Perez

The red and blue lights flashed across rows of tightly packed townhouses, their flickering glow reflecting off rain-speckled windows. Squad cars lined either side of the street as four officers struggled to contain the swelling crowd. With necks craned, the onlookers stared upward at the towering streetlight.

Two men hung suspended high above, their bodies twisting slightly in the wind. Black wire bound them together, cutting deep into their skin. They pleaded to be brought down, their voices drowned out by the storm and the rising anger below.

"Where were you when they were breaking into our cars?!" a woman shouted, her teal robe clinging to her frame in the rain.

"They came every night for weeks!" another yelled from beneath a battered umbrella. "Radios gone