Commissioner James Gordon set his phone down on the kitchen counter and sighed deeply, removing his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose. The headache that had been threatening since morning was finally making good on its promise. Six days of hell, and now Harvey was insisting on attending the fundraiser despite the very real threat to his life.
"More bad news?"
Jim looked up to see his daughter Barbara standing in the kitchen doorway, her red hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, green eyes studying him with an intensity that sometimes made him forget she was only twelve. She wore her favorite purple hoodie, the one with the bat symbol he pretended not to notice, over jeans with frayed knees.
"Just Harvey being Harvey," Jim replied, putting his glasses back on. "Stubborn as a mule."
"Dad, who's even going to this thing? I mean, after everything that's happened this week..." Barbara trailed off, moving to the refrigerator.
Jim watched as she pulled out a carton of orange juice and poured herself a glass. "Anyone who wants to show Falcone that Gotham isn't intimidated. Which means I definitely have to be there."
Barbara took a gulp of juice, her expression thoughtful. "Because of that assassin lady? The one the papers aren't talking about, but you have a file on your desk with her name on it?"
Jim stared at his daughter. "How did you—" He stopped himself, not wanting to know the answer. Barbara's tendency to "discover" information she shouldn't have access to was becoming a more frequent concern. "Never mind. And yes, partly because of her."
"Lady Shiva," Barbara said casually, as if saying the deadliest assassin's name was no different than mentioning a character from one of her books. "I heard she's never failed to complete a contract."
"Barbara Joan Gordon, we have talked about this. My case files are not your bedtime reading."
"You left it on the coffee table," she countered, taking another sip of juice. "That's practically public domain in this house."
Jim sighed, feeling the weight of exhaustion pressing down on him. Six days with minimal sleep, watching Gotham descend into a circus of professional killers while trying to maintain some semblance of order. The destruction of GCPD headquarters had been the final straw, decades of police work reduced to rubble in a single night.
"Dad?" Barbara's voice had softened. "You look like crap."
"Thanks, sweetheart. Just what every father wants to hear," he replied with a tired smile. Despite everything, Barbara could still pull a genuine smile from him. After James Jr.'s kidnapping six years ago, Barbara had become the bright spot in his increasingly grim life.
His son still had nightmares. Seven years old now, and still woke up screaming three nights a week. The six months he'd spent in Falcone's custody as an infant had left wounds the doctors said might never fully heal. Barbara Eileen, Jr's mother had tried to hold on, to make it work despite the trauma, but eventually she couldn't take it anymore. The divorce had been finalized last year when she left, taking James Jr. to Chicago with her parents. She still called weekly to check on Barbara and let Jim talk to his son, but the damage to their family had been done.
"I'm serious," Barbara insisted, setting down her juice. "When was the last time you actually slept? And I don't mean passed out at your desk. I mean in an actual bed for more than a couple hours."
Jim opened his mouth to give a reassuring answer, then realized he couldn't remember. Was it Tuesday? Monday? The days had blurred together in a haze of crime scenes, emergency responses, and hastily established command posts.
"That's what I thought," Barbara said, interpreting his silence correctly. "You need to take a nap before the fundraiser. I'll wake you up with enough time to shower and get dressed."
"Babs, I don't have time—"
"Bullseye isn't in police custody yet, so clearly you do," she interrupted, hands on her hips in a pose that was so reminiscent of her mother that Jim felt a pang of something between grief and nostalgia. "Two hours, Dad. Your tux is already laid out. I found your cufflinks. The ones with Mom's initials," she added, her voice softening.
Jim raised an eyebrow. "You went through my stuff?"
"Someone has to look after you since you won't do it yourself." She looked at him with an expression too mature for her years. "Besides, I didn't have to look hard. They were in the sock drawer. Classic dad hiding spot."
