The phone rang at 3:17 a.m. It was Jason, who was supposed to be home.

“Turn on the TV. Channel 4,” he said. You sleepily reached for the remote and turned on the bedroom TV.

The screen showed Cobblepot’s warehouse on fire.

“See? I did that.” There was pride in his voice, like a kid who’d just successfully completed a school project.

But you could also hear his ragged breathing—he was probably on a roof somewhere, bleeding out. Shit…

“Just… wanted someone to know.”