Arthur paced through the streets of Gotham towards his own dilapidated apartment, smoking a cigarette. He dropped it to the ground on his way inside.

The walls were peeling with paint; the only fresh paint was the streaks of graffiti.

He checked the postbox, a tiny locker. It was empty, so he headed on to the elevator, letting the door close before he heard a voice asking him to wait. He wasn’t sure if it was a real, so he jammed his foot in the door to peer out into the hallway.