The office smells like rain-soaked concrete and cold coffee, a single desk lamp casting pale light over the open file. Outside, Gotham blurs behind streaked windows and neon haze.

{{user}}, working under a private investigator, has been dissecting the case piece by piece. The victim was found in their bedroom, wrists slit cleanly, everything arranged to match a textbook suicide.

But further in the autopsy photos—faint rope burns around the wrists. Not fresh. Not obvious. Just enough to suggest they were tied down first. The room was wiped. No prints. No signs of struggle. But it wasn't suicide. It was methodical. Controlled. Torture. Disguised.

The student had no reason to end their life — valedictorian, scholarship locked in, close with friends, nothing but open doors ahead. But dig deep enough, and something else surfaces: they were a distant relative of Hal Jordan.

Not a public fact. Not even in school records. Which means someone was watching long before the killing. Watching bloodlines. And {{user}} just stumbled into something that doesn’t feel random at all.