*Knock*
*Knock*
*Knock*
The light of a late Gotham afternoon did little to warm the apartment complex.
Harvey Bullock stood on the third-floor landing of an unremarkable building in Bristol, the part of Gotham that liked to pretend it was just a regular city.
He felt out of place, not just because he was wearing a button-down shirt that was two sizes too small and smelled faintly of burnt coffee, but because this wasn’t his usual territory.
This was where middle-class cops lived.
He didn’t know how Renee afforded this place on a detective salary, but she was a lucky bitch all the same.
Harvey would give his left nut not to have to fight a rat in his kitchen every other week.
*Knock*
*Knock*
*Knock*
Three days.
It had been three days since he got that call.
A strange call, at that.
It came right after the City Hall explosion, in the middle of the frantic scramble.
He remembered picking up, expecting her to be on the scene, and hearing her voice saying her mother was sick and she had to leave town immediately.
*Sorry, Bullock, but my Ma is sick, and it’s not looking good.
I had to leave last night to visit her…
don’t expect me to pick up my phone*
He’d been too exhausted and too focused on the bombed-out server room to process it then.
But three days.
No text, no check-in, no reply to the half-dozen voicemails he’d left.
That wasn’t Renee.
Renee was a rock.
She hated leaving a case unfinished, and even if her mother was dying, she would have called Gordon, filed proper paperwork, and left an emergency contact number.
He had tried calling her mother’s number—the one on her old intake file.
It was disconnected.
He checked the next of kin—no one was listed.
Renee had always been private, a ghost about her personal life.
The only thing he knew was that she was from a tough neighborhood on the outskirts—Burnley he thinks—and that she didn’t talk about her family.
Harvey knocked again, the sound hollow in the quiet hall.
“Montoya!
It’s me, Harvey!
Open up!”
Silence.
He felt the familiar, thick churn of a bad gut feeling.
It wasn’t the usual suspicion he felt about snitches or the simple dread of finding a corpse.
This was a deep, cold certainty that something had managed to pull the wool over his eyes.
There was something wrong here he knew it, every instinct he had was telling him that Montoya wasn’t with her mother.
He knew what he should do.
Call the Commissioner, file a formal missing person report on a detective, and follow protocol.
That would trigger a city-wide alarm, and Gordon, already on edge from the bombing and the ongoing Batman situation, would lose his mind.
But if he did that now, based only on a gut feeling and a few missed calls, and she was actually just visiting a sick relative, Renee would crucify him.
He’d never live it down.
But the alternative made his palms sweat.
The bomber had erased the evidence tying him to the murder.
Renee was the only person who had been closing in on Upshaw’s apartment.
She had the trail.
What are the odds that Montoya’s mother gets sick the moment she follows up a lead into a known criminals home, and she doesn’t even file the paperwork or let anyone else know she’s leaving.
He wasn’t good at math but that shit is damn unlikely.
He stepped back from the door, his eyes scanning the simple lock.
He didn’t want to do this.
This was breaking and entering, a felony.
But if Renee was in danger, paperwork be damned.
Harvey took a deep breath, braced his shoulder against the doorframe, and let out a grunt of effort.
He rammed his large body into the door just beside the lock with a resounding crack.
Wood splintered around the handle as the door flew inward, hitting the wall with a thunderous bang.
“GCPD!
Montoya are you here!” he bellowed into the apartment, hand instinctively resting on the grip of his .38 Special, drawn halfway from the holster.
The apartment was immediately unnerving in its normality.
It smelled faintly of old coffee grounds and fabric softener.
Sunlight streamed through vertical blinds, cutting the living room floor into bright, parallel strips.
No signs of struggle.
No overturned furniture.
But also, no signs of life.
“Renee?”
He moved inside, still being cautious as he didn’t know if someone else had gotten here before himself.
The living room was neat.
Bookshelves lined the wall, filled with battered paperbacks—mostly classic literature and biographies, nothing notable.
A worn, comfortable-looking couch sat opposite a small TV.
Everything was dusted, tidy.
Too tidy for someone who had supposedly left in a panic to see a dying parent.
He moved into the small kitchen.
