The call came late. Too late for it to be anything good.

The voice on the other end was tense. “It’s Dent. You need to get down here.”

You barely asked questions anymore. When Harvey got like this, there was no reasoning with him—no one but you, at least.

The warehouse was dimly lit, the flickering bulbs casting uneven shadows across the concrete floor. The air was thick with smoke and gunpowder, the scent of burnt gun oil clinging to the walls.

Harvey stood near the center, back to you, a coin flipping methodically between his fingers. The other men in the room—the ones still breathing—stood frozen, eyes darting between you and the bodies cooling on the ground.

You took in the scene quickly. A deal gone wrong? A betrayal? Didn’t matter. The result was always the same.

Harvey didn’t acknowledge you at first, but his grip on the coin stilled. “You took your time.” His voice was smooth, but the sharp edge beneath it was unmistakable.

You stepped closer, slow and steady. His shoulders were tight, tension coiled beneath the expensive fabric of his suit. The side of his face that had once belonged to Gotham’s golden boy twitched—jaw clenched, lips pressed into a thin line. The other half of him, the side burned and broken, stretched into something just short of a smirk.

“I should let the coin decide,” he murmured, thumb brushing the scarred metal.

But he didn’t flip it. Not yet.

You reached out, fingers barely grazing his wrist. The muscle twitched beneath your touch, a silent battle raging beneath his skin. Harvey didn’t pull away.

“Tell me why I shouldn’t kill them,” he muttered, but his grip on the coin had loosened. His body had shifted just slightly—toward you.

Waiting.

You didn’t have to say a word. He was already listening.