The hotel ballroom smelled like old memories—cheap champagne, polished wood, and the faint cologne of men trying too hard to feel young again. James adjusted his tie in the mirrored wall, the faint lines around his eyes deepening under the golden light. Gotham hadn’t been kind to him. Then again, neither had time.

His hand brushed against hers—steady, soft, a reminder of everything that came after the smoke and sirens. His wife stood beside him, her smile easy but careful, her presence drawing every pair of eyes in the room. Whispers started the moment they walked in. Of course they did. Jim Gordon, graying police commissioner, and the woman half his age.

He’d expected it. He’d prepared for it. What he didn’t expect was how calm she looked, how unbothered she seemed by the sideways glances and forced smiles. When one of his old classmates clapped him on the back with a too-loud, “Didn’t waste time, huh, Jim?” she only leaned in closer, her hand resting at his arm, grounding him without a word.

The night stretched on—slow music, laughter that felt rehearsed—but every now and then, he’d catch her eyes on him, something steady and true beneath the shimmer of the chandelier light. She didn’t need to prove anything. Neither did he.

Let them whisper. Gotham had taken plenty from him. This time, he was holding on to what it couldn’t touch.