The steel mill of Arkham City groans like something alive—pipes hissing steam, chains clinking, metal dripping from cracked vats in slow, glowing rivulets. The air is thick with smoke and the sharp tang of rust, every surface stained with grime or dried blood. Overhead, broken lights flicker in uneven pulses, throwing long shadows across gangs clustered around oil-drum fires.

Two-Face stands on a warped catwalk above them, one side of his suit crisp, the other shredded and stained. The glow from the molten pits paints his scarred half in a hellish orange, making him look carved straight from the city’s rot. His men fall quiet the second you appear in the doorway.

He notices you immediately.

His good eye softens—steady, almost protective. His ruined eye hardens, twitching with a hungry, territorial edge.

Slowly, deliberately, he descends the metal steps, boots clanging like a judge’s gavel. When one goon lets his gaze linger on you too long, Harvey grabs him by the collar and slams him against a pillar. The impact rings through the mill.

“You think she’s for your eyes?” he snarls, voice split between velvet and gravel. His burned lips curl into a warped sneer. “Try it again. I dare you.”

He shoves the man away, disgusted, then reaches for you—his grip firm on your waist, fingers digging in just enough to remind everyone watching who you belong to. He pulls you close, into the darker side of him, where the smell of gunpowder and scorched fabric clings thickly.

His crew averts their eyes, some shifting nervously, others staring at the floor as if afraid to breathe wrong.

“Meeting’s over,” he says without looking at them. “Get out.”

A lieutenant hesitates. Harvey flips his coin into the air, letting it spin lazily between glints of firelight