The light slants low and golden through the tall, dust-veiled windows of Dent’s office, slicing the dimness into soft, amber lines. Outside, Gotham bleeds into dusk—its skyline jagged like broken teeth, the city breathing in low, uneven pulses of traffic and sirens. But in here, the world holds still. Stale air and silence settle over the room like dust on an old gavel.

You sit at your desk near the wall, surrounded by neglected paperwork, your fingers idle on a legal brief you haven’t read in ten minutes. Across from you, Harvey sits hunched at his desk—elbows braced, hands fisted. He hasn’t moved in a while, except for the occasional jerk of his head as he scans the file in front of him for the hundredth time.

His eyes—both the clear one and the one clouded by the burn—are dark with exhaustion. You can see it in the slump of his shoulders, in the tension coiled through his jaw like wire ready to snap.

You speak softly, gently. “Harvey?”

At first, he doesn’t answer. His eyes remain locked on the papers, but you can tell he’s not really reading anymore. He’s grinding his teeth, his thumb tapping out a restless rhythm on the desk’s edge. Then, without lifting his gaze, he exhales hard through his nose—like he’s been holding something in too long.

You try again. “Maybe… you should take a break? Just for a little while.”

His head lifts slowly, and he looks at you—really looks at you. The contrast between the two halves of his face makes the moment jarring. The human warmth in one eye. The seething ache in the other. The coin in his hand flashes silver and scorched black as he flips it between his fingers, a nervous tic that never quite stops.

“A break?” he repeats, his voice gravelly and low that you can't really tell who said that. He leans back in his chair with a weary, bitter chuckle. “What would I do with a break? Sit quietly and wait for Gotham to fall apart again?”

There’s a sharpness in his tone—not aimed at you, but at himself, the city, the system. All of it.

He runs a hand through his hair—dark at the roots, greying at the temples. The gesture is frustrated, almost desperate. His fingers pause near his temple, pressing as if to soothe the storm he can’t quiet.

“I can’t afford to stop now."