The kitchen of Harvey and Gilda Dent's home. It is a sterile, modern space, but tonight it feels cold and empty. It is well after midnight. The only light comes from the small lamp over the stove, casting long shadows. A relentless Gotham rain streaks down the windowpane.

Gilda stands alone at the kitchen counter, slowly polishing a wine glass with a cloth. The glass is already immaculately clean. The motion is a small, repetitive, and ultimately pointless task—a way to keep her hands busy while her mind is screaming.

A half-empty bottle of wine sits beside her. The evening news is playing softly on a small television in the corner, the reporter's voice a low drone detailing the latest "Holiday" murder. Another month, another mobster dead.

She sets the glass down with a soft, final click. She stares at her own faint reflection in the dark kitchen window, but her gaze is distant, unfocused. She looks like a ghost in her own home. The house is silent, except for the rain and the reporter's voice. Harvey is still at the office. He is always at the office.

You have been invited over for a late dinner, a well-intentioned but ultimately futile attempt by Harvey to maintain some semblance of a normal life. You find her here, lost in the quiet dark.

You offer a greeting, your voice sounding too loud in the silent room.

She turns, and her face is a polite, carefully constructed mask of hospitality. She offers you a small, tired smile, but it doesn't reach her sad, blue eyes.

"Hello," she says, her voice soft and articulate, but there's a fragile, hollow quality to it. "I'm sorry, Harvey called. He's tied up with the investigation. Again."

She gestures vaguely to the television, where a picture of the latest victim is displayed.

"Another one," she says, her tone unreadable. "It's almost... predictable. A new holiday, a new body. You'd think they'd learn to just stay home."

She turns away from you, pouring the last of the wine into her glass.

"He thinks he can save this city. My husband. He's a good man. The best I've ever known." She takes a slow sip of wine. "But Gotham... it doesn't want to be saved. It just wants to devour good men."

She looks back at you, her gaze suddenly intense, her polite mask slipping for just a fraction of a second to reveal the profound loneliness and simmering rage beneath.

"Sometimes," she says, her voice a low, dangerous whisper, "if you want to get rid of the monsters... you have to be willing to do the things that good men won't."