A dish rack was full of clean, air-dried mugs and a plate.
The coffee machine was off, the counter wiped down.
There was a faint scent of lemon from the dish soap.
Harvey swore under his breath, the bad feeling growing like an anchor dropped in his stomach.
“Damn it.”
He walked into the bedroom.
It was sparse, utilitarian.
A neatly made double bed, an old oak dresser, and a small closet.
He opened the closet.
Her work uniforms, blazers, and a few dresses hung neatly on hangers.
On the floor was a shoe rack: three pairs of heels, one pair of running shoes, and the steel-toed boots she wore constantly on patrol.
The boots were there.
She never left for more than a day without those boots, they were the boots she used nearly all the time.
Harvey walked to the dresser and pulled open the top drawer.
Neatly folded underwear and socks.
He pulled the next one.
A stack of plain white t-shirts.
The third drawer held her civilian clothes: a few pairs of jeans, sweaters, and her favorite leather jacket folded on top.
He froze.
Renee’s duffel bag was still tucked under the bed.
She hadn’t gone anywhere.
She hadn’t packed a bag, hadn’t taken her boots, hadnt even brought a change of clothes.
The “sick mother” story was a lie.
Harvey moved to the desk in the corner.
Pencils in a cup, notebooks stacked, and her desktop computer sitting dark.
He reached out and touched the power button.
A piece of paper lay on the mousepad with a hastily scribbled list of tasks:
* Astoria CCTV warrant (Judge H)
* Track Creedence Apt (Warrant approved)
* Check Kane Student File?
(Underlined three times)
* Call Gordon re: Davis.
The list ended abruptly.
The last item, about checking on Ethan Kane…
it was the next item on her list.
Harvey leaned back, running a massive hand over his face.
He felt like he’d just walked into a spider’s web.
Renee wasn’t visiting anyone.
She had been working the Upshaw case right up until the moment she vanished.
And she had been focusing on the same kid that Harvey had pegged as an anomaly: Ethan Kane.
He walked back to the kitchen, kicking aside a crumple in the rug.
He retraced her movements, trying to find a sign, any sign.
He checked the bathroom. New chapters come out on g.com first.
Towel drying on the rack.
A single hair tied up in the shower drain.
Everything in place.
But the last thing she had worn was missing.
Her service jacket wasn’t in the closet.
Her GCPD ID and badge weren’t on the desk.
“God damn it, Renee!” Harvey roared, the sound echoing through the small apartment.
He didn’t know if he was angry at her, at the situation, or at the sinking feeling that he’d failed her.
He was supposed to be the senior detective.
The one who could see through lies due to the sheer number of years on the job, but he hadn’t.
Why had he left things so late, why had he waited three days to check her apartment?
That damn phone call.
Hearing Renee’s voice had reassured him that everything was okay despite the evidence speaking to the contrary.
In fact if it wasn’t for that phone call he would’ve already busted down that door and told Jim she was missing.
Things made a lot more sense if he went on the assumption that the phone call was fake.
He looked at the broken door and the empty apartment, and his mind raced.
‘The bomber, the murderer, the kidnapper.
There had to be a way that I can link this all to Ethan Kane…’ he thought to himself as he slammed his palm into his hands.
Working with the assumption that Ethan Kane was the perp and had been covering his tracks.
He had destroyed the CCTV evidence.
He had set up a fake alibi for Renee.
And he had taken her.
Had he killed her?
Harvey pulled out his phone, his thumb hovering over James Gordon’s number.
This wasn’t a gut feeling anymore.
This was a detective, his partner, missing and likely abducted by a dangerous, calculating killer, even if he was wrong and he ended up humiliating himself he couldn’t let it go.
The game had just changed.
Harvey knew that calling Jim now would bring the Bat into it, and he had a terrifying feeling that the Kid from Gotham Academy was about to face a very different kind of interrogation.
He hit dial.
_____________________________________
“That class is how a covalent bond remains stable, Noe look to your textbooks.”
Ethan looked to his textbook.
Or, more accurately, the textbook propped open to vaguely resemble engagement while his actual focus remained elsewhere.
