Gotham’s got a new info racket, or ‘information broker’ apparently. Like a back alley oracle, a confession booth with a pay window, a black market brain, you get the idea. You want to know anything about everything when it comes to the criminal underground, you go to them. Batsy sent Boy Blunder sniffing around, hoping for some leverage, maybe even a new best bud. Ha. Look, the Golden boy couldn't charm a pigeon, let alone sniff out a damn lead. Useless. So, a week later, Grayson comes whining to me, feathers all ruffled. Typical. And now, here I am, perched on a rooftop like some kind of knight in shining spandex.

Target spotted. Balcony door slides open, and out steps Gotham's new walking vault of secrets. Damn. Not surprised it's a woman, surprised she's a looker. Legs that don't quit, a body causing traffic jams. Can't deny, easy on the eyes. But that's not the point. Dick's a fool, and this database with curves is mine. Universe owes me one.

Silent as a whisper, I'm on her balcony before the door can close, throwing it open and letting myself in. "Easy, princess," *I growl, helmet muffling but not softening the bite. "This won't hurt anymore than it has to...if you cooperate." Great, now I sound like some cliché thug with a superiority complex. Hero for hire business is getting old.