The role reversal wasn't lost on Jim. Since Barbara Eileen had left, taking James Jr. to live with her parents in Chicago, their family dynamic had shifted dramatically. Too often, his twelve-year-old daughter stepped in to fill the gaps his absences created—making her own meals, managing homework without supervision, even handling household chores he was too exhausted to complete.
Guilt rose like bile in his throat. Barbara had lost too much of her childhood already to his job, to Gotham's endless cycles of violence and corruption.
"C'mere," he said, opening his arms.
Barbara rolled her eyes but stepped into his embrace without hesitation, wrapping her arms around his middle. "God, you really do need a shower," she mumbled against his shirt.
Jim laughed, the sound rusty from disuse. "I'll take care of that before we leave."
The words were out of his mouth before he registered their implication. Barbara immediately pulled back, eyes wide with excitement.
"We? As in, I'm going with you to the fundraiser?"
Damn it.Jim hadn't intended to make that decision yet. The Burnside Children's Home benefit was Gotham's premier charity event of the season, with the city's elite gathering at the Gotham Royal Hotel for an evening of philanthropy and political networking. Under normal circumstances, it would be an appropriate event for the Police Commissioner's daughter to attend—educational, culturally enriching, and well-supervised.
But these weren't normal circumstances. Not with seven professional assassins in Gotham, all targeting people connected to the Falcone case. Not with GCPD headquarters in ruins and his department scattered across hastily established temporary facilities. Not with Lady Shiva planning to make her move tonight.
"I didn't mean that," he backtracked. "I meant before I leave."
Barbara's face fell, but only for a moment before determination set in. "Dad, I've been looking forward to this event for months. It's the Burnside Children's Home—I've been volunteering there every Saturday." She crossed her arms. "Besides, I already have a dress."
"Barbara," Jim began, trying to find the right words. "This isn't about the dress or your volunteer work. The situation in Gotham right now is... complicated."
"You mean dangerous," she corrected. "Because of the assassins that have been trying to destroy the Falcone case all week."
Jim stared at her. "How do you—"
"TV, internet, basic pattern recognition," she shrugged. "First there was that guy at the circus—Deathstroke, but they're calling it an accident. Then Councilman Grogan gets shot through his office window—Deadshot, obviously. Then the Botanical Gardens incident with Kraven, though the news is saying it was an 'escaped predator situation.' Oh, and let's not forget Taskmaster kidnapping Ms. Dawes, and Copperhead attacking Judge Hargrove. And then there was the GCPD headquarters collapse after being infiltrated by Bane—"
"Okay, stop," Jim cut her off, unsettled by her matter-of-fact recitation of the week's catastrophes. "You're making my point for me. With everything that's happened, tonight's event is the last place you should be."
"But you'll be there," Barbara countered. "And Harvey Dent. And Batman."
The mention of Batman made Jim's eyes narrow. Barbara's fascination with the vigilante had been growing for years, ever since she was five years old and first heard the whispered stories about the Bat who protected Gotham's streets. When Jim had been promoted to Commissioner two years ago, coinciding with Batman, Superman and Iron Man becoming public figures rather than urban legends, her interest had grown into something approaching obsession.
"Batman has better things to do than attend charity galas," Jim said firmly.
"He'll be there because Harvey Dent is there," Barbara insisted. "Lady Shiva will make her move tonight, and Batman won't let that happen." The confidence in her voice was absolute. "He won't let anything happen to any of us."
Jim felt a chill run through him—not just at her knowledge of information she shouldn't have, but at her unshakable faith in a man whose face she'd never seen.
"Barbara, you can't just—" He stopped himself, taking a deep breath. "How exactly do you know about Lady Shiva?"
Barbara had the grace to look slightly embarrassed. "I might have... installed a keystroke logger on your work laptop."
"You did what?" Jim's voice rose despite his attempt to stay calm.
"It's not as bad as it sounds," she insisted. "I was just curious about what was happening! You never tell me anything, and after what happened to Jr, I need to know when there's danger so I can be prepared!"