His gaze was fixed on a complex diagram of cellular pathways, not the covalent bonds Miss Evans was droning on about.
His thoughts were a mix of protein synthesis, mitochondrial efficiency, and DNA transcription—all components for the permanent super-soldier formula he was designing.
The temporary serum he and Barbara had mapped out was a stepping stone.
The real prize was a genetic rewrite, a baseline enhancement that would make him functionally superhuman without the strain of hyperadrenal.
*RING*
The bell shrilled, cutting through the droning lecture and the murmur of teenage voices.
Ethan closed his textbook, his notes already committed to memory.
He slung his backpack over one shoulder, and made his way out.
As he exited the classroom and navigated the crowded corridor, a gaggle of girls, all bright smiles and perfectly styled hair, converged on him.
They were the popular type, the ones who usually ignored the poor kid, though he’d been getting more attention from them recently.
“Hey, Ethan!” one of them, a blonde with a cheerleading uniform, chirped, stepping directly into his path.
“So, like, prom is next month, and I was wondering if you, you know, wanted to go?
With me?”
Another, a dark-haired girl in a fashionable top, quickly cut in, “No, me!
He said he’d consider it last week, didn’t you, Ethan?”
Ethan paused, observing their expressions.
A mixture of manufactured flirtation, competitive aggression, and genuine curiosity.
He registered their slightly elevated heart rates, the subtle dilations in their pupils—all physiological markers of romantic or social interest.
He had read about this, of course, but experiencing it was…
different.
A new data point.
“I appreciate the offers,” Ethan replied flatly, devoid of the fluster they probably expected.
“But I have a partner.”
The girls exchanged bewildered glances.
“A girlfriend?
Who?” the blonde asked, her tone shifting from coy to suspicious.
“We didn’t know you were dating anyone.”
Just then, a familiar figure appeared at the end of the corridor, pushing through the crowd.
Barbara Gordon.
Her fiery red hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail.
Her eyes, magnified by her glasses, scanned the crowd, her brow furrowing slightly when she spotted Ethan surrounded.
She walked straight towards them, a determined set to her jaw.
“Everything alright here, Ethan?” she asked, her voice a little sharper than usual, a subtle possessiveness in her tone.
She didn’t look at the other girls, her gaze only fixed on him.
The cheerleaders, suddenly deflated, mumbled apologies and drifted away, casting resentful looks over their shoulders.
Barbara watched them go, then turned back to Ethan, a slight blush rising on her cheeks.
“They were asking me to prom,” Ethan stated.
“I figured,” Barbara said, still a little flushed.
“Are you hungry?
I packed us lunch.”
“A good idea,” Ethan agreed.
“I need to discuss the molecular structure of the CoQ10 derivative with you.”
They walked towards the library, Barbara’s presence creating a small bubble of space around Ethan as other students, mostly boys, shot glares in their direction.
Ethan noticed the heightened hostility, the tightened jaws, the averted gazes that snapped back with a flicker of resentment.
He internally calculated an 82% increase in baseline aggression metrics from the general male population in his vicinity compared to previous days.
Conclusion: Jealousy.
A predictable, yet inefficient, human response to perceived romantic territoriality.
They settled at a quiet table in the back of the library, pulling out containers.
Barbara had packed elaborate bento boxes with homemade sushi and fruit.
Ethan had a protein bar.
“So,” Barbara began, picking at a piece of avocado.
“About the formula.
I was thinking, for the adenosine receptor agonist, we could use a non-selective one, to ensure broad activation, but we’d need a counter-agent for potential cardiac arrhythmia, especially with the ATP overclocking.”
“My initial thought was a beta-blocker analog,” Ethan replied, taking a precise bite of his protein bar.
“But a more elegant solution would be to integrate the CoQ10 derivative into a calcium-channel modulator.
It would stabilize the heart rate while simultaneously protecting the mitochondria from oxidative stress.
It’s a dual-purpose compound.”
“Dual-purpose…
brilliant!” Barbara’s eyes lit up, and she almost clapped her hands, stopping herself at the last second.
“That simplifies the synthesis pathway significantly!
We could even synthesize it with a custom chiral center to maximize bioavailability without causing unwanted side effects.
