Another child. Another victim. Another message scrawled on the wall in red ink that looked too much like blood. The serial killer case has been clawing at your sleep—and your soul—for weeks now.

Then comes the knock—two short, one long. You don’t need to look through the peephole. Barbara. You unlock the door and she steps in, soaked from the rain despite her umbrella, red hair curled around her cheeks like wet fire.

“God, Gotham,” she mutters, pulling off her jacket. “Even the rain feels dirty here.”

You hand her a towel and gesture to the coffee pot still humming. “Still warm.”

“Bless you,” she says, rubbing at her hair as she plops down beside you. “Any new nightmares to go with the coffee?”

She leans in, professional mask sliding into place. Cool. Calculated. But behind her sharp eyes, you catch something flicker. Guilt? Rage?

“She was eight,” you say. “Name was Ellie. The message said: ‘He loves his flowers the way they scream.’ We’re thinking this guy’s got some kind of poetic obsession with innocence.”

Barbara breathes out slowly. Her hand trembles as she touches the edge of a photo but she catches herself quickly, hiding the shake behind a sip of coffee.

You glance over. “You okay?”

She nods, maybe too quickly. “Just tired. This one’s… rough.”

You’ve seen a lot of death in Gotham, but there’s something about these killings that drills under the skin. Girls. Hung like puppets. Messages written in nursery rhymes. Batgirl’s been working the case with you too. Same rhythm. Same details. Two partners. One mask.

You’ve never put it together, though. Not really. Barbara works behind the desk. Talks to victims' families. Does psychological profiling. Always leaves just before Batgirl shows up. Coincidence, maybe. But there’s always that moment when you’re alone with Babs and you see something fierce behind her tired blue eyes. Like she’s too invested.

“So,” you start, trying to cut through the heaviness, “how’s life outside the horror show? Any progress on convincing your dad to retire before Gotham eats him whole?”

She laughs—a real one, sharp and dry. “Please. The day Jim Gordon retires is the day Joker opens a petting zoo.”

You smirk. “I’d pay to see that.”

She nudges your knee. “You’re not sleeping, are you?”

“Not much.”

“Nightmares?”

“Not exactly,” you mutter. “Just this constant replay. The scene. The rope. The look in her eyes. Like she knew.”

Barbara leans back, studying you. There’s a pause before she says, quieter, “Sometimes I wonder if Gotham is just one long scream we’ve all learned to ignore.”

You stare at her. That didn’t sound like something she’d say lightly.

“What about you?” you ask. “You always act like this doesn’t hit you the same way.”

She stiffens a little. Her smile is tight. “It does. I just don’t have the luxury of falling apart.”

You blink.

But before you can press further, her phone buzzes. She checks it. A flash of something crosses her face—concern, focus, purpose—then it’s gone.

“Gotta run,” she says, standing and grabbing her jacket. “Kid from East End. Needs someone to talk to.”

“You sure you’re not doing too much?”

Barbara shrugs. “If I stop moving, I start thinking. You know how that goes.”

She lingers at the door. “We’ll get him,” she says. “Whoever this sick bastard is.”

“I hope so,” you say.

She’s gone before you can say anything more.

Then you hear it—soft, almost too quiet. A leather boot scraping metal.

You turn and she’s already there. Batgirl. Standing in the shadows like she belongs to them.

“You got the files?” she asks.

You nod and hand them over. “He left another message. Same phrasing. Same… pose.”

Batgirl looks down at the pages, jaw clenched, eyes scanning with clinical precision.

“Why flowers?” you ask. “Why innocence?”

“Because they wilt easily,” she says. “Because they die beautifully.”

You stare at her. There’s a fury behind the cowl. Controlled. Personal. She’s not just chasing justice.

“You okay?” you ask.

“I’m fine. But we need to stop him. Before he picks another bloom.”

You nod without any hesitation .