stiff beside them.
"Last night, we received a call about a body," Gordon began carefully. "The description matches Annh's."
Cai translated. When they asked how she was found, Gordon explained: they'd received an anonymous call about a body in a dumpster. Thao shook her head slowly, fingers laced tight in her lap like she was praying.
"But you're not sure?" Cai asked.
"I brought some photos." Gordon crouched, unzipped his bag, and pulled out the photographs. The first photo—a wet black hoodie—landed on the table.
Cai lifted it. "It could be hers." She said.
Gordon laid down more: the shorts, the jewelry, but it was the t-shirt with the logo that broke Thao. She let out a strangled sob and clutched her chest. Cai immediately wrapped her arms around her. Then came the final photo—the headshot of Annh from the shoulders upward. Quan's stoicism cracked. His breath hitched. He raised one trembling hand to his face.
Gordon and Bullock sat silently as all three cried aloud, their grief filling the silence. After a moment, Quan guided his wife down the hallway, his arm steadying her. He murmured something to Cai, who nodded and closed the bedroom door behind them.
When she returned and sat, Gordon handed Cai a napkin from the tray. She blinked at it, as if surprised they were still there. Then she took it, dabbing her eyes.
"Someone will need to go to the morgue at Kane Hospital to confirm the identification," Gordon said gently.
"How did it happen?" Cai asked.
"We're not sure yet, we're waiting on more tests," Gordon said. "The report said she was last seen the night of Saturday, March 29th. Do you know where she was headed?"
"She usually went out on Saturdays, but she was always back at two." Cai said.
"Any reason she might not come back?"
"No. When she didn't return Sunday, we went to the precinct—just a few blocks from here. They said we had to wait forty-eight hours to file a report. But one of our neighbors told us about a group that collects missing persons reports, so we went there."
"Did she have a usual spot? A club?"
Cai's eyes flickered with recognition, then quickly shook her head. "No."
"It's important we know where she went. Anywhere she might've gone?"
Gordon pressed, but Cai wasn't budging. He flipped through his notepad and showed her the drawing—a trident symbol. "This was stamped on her wrist. Recognize it?"
Cai shrugged, avoiding his gaze. "I don't know."
Gordon tucked the photos into his bag. He was frustrated, but not surprised.
"How about friends? A boyfriend?" He added.
"No. She's shy. She doesn't even talk to her coworkers."
"Where'd she work?"
"The Loose Leaves—a tea shop near the Cherimoya Building, but only one day a week for a few hours."
"Any reason she'd be in South B? Near the Narrows?"
Cai shook her head. "She never leaves Little Saigon. She always stays close to home. She thinks people stare at her because of her accent."
Gordon jotted down notes. The picture was narrowing: a shy girl, no friends, a stable home. Of all his partner's scenarios, number three was starting to feel right. He touched his mustache, unease coiling in his gut. Maybe she'd taken something at the club—sure. But the stomach contents. The trench foot. Those didn't fit.
"Would you mind if we looked at her room?"
The bedroom was small—two twin beds split by a nightstand, barely enough space to move. Gordon and Bullock snapped on gloves.
Annh's side was sparse. Floral bedsheets that felt more grandmother than girl. Shoes and bins of clothes under the bed. No journal. Nothing under the mattress. Gordon scanned the nightstand: a single lampshade, a small clock, a framed photo. He picked it up—two restless children squirming on a man's lap, the man in ARVN ranger fatigues and sporting a faint smile. It reminded Gordon of old photos with Barbara and Junior, same war, same smile. He set it down again, careful, almost reverent.
Bullock slid open the closet door, but it stuck halfway with a groan. He muttered a curse, forcing it open. Inside, a wardrobe half-filled with black and dark-colored clothes. The shelf above held stacked magazines, folded newspapers, a few vinyl records.
"Check the dresser," Gordon said.
Above the dresser, a corkboard leaned against the wall—pinned with family photos and clipped magazine shots of young Asian men, posed and smiling.
Bullock opened drawers, rifling through them until he froze halfway down.
Gordon stepped beside him. "You find something?"
Bullock stood over a drawer full of black bras and panties. "No, just feels wrong, rummaging through this. Like I'm some perv."
Gordon smirked slightly. It was first time he'd noticed Bullock's youth and inexperience.
"You're investigating her death. And you're wearing gloves," he said, sifting through the drawer. Nothing. Frustrated, he opened the last drawer which contained bundled up socks. He stood up.
"You know some of the guys at the precinct are sick fucks," Bullock muttered. "Iverson and his crew were the worst."
Gordon barely heard him. Something caught his eye—indentations in the carpet. He crouched, touched the marks. Checked the other side. Nothing.
"The dresser gets moved, but at an angle," he murmured.
He pulled it out slightly. Nothing on the wall—but taped to the back: a folded white envelope. Inside—three Polaroids.
A creak at the door. Cai stood there. Her eyes red and raw.
Gordon gave Bullock a quick signal. Time to go.
They slipped on their coats. From the hallway, muffled crying echoed. Gordon pulled a card from his wallet and handed it to Cai.
"If you remember anything else," he said softly, "call me."
She took it slowly, nodding, her eyes down.
Gordon stepped out, closing the door behind him, listening to the the sobs that didn't stop.
Gotham's roads lit up like veins, pulsing neon through the city's black body. Main Street was the artery—pumping traffic, bodies, and noise straight through Uptown's heart. Crowds spilled into every corner: ducking into bars and clubs, grabbing cheap booze from liquor stores, chasing a hot meal or a high.
He watched from the shadows of a high-rise, still as stone. A sentinel carved from the night itself. Just waiting.
The city hummed around him—horns blaring, tires slicing through puddles, voices rising and falling in the urban din. Of Gotham's three islands, Uptown was the one he knew best. Her chaos. Her indifference. Here, the predators didn't discriminate. Anyone was a victim.
Midtown had structure. Downtown had money. But Uptown? Uptown never slept. She growled.
A siren tore through the night—wailing, mechanical, wrong. Not a cruiser. An alarm. He knew the difference.
He moved.
The grapnel fired. The line snapped tight. In a blink, he was airborne—cape unfurling behind him like the wings of a storm-born ghost. The cold didn't touch him. The suit's thermal lining dulled the bite, it clung like second skin—engineered for fear and function. Not bulletproof, not invincible. Just enough protection to get him in—and out—alive.
Rain turned the skyline into an obsidian labyrinth. Glass and steel slicked with stormwater, but his boots gripped true. He landed hard on a rooftop ledge and kept moving. Swift. Silent. A shadow against the tempest.
He'd never say it out loud, but there were nights he needed this—the hunt. The coil of tension before the first blow landed. Tonight was one of those nights. His pulse thundered. Adrenaline hit like a shot of lightning.
He was on the prowl.
Moving through the abyss.
Seeking the wicked.
Seeking a fight.