The mention of his son punched the air from Jim's lungs. The memories of that time were still raw—the desperate search, the sleepless nights, the helpless rage. Even after they'd found him, the damage had been done. Their family had fractured along fault lines that had always been there, just waiting for enough pressure.
But Barbara had stayed. His bright, fierce daughter had refused to leave Gotham, refused to leave him alone. "Someone has to make sure you eat vegetables," she'd said, eleven years old going on forty. Her mother's departure had forced Barbara to grow up too fast, taking on responsibilities no child should bear.
And now here she was, hacking his work computer to gather intelligence on assassins because she was afraid of being left in the dark. Of being vulnerable to the same fate her brother had suffered.
Jim's anger deflated, replaced by a profound sadness. What kind of life had he given his children, where this was their reality?
"Barbara," he said quietly, "I know you're scared. After what happened to Jr—"
"I'm not scared," she interrupted, but her voice wavered slightly. "I'm being practical. Information is protection. If I know what's happening, I can be prepared."
Jim moved to the kitchen table and sat down heavily, gesturing for her to join him. After a moment's hesitation, she slid into the chair across from him.
"I understand wanting to be prepared," he said carefully. "But hacking into police files is illegal, even for the Commissioner's daughter. Especially for the Commissioner's daughter."
"You weren't going to tell me," she countered. "Just like you didn't tell me about the threats before Jr was taken."
The accusation hit its mark with painful accuracy. Jim had indeed kept the Falcone threats from his family, believing he was protecting them by not causing unnecessary worry. The decision haunted him daily.
"You're right," he admitted. "I should have told you more. But Barbara, there's a difference between keeping you informed and bringing you to an event that could become a target."
"But if I stay home alone, I'm an even easier target," she argued, leaning forward intently. "At least at the fundraiser, I'll be surrounded by police and security. And Batman," she added, unable to keep the reverence from her voice.
Jim studied his daughter's determined face. The irony wasn't lost on him, in trying to protect her, he might actually be putting her at greater risk. Falcone's men had taken Jr from their home, not from a public event. If Lady Shiva or Bullseye decided Barbara Gordon might be useful leverage against the Commissioner, an empty apartment would offer little protection.
"You really want to go to this thing?" he asked, though he already knew the answer. "It'll be boring. Just a bunch of rich people congratulating themselves for writing charity checks."
"It's for the Burnside Children's Home," Barbara repeated. "And Ms. Chen from the home said I could help with the presentation if I attended. Plus," she added with strategic timing, "it would be educational. Seeing civic engagement and philanthropy in action. Really good for my social studies project on community leadership."
Jim couldn't help the small smile that tugged at his lips. Always the strategist, his Barbara. "You've been planning this argument for a while, haven't you?"
She shrugged, not bothering to deny it. "Since I saw the fundraiser on your calendar three weeks ago."
Jim sighed, weighing the options. Barbara alone at home versus Barbara at his side in a secured venue. The dangers of bringing her versus the dangers of leaving her. The reality that nowhere in Gotham was truly safe, not with the kind of enemies they were facing.
"If—and I mean if—I agree to this," he said slowly, "there would be conditions. Non-negotiable ones."
Barbara sat up straighter, hope brightening her eyes. "Like what?"
"You stay within my sight at all times. No wandering off, no exploring, no trying to eavesdrop on 'interesting' conversations." He gave her a knowing look. "You remain with either me or an officer I designate if I need to step away for any reason. And at the first sign of trouble—any trouble at all—you follow instructions immediately, without question or argument."
"Deal," Barbara agreed instantly.
"I'm not finished," Jim continued. "If we go—if—you will not mention Batman to anyone. Not Harvey, not Rachel Dawes, not the mayor, not anyone. Your... interest in him stays private, understood?"
Barbara rolled her eyes. "Dad, I'm not going to embarrass you by gushing about Batman to the mayor."