And for the peptide shuttles, I’ve been researching some novel viral vectors that could dramatically improve blood-brain barrier penetration without provoking an immune response.”
They continued to dissect the complex biochemistry, their lunch forgotten, consumed by the intellectual challenge.
Ethan enjoyed the exchange.
Barbara’s mind was sharp, her insights often providing efficient solutions to potential problems.
It was a rare thing, this seamless intellectual synergy.
As they talked, Ethan observed the continued hostile stares from across the library.
One particularly burly jock, a football player named Mark, was glaring openly, his face contorted in a sneer.
Ethan’s internal calculations confirmed the cause.
Prediction: Further public display of affection will intensify hostile reactions.
Hypothesis: Intensified hostile reactions will provide additional data on human emotional volatility and potentially be amusing.
A faint smirk, almost imperceptible, touched Ethan’s lips beneath his usual impassive expression.
He leaned across the table, catching Barbara by surprise.
His hand gently cupped her cheek, and he pressed his lips against hers.
Barbara’s eyes, wide with shock, fluttered shut.
She melted into the kiss for a moment, her sushi roll dropping onto the table with a soft plop.
Her body softened against his, a quiet sigh escaping her lips.
When Ethan pulled back, her face was a vibrant crimson, her hair slightly askew.
“Ethan!” she whispered, mortified, glancing around the library.
“Here?
Now?
Ethan simply nodded, unfazed.
“Noted.”
He glanced back at Mark, the football player.
Mark’s face was now a mask of furious disbelief, his hands clenched into fists.
Other boys had stopped pretending to read, their anger palpable.
Ethan registered another 15% increase in aggression metrics, bringing the total to 97% hostility from the male cohort.
Data confirmed.
Human emotional response to romantic stimuli is highly predictable and easily manipulated.
The rest of the school day passed without incident, though the corridors felt more hostile wherever Ethan and Barbara walked together.
Ethan ignored it, his mind already racing ahead to the science lab.
After school, they headed directly to the empty science lab.
The moment the door clicked shut behind them, Barbara turned, her earlier embarrassment forgotten, and launched herself at him.
She grabbed his face with both hands, pulling his mouth down to hers in a fierce, hungry kiss.
Ethan responded and he pressed her against the lab bench.
Her hands tangled in his hair, tugging lightly, her body arching against his.
The kiss deepened, becoming more and more intense until a soft moan escaped Barbara’s throat, and she began fumbling with the buttons of his shirt.
Ethan, however, put a hand gently on her wrist, stopping her.
“We have work to do,” he stated.
Barbara pulled back, breathless, her cheeks flushed scarlet, her eyes a mix of desire and frustration.
She glanced at her rumpled shirt, then at the scattered papers on the bench.
“Right.
Work.” She smoothed her hair, composing herself with a visible effort.
After that they got to work on the formula, setting up the machines and grabbing the various beakers with different substances.
As they got to work Barbara looked to one of the empty spots on the work bench, a slight annoyed expression on her face.
“I’m still so disappointed about the exotic matter detector,” Barbara sighed, while carefully measuring a solution.
“After all that work building it too.”
Ethan paused, adjusting a spectrometer.
“It doesn’t matter.
We can build another one.”
Barbara shook her head.
“But it was so sophisticated.
The micro-sensors, the wave dampeners…
Losing it in that ‘robbery’ was a real shame.”
Ethan remained silent, his expression unreadable behind his mask of focus.
He had indeed staged a robbery in the school science lab.
The “exotic matter detector” was, in fact, his custom-built meta-human tracking device, it also allowed him to blur his image on cameras.
With it, he no longer needed to rely solely on online forums or intuition.
It was tucked away securely in his Doothenhall mansion basement, one of his most prized possessions.
“The loss of a tool is only a setback if one lacks the capacity to create a superior replacement,” Ethan finally said.
Barbara conceded, “You’re right, as always.
But still, it was our first big project together.”
They continued working, the hours blurring into a focused haze of scientific endeavor.
The initial stages of their temporary serum formula began to take shape, a pale, viscous liquid shimmering in a sealed vial.
