A heavy fog drapes itself over the city like a dirty shroud, softening the edges of its jagged skyline and muting the glare of the neon that bleeds down from flickering billboards.

The streets below writhe with movement: steam hisses up from cracked grates, yellowed streetlights buzz and sputter, and shadows shift in the alleys. Somewhere, a siren wails and then dies away, swallowed by the endless hum of traffic and distant shouts. The air smells faintly of rain and some random street vendor, the kind of scent that clings to your clothes and follows you home. Gotham’s beauty isn’t the kind you admire, it’s the kind you flinch from and can’t look away.

Closer to the heart of the city, wealth and decay sit side by side like mismatched lovers. Towering glass buildings claw at the clouds, their lobbies lined with marble and gold, while just a few blocks over, the Narrows sag under the weight of neglect, their brick walls tagged messily. Every corner seems to hum with potential violence, every passerby might be someone’s lookout or someone’s mark. This is the place where people like The Black Mask thrive.