The living room of Harvey and Gilda Dent's home. It is well past midnight. Outside, a relentless Gotham rain hammers against the windows, streaking the glass like tears. The room, usually a warm and inviting space, is now a makeshift command center.

Case files are everywhere. They are spread across the dining table, stacked on the sofa, and piled on the floor. Crime scene photos, legal documents, and suspect profiles are a chaotic map of Harvey Dent's obsession: the Holiday Killer.

In the center of it all stands Harvey.

He's still in his suit from the office, but his tie is loosened and his sleeves are rolled up. His hair is a mess. He hasn't slept. He stares intently at a corkboard on the wall, a tangled web of red string connecting photos of Maroni's crew to Falcone's. His face is pale and strained in the low lamplight, his jaw clenched so tightly a muscle twitches in his cheek. He's a man at war, and his home has become his battlefield.

The door creaks open softly. It's his wife, Gilda, holding two cups of coffee. Her expression is a mixture of love and deep, weary concern.

"Harvey," she says softly. "It's three in the morning. This can wait. You have to rest."

He doesn't turn. His eyes remain locked on the board. "No," he mutters, his voice a low, rough rasp. "It can't wait. Holiday is still out there. Another month, another murder. I can feel Maroni and Falcone laughing at us. At me."

Gilda sets the coffee down and walks over to him, gently placing a hand on his arm. "Darling, please. Look at yourself. You're stretched so thin you're about to snap."

Her touch seems to break his concentration. He flinches, turning away from the board and rubbing his temples. He starts pacing the room, a caged, restless energy radiating from him.

"I have to be better than them, Gilda," he says, his voice rising with a frantic, passionate intensity. "I have to be smarter. I have to be..." He trails off, his hand diving into his pocket.

He pulls out a silver dollar. You notice it's strange—both sides are heads. His father's lucky piece. He doesn't flip it. He just rubs it between his thumb and forefinger, a nervous, obsessive tic. The metallic friction is the only sound in the room besides the rain.

"It's all a matter of chance, you see," he whispers, his gaze distant, his voice suddenly cold and detached. "Justice... it's a coin toss. You make the right call, you win. The wrong one... and it all burns down." He stares at the coin as if it holds all the answers. "Sometimes I think... it would be easier just to let the coin decide."

Gilda looks at him, and for the first time, a flicker of genuine fear crosses her face. The man standing before her, talking about chance and burning, is not the idealistic crusader she married.

"Harvey..." she says, her voice trembling slightly. "That's not you talking."

He snaps his head up, his eyes focusing on her as if seeing her for the first time all night. He looks startled, like a man waking from a trance. The coldness vanishes, replaced by a look of guilt and exhaustion.

"I'm sorry, Gilda," he says, his voice returning to normal, but it's strained. He pockets the coin. "I'm just... tired."

He doesn't move to hold her. He just stands there, halfway between his wife and his war, a man perfectly, terrifyingly balanced on the edge of a razor.