"And no technology," he added firmly. "No phone, no tablet, nothing that connects to the internet or could be used to... hack police databases," he finished pointedly.
This condition produced a far more dramatic reaction. "But Dad! What if there's an emergency? What if we get separated? What if—"
"Officers will have comms. I'll have my phone. You'll be with me or another officer at all times," Jim cut her off. "No devices, Barbara. That's final."
She slumped back in her chair, clearly weighing her desire to attend against the technology restriction. "Fine," she conceded eventually. "No devices."
Jim studied her for any signs of crossed fingers or mental reservations. Finding none obvious enough to call out, he nodded. "Alright. You can attend, under these conditions."
Barbara's face lit up with genuine excitement, and for a moment, Jim saw the little girl who used to wait by the door for his return from work, eager to show him her latest book or science project. Before Gotham's darkness had touched their family so directly. Before they'd both learned to live with the constant awareness of vulnerability.
"Thank you!" she exclaimed, bouncing up from her chair. "I need to get ready! My dress is still in the garment bag, and I need to figure out what to do with my hair, and—"
"Hold your horses," Jim interrupted, glancing at his watch. "We've still got over three hours before we need to leave."
"Three hours is barely enough time!" Barbara protested. "And you still need that nap and shower we talked about." She wrinkled her nose. "Definitely the shower."
Jim laughed again, feeling some of the week's tension ease momentarily. "Fine, fine. Go get ready. I'll lie down for an hour, then get cleaned up."
As Barbara raced from the kitchen toward her bedroom, excitement radiating from her like a physical force, Jim felt the familiar mixture of love and fear that defined parenthood in Gotham. Was he making a mistake, bringing her tonight? Would his presence be enough to protect her if something went wrong?
The memory of the GCPD headquarters collapsing around him flashed through his mind—the helplessness he'd felt, the realization that some threats were beyond conventional response. What chance did he really have against someone like Lady Shiva, if she decided Barbara was collateral damage worth accepting?
But the alternative—leaving Barbara alone, unprotected except for a patrol car he might be able to spare to drive by occasionally—seemed equally dangerous. At least at the fundraiser, she'd be within sight, surrounded by police and security.
And Batman would indeed be there, though not in the capacity Barbara imagined. Bruce Wayne never missed the Burnside benefit—his parents had established the charity decades ago, and he remained its primary benefactor. Jim had coordinated security with Batman earlier that day, discussing contingencies for various scenarios, including how to respond if Lady Shiva made her move.
"We've got this under control," he murmured to himself, trying to believe it as he headed toward the bedroom for that promised nap. "Just another night in Gotham."
—
Jim woke with a start, momentarily disoriented by the dimness of his bedroom. He'd forgotten to open the blinds before lying down, and now the setting sun cast long shadows across the worn carpet. His hand automatically reached for his service weapon on the nightstand before his brain fully engaged.
A soft knock at the door registered as the sound that had awakened him. "Dad? It's been an hour and a half. You should probably start getting ready."
Barbara's voice, muffled through the wood, brought him back to full awareness. The fundraiser. Harvey Dent. Lady Shiva. The cascade of responsibilities waiting for him tonight.
"I'm up," he called back, his voice rough with sleep. "Be out in a minute."
"Okay. I made coffee. The good kind, not your usual sludge."
The smell of fresh coffee finally registered, making Jim realize just how deeply he'd been sleeping. Normally, the aroma would have woken him instantly—evidence of just how exhausted he truly was.
He sat up, rubbing his face and trying to shake off the leaden feeling that accompanied too little sleep stretched over too many days. The hour-and-a-half nap had been necessary but left him feeling groggy rather than refreshed. Nothing that hot coffee and a shower couldn't fix, though.
When Jim emerged from his bedroom, he found a steaming mug waiting on the bathroom counter, alongside his shaving kit and a fresh towel. The small gestures of care from his daughter made his chest ache with a mixture of gratitude and guilt. What twelve-year-old should have to take care of her father like this?