By the time the sky outside turned a deep violet, painting the lab window with hues of night, they had reached a natural stopping point.
Barbara stretched, groaning softly.
“That’s enough for tonight.
My brain is officially fried.” She gathered her notes, a small smile playing on her lips.
“Want to come over for dinner?
Mom probably made too much again.”
“No, thank you,” Ethan replied, systematically cleaning his workspace.
“I need to go home tonight.”
“Oh.
Okay.” Her smile faltered slightly.
“I can give you a ride, then?
It’s getting dark, and the East End isn’t exactly safe after hours.”
“I prefer to walk,” Ethan said, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Barbara nodded in understanding.
They walked out of the school together, the empty corridors echoing their footsteps.
As they reached Barbara’s car in the dimly lit parking lot, she turned to him, rising on her tiptoes to give him a quick kiss on the lips.
“Bye, Ethan,” she murmured, a warmth in her voice that was almost imperceptible to him.
“Goodbye, Barbara,” he replied, then turned and walked away to her car.
He headed towards his own home in the East End, the empty house where his parents were likely in a drug induced stupor.
…
Ethan mindlessly walked back home, thinking that it best not to stay there too long, only enough to get some rest before he visits Renee again and feeds her.
Perhaps he could then stay and speak with her some more, he does find that he enjoys the conversations he has with her despite her not talking much.
As he neared the sagging brick of his apartment building, a flicker of movement snagged his attention.
Two men, leaning casually against a boarded-up liquor store across the street.
Their eyes were fixed on his building, and their posture, while appearing relaxed, had a subtle tension—shoulders slightly forward, hands never leaving the front pockets of their cheap leather jackets.
‘Police?’
‘No…
more likely to be gang affiliated…’
It was unlikely they’d be here for him so they must be watching the address for debt collection or reprisal.
There was no shortage of drug users in his building.
Ethan dismissed them and entered the foul-smelling lobby.
He took the stairs, the rancid smell of stale smoke and piss intensifying with each floor.
His nose wrinkled in involuntary disgust.
He hated this place.
Soon, he would leave here forever.
Reaching his door, Ethan pulled his key.
Though as he looked to the lock he frowned.
The lock cylinder was newer, the brass a brighter, shinier color than the metal of the plate.
The wood around the jamb showed subtle scoring marks, inexpertly puttied over.
The lock had been broken and replaced.
He slowly pushed the door inward, careful not to disturb the newly set hinges.
The air inside was subtly different the putrid layer of decay that usually filled the apartment had been masked, replaced by a faint metallic tang of bleach.
He continued down the hallway keeping his guard up.
When he reached the living room threshold, he paused.
Both his parents sat there.
His mother on the left, his father on the right.
The world slowed.
His consciousness dissolved into pure, accelerated observation.
They were sitting unnaturally straight, their backs against the cushions of the sofa.
His father’s arm was draped over the back of the couch in a pose he’d never once adopted.
His mother’s hands lay flat on her knees, unmoving.
Which was strange as even when she was on something her hands shook.
The television was on, tuned to a nature documentary about zebras.
The volume was low but loud enough to mask most sounds within a certain radius.
Ethan’s gaze snapped to his father’s face.
The eyes were open, but fixed, reflecting the light with a dull, flat sheen.
Pupils fixed and dilated.
He was Dead.
Less than twelve hours.
He glanced at his mother, her head was resting too far back, exposing a thin, purplish bruise at the neck.
Strangulation before staging.
He processed the scent of bleach cutting through the room’s normal stench, a clumsy attempt at hiding the smell of their corpses.
His gaze dropped to the rug, subtle, parallel drag marks in the dust layer by the couch.
They had been moved and purposely positioned on the sofa.
Then his hearing isolated the critical data; three distinct, shallow breathing patterns.
Two slow, uneven breaths coming from behind the couch.
One heavy, living intake of air originating approximately six feet directly behind him.
Behind him, currently within reaching distance and in the process of attacking him from behind.
(AN: Regardless of how smart Ethan may be he can miss somethings and even the smallest detail could be enough to put him in danger.
Anyway hope you enjoyed.)
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