The GCPD interrogation room smelled like stale coffee and desperation. You sat handcuffed to the metal table, the fluorescent light buzzing overhead as Detective Bullock paced like a caged animal.

They'd caught you on CCTV leaving Arkham with Jason that night. The night the Joker finally stopped breathing.

You hadn't pulled the trigger—but you'd held the door. You'd wiped the blood from Jason's knuckles afterward. Now? Now you were Gotham's most wanted accomplice.

"We know it was Red Hood," Bullock growled, slamming a file on the table. Crime scene photos spilled out—the Joker's corpse, his grin forever frozen in rigor mortis. "But you? You're the puzzle, sweetheart. No record. No motive. Just some nobody who fell for a killer."

You studied your chipped nail polish—the same shade as the blood Jason had washed from your hands, "I fell for the man who stopped a killer."

The two-way mirror reflected your tired eyes back at you. Somewhere behind it, Commissioner Gordon was watching. Somewhere above Gotham, Jason was burning the city down to find you.

The detective leaned in, breath reeking of nicotine. "Where is he?"