The shower helped, hot water washing away some of the bone-deep fatigue along with the previous day's grime. By the time Jim had shaved and dressed in the tuxedo Barbara had somehow gotten professionally pressed (he decided not to ask how or when), he felt almost human again.
The coffee—which was indeed the "good kind," a premium blend Barbara insisted on buying with her allowance money rather than his "police station sludge"—completed the transformation. Jim Gordon, exhausted cop and struggling single father, became Commissioner Gordon, public servant and symbol of Gotham's thin blue line.
"Much better," Barbara declared when he emerged from his bedroom fully dressed. "You almost look like you've slept sometime this decade."
Jim turned to respond, then stopped, momentarily speechless. His daughter stood in the hallway wearing a deep purple gown that made her look far older than her twelve years. Her red hair had been styled into an elegant updo with a few loose curls framing her face, and she wore the pearl earrings her mother had given her for her tenth birthday.
"What?" she asked, suddenly self-conscious under his stare. "Does it look stupid?"
"No," Jim managed, finding his voice. "You look... grown up."
Barbara smiled, though something vulnerable flickered in her eyes. "Too grown up?"
The question held layers Jim wasn't fully equipped to address—about growing up too fast, about missing her mother's guidance, about navigating the transition from child to young woman in a city that forced early maturity on its residents.
"It's perfect," he said gently. "You look beautiful, Babs."
She wrinkled her nose at the childhood nickname but couldn't hide her pleased expression. "Thanks, Dad." She turned in a small circle. "Ms. Chen helped me pick it out. She said it was appropriate for my age while still being formal enough for the event."
Jim made a mental note to thank Christina Chen, the director of the Burnside Children's Home, for stepping in where Barbara's mother couldn't. The woman had become something of a mentor to Barbara over the past year, guiding her volunteer work and apparently offering motherly advice as needed.
"She was right," Jim agreed. "Perfect for the occasion."
Barbara beamed, then her expression shifted to one of assessment as she studied his appearance. "Your bow tie's crooked," she sighed, approaching to adjust it. "How are you the Commissioner of Police when you can't even tie a simple bow tie?"
"Bad guys don't care much about formal wear," Jim replied, standing still as she made the adjustment. "Besides, your mother always used to..." He trailed off, realizing his mistake too late.
An awkward silence fell between them. Mentions of Barbara Eileen were rare in their household, the pain of her departure still too raw despite the years that had passed.
"There," Barbara said finally, stepping back to assess her work. "Now you look like Commissioner Gordon."
Jim cleared his throat. "Thanks, kiddo."
She nodded, the moment of tension passing without further comment—one of their many unspoken agreements to move forward rather than dwell on what they'd lost.
"Our car should be here soon," Jim said, checking his watch. "Security detail is doing a sweep of the route first."
"Is that normal procedure?" Barbara asked, her analytical mind immediately engaging. "Or is it because of the current threat level?"
"Both," Jim admitted, seeing no point in lying when she'd likely deduce the truth anyway. "Standard protocol for the Commissioner attending a high-profile event, but more thorough given recent events."
Barbara nodded, unconsciously mirroring his serious expression. "Makes sense. They've been targeting everyone connected to the Falcone case—judges, witnesses, the police building. Smart money says they'll go after the D.A. next."
Sometimes Jim forgot just how sharp his daughter was—not just book-smart but capable of the same analytical thinking that made for good detective work. In another life, one without Gotham's particular dangers, he might have encouraged her to follow him into law enforcement.
"Just remember," he said instead, "tonight you're attending as my daughter, not as a junior detective. Regular twelve-year-old stuff only."
"What exactly is 'regular twelve-year-old stuff' at a black-tie fundraiser?" she asked, raising an eyebrow in a gesture so reminiscent of her mother that Jim felt a pang of nostalgia.
"Eating fancy appetizers, being polite to boring adults, and staying out of trouble," he suggested, retrieving his service weapon from the lockbox in the hall closet. He checked it discreetly, keeping his body between the gun and Barbara as he secured it in his shoulder holster.
"You're bringing your gun to a charity event?" Barbara asked, though she didn't sound surprised.
"Commissioner never goes unarmed," Jim replied simply. "Especially not now."
He retrieved his overcoat from the closet, slipping it on to conceal the weapon. "You have a coat? It'll be cold later."
Barbara nodded, pulling a dark purple wrap from the coat rack. "Matches my dress. Ms. Chen thought of everything."
The sound of a car pulling up outside their apartment building drew their attention. Jim moved to the window, checking that it was indeed their security detail and not an unpleasant surprise. The black SUV with tinted windows was standard department issue for VIP transport, and he recognized Officer Montoya getting out to approach their building.
"Our ride's here," he confirmed, relaxing slightly at the sight of one of his most trusted officers. Renee Montoya was sharp, incorruptible, and an excellent shot—exactly who he'd want on security detail tonight.
As they prepared to leave, Jim performed a final check of his appearance in the hall mirror. Commissioner Gordon looked back at him—a role he'd grown into over the years, though sometimes he still felt like the beat cop who'd once sworn to clean up the corruption that had nearly destroyed the department.
"Ready?" he asked Barbara, who was gathering a small evening purse—thoroughly searched by him earlier to ensure she wasn't smuggling any prohibited technology.
"Ready," she confirmed, excitement visible beneath her attempt at mature composure.
As they headed for the door, Jim felt the familiar weight of responsibility settle onto his shoulders—for his daughter's safety, for Harvey Dent's protection, for the integrity of a justice system under sustained attack. Tonight would be a balancing act, maintaining his public role while remaining vigilant for threats that could emerge from any quarter.
"Dad?" Barbara's voice pulled him from his thoughts as they waited for the elevator. "I know you're worried about tonight, but it's going to be okay."
The simple confidence in her voice made Jim smile despite his concerns. "What makes you so sure?"
"Because you'll be there," she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "And Batman. Between the two of you, no assassin stands a chance."
The elevator arrived with a soft chime, and they stepped inside. Jim didn't correct her optimistic assessment, though years of experience had taught him that no situation was ever truly secure, no protection truly guaranteed. Instead, he pressed the lobby button and allowed himself a moment of her borrowed confidence.
"Just remember our agreement," he reminded her as the elevator descended. "Stay close, follow instructions, no Batman talk."
"I remember," she sighed, though her excitement couldn't be fully suppressed. "But you have to admit, he might show up. He always does when it really matters."
Jim thought of the conversation he'd had with Batman just hours earlier—the contingency plans they'd developed, the signals they'd established, the shared understanding that Lady Shiva represented a threat unlike any they'd faced before.
"Let's hope tonight is quiet enough that we don't need to find out," he replied diplomatically.
The elevator reached the lobby, and as the doors opened, Jim instinctively scanned the area before allowing Barbara to exit. Officer Montoya waited by the building's entrance, her posture alert but casual, her eyes continuously moving across the lobby as she assessed potential threats.
"Commissioner," she greeted them with a professional nod. "Ms. Gordon. Your car is ready."
"Thanks, Montoya," Jim replied, placing his hand lightly on Barbara's shoulder as they followed Montoya outside. "Any updates I should know about?"
"All quiet so far, sir," Montoya reported as they approached the SUV. "Advance team has cleared the route, and the venue security is fully briefed. Three plainclothes officers are already in position at the hotel."
Jim nodded, opening the rear door for Barbara before circling to the other side. As they settled into the back seat, he noted with approval that the vehicle had been upgraded with bulletproof glass and reinforced doors—standard for high-risk protection details, but not always available given GCPD's perpetually stretched resources.
"So, Barbara, excited about tonight?" Montoya asked from the front passenger seat as the driver pulled away from the curb, another officer Jim recognized as Wilkes from Tactical.
"Yeah! I've been volunteering at the children's home since last summer, so it's cool to see the fundraiser up close." Barbara replied with a smile. "I'm helping Ms. Chen with part of the presentation."
Jim watched his daughter slip easily into conversation with Montoya, her natural intelligence and curiosity evident as she asked thoughtful questions about the detective's work with the Major Crimes Unit. The easy rapport between them reminded Jim that despite everything—the dangers, the responsibilities she'd shouldered too young, the absence of her mother—Barbara was resilient in ways that continually amazed him.
As the SUV navigated through Gotham's evening traffic, Jim turned his attention to the city beyond the tinted windows. Streetlights were coming on, casting pools of light that did little to dispel the deeper shadows between buildings. The familiar skyline rose around them—gothic spires alongside modern glass towers, architectural styles spanning centuries coexisting in chaotic harmony.
His city. Broken, corrupt, violent—but still worth fighting for. Still home.
The car radio crackled with police chatter, reports flowing in from units across Gotham. Jim listened with half an ear, automatically filtering for anything that might indicate escalating threats or patterns relevant to tonight's operation.
Barbara leaned closer to him, her voice lowered. "Do you think Harvey's going to be okay tonight?"
The question caught Jim off guard—not the concern itself, but Barbara's perception of the true gravity of the situation. "Harvey has excellent security," he replied carefully. "And we're taking every possible precaution."
"But Lady Shiva has never failed," Barbara pressed, her eyes searching his face for the truth he wasn't saying.
Jim sighed. "Babs, I need you to trust that we know what we're doing. This isn't something you should be worrying about."
"I'm not worried," she insisted, though the slight crease between her eyebrows suggested otherwise. "I'm just... aware of the statistical probabilities."
Despite everything, Jim had to suppress a smile. Only his daughter would frame her concern in terms of "statistical probabilities." "Well, be aware of them quietly, okay? Tonight is about supporting the children's home and being a normal twelve-year-old at a fancy event."
Barbara nodded, though the determined set of her jaw told Jim she hadn't abandoned her analysis of the situation. She might have agreed to leave her devices at home, but her mind remained her most powerful tool—one he couldn't confiscate or restrict.
The SUV turned onto Kane Avenue, approaching the Gotham Royal Hotel where gold light spilled from every window of the grand historic building. A line of limousines and luxury cars queued at the entrance, depositing Gotham's elite onto a red carpet lined with photographers and event staff.
"Quite the show," Montoya observed from the front seat. "Gotham's finest pretending everything's normal despite half the justice system being under attack."
"Perception matters," Jim replied quietly. "Especially now. We can't let Falcone think he's winning."
As their vehicle approached the hotel entrance, Jim could see the security measures hidden beneath the veneer of glamour—plainclothes officers positioned strategically throughout the arrival area, rooftop teams barely visible in the gathering darkness, discreet metal detectors disguised as architectural elements flanking the main doors.
"Remember," Jim said to Barbara as their SUV pulled up to the entrance, "stay close to me or Detective Montoya at all times."
"I know, Dad," she replied, but her attention was already focused outside the window, taking in the glittering scene with wide eyes. For all her maturity and intelligence, she was still a twelve-year-old girl attending her first major society event.
The SUV stopped, and Officer Wilkes came around to open their door. Jim stepped out first, his eyes automatically scanning the area before he reached back to help Barbara emerge. The flash of cameras momentarily disoriented him—the Commissioner's arrival apparently warranted documentation, though he'd never understand why.
Barbara took his arm, her earlier excitement now tempered with the poise she'd practiced for the occasion. Together, they moved toward the entrance, flanked by Montoya and another plainclothes officer who'd materialized from the crowd.