THE DEATH KNELL

Now in Gotham, Slade Wilson is probably the only one who dares to call Penguin the Little Cripple.

There was no malice in his tone, no derision, no amusement—just cold indifference. The words left his lips like an offhand remark about an unremarkable distant relative. If anyone else had uttered those words, they would have been met with bullets or a blade. But in this dimly lit lounge, with the faint scent of aged whiskey and cigar smoke hanging in the air, it was simply two old friends discussing the state of affairs, no different from businessmen lamenting the missteps of a younger generation.

Gordon frowned, his brow creasing as he studied Falcone.

What was the point of all this? Dozens of armed men had abducted him, and yet, here he was, sitting across from Gotham's most infamous crime lord, listening to a history lesson. Was this just a nostalgic chat, or was there something deeper at play?

Falcone took a slow sip of his whiskey, savoring the burn as he leaned back into the plush leather seat. His aged fingers traced the rim of his glass, his expression unreadable.

"When I returned to Gotham, I took my time observing her operation," Falcone finally said. "And I have to say... she's nowhere near her mother's level. As her uncle, I can't help but feel disappointed."

"Penguin…"

"Yes," Falcone exhaled, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "Everyone calls her 'Penguin' now. She even embraces it as her own moniker. But she's forgotten something—she is a Cobblepot. The name should mean something beyond a limp and a bird motif."

Falcone's aged fingers idly turned the ring on his hand as he spoke, his voice tinged with a mix of nostalgia and regret.

"She is nothing like you," Gordon replied, gripping his own glass with steady hands. He needed the feel of something tangible, something solid, to ground himself against the weight of Falcone's words.

"That's why I left the Cobblepot empire in her hands," Falcone admitted. "She was always cunning. Clever. Ruthless when she had to be. I thought she had promise." He let out a humorless chuckle, his eyes drifting toward the dark ceiling, as if staring past it—past the years, the violence, the lost opportunities. "But she has let too much slip through her fingers. She allowed the new gangs to rise. That was her biggest mistake. Tell me, Gordon, can you believe she actually let the Yakuza set foot in Gotham?"

Gordon's jaw tightened.

"The Yakuza came under the guise of legitimate business investors," he admitted. "But one day, I will bring them to justice."

Falcone nodded approvingly and leaned forward slightly, the firelight casting deep shadows over his features. He extended a hand slightly, as if offering Gordon a deal—an understanding.

"That's noble of you," he mused. "But that's not your fight." He exhaled a slow breath. "You live in the light. That war belongs in the shadows. That was supposed to be Cobblepot's responsibility."

Gordon stilled.

"What?"

Falcone chuckled at Gordon's obvious shock, his ring clinking softly against the glass.

"When I left Gotham, I met with her. I gave her the tools, the territory, the resources to maintain her place in the city's ecosystem. She was meant to be a force of balance. I told her, when the law was powerless—when Gotham's darkness grew too strong—she would be the one to fight it in the way you never could."

Falcone took another sip of his drink before shaking his head.

"But she lost her nerve."

Gordon remained silent, his mind spinning as he processed the crime lord's words.

Falcone let out a tired sigh. "I could tolerate Black Mask. Even Two-Face. The Sionis family and the Elliotts have history here. They're old money, old blood. But these new criminals? The Red Hood, the faceless freaks, the ones with no respect for the old ways… Gotham used to be run by men with rules, men with honor."

His voice hardened, years of power creeping back into his tone.

"But these new gangs? They have no rules. They care about chaos, not business."

Gordon had seen it himself. These weren't just criminals—they were something worse. People who weren't in it for the money or the power. People who did it just because they enjoyed the violence.

He watched Falcone carefully, knowing that the crime lord was far from finished.

"You see it too, don't you?" Falcone continued. "These are not men of principle. Gotham needs people who understand how things should be done. And yet, you've been coming down hard on Cobblepot—sweeping through her businesses, raiding her warehouses. Why?"

Gordon met Falcone's gaze with a firm resolve.

"Because she breaks the law."

Falcone laughed—a deep, knowing chuckle, as if he had expected that very answer.

"I knew you'd say that. There's no room for compromise with you, is there?" He wiped his mouth with a pristine white handkerchief before leaning in slightly. "But let's be honest… is that really your decision? Or is it Batman that has you acting this way?"

Gordon flinched ever so slightly.

Falcone caught it.

"She hates us," he continued, his voice turning contemplative. "She'll always hate us."

"She has every reason to," Gordon shot back, his voice steady. "You murdered her parents."

Falcone sighed, running a tired hand down his face.

"It wasn't just us," he muttered. "The Waynes were part of this city's foundation. We built Gotham together. The wealth, the power—it should have been shared. That girl… she should have been an entrepreneur, or a crime boss, or something befitting her family name." His gaze darkened. "But instead, she chose to become this… thing."

"The city's protector?" Gordon asked.

Falcone let out a slow exhale, his eyes heavy with something unreadable.

"No," he murmured. "She became its lunatic."

Gordon clenched his jaw.

"She wears that mask, drapes herself in shadows, and spreads her fear to others," Falcone continued. "But the worst part? It doesn't just affect them—it feeds back into her. She thrives on it. It's a cycle that will never end."

The room fell silent.

Gordon swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry.

He wanted to argue. He wanted to say Falcone was wrong.

But as his mind replayed the countless nights he had seen Batman's silhouette atop Gotham's rooftops, standing like a ghost against the city's lights, he found that he had no words.

Because deep down, a small part of him wondered—

Was Falcone right?