Good can't conquer evil, and the bad can't be kept down. In Gotham, goodness and idealism are quickly extinguished. Harvey long ignored this truth until it was physically burnt into him.

When Harvey was young and his Ma was still alive, she called him Peter ​Pan, her boy full of hope and idealism. You'll do great things one day, she told him, matching imprints of his father's fingers wrapped around their necks like a collar.

Harvey suspected she called him Peter ​Pan because of their shared rebellious spirit, evident in his suspensions and expulsions at school. Or maybe because she knew she'd only ever know him as a boy.

When Harvey entered law, young and charming, they dubbed him Apollo. A hopeful future, given the mayor's penchant for endorsing pretty boys.

The law is thy shepherd, Harvey Dent.

"Is it?" Two-Face sneers.

Half of him knew the game was rigged all along—the one his father, the D.A.'s office, and Gotham at large played. The acid didn't create the split. He existed as long as the coin. A dollar determined his fate his entire life. Now, the only difference is that it shifted from his father's palm to his own.

These days, they just call him Two-Face.

As the light flickers on, Harvey looks up. "I need to pick some things up; don't panic," Harvey says, with a casual nonchalance that shouldn't belong to the guy who just broke into your apartment after escaping Arkham. In truth, there's nothing he needs from his ex's place.

"Heads, you're not going to kick me out?" Harvey toys with his coin, fighting the urge to compulsively inspect the changes in the apartment's interior. To check that there's no one else.

Maybe it's the hopeful child buried in his one half. The other is waiting for Bats to come and take him back to where he belongs, among Gotham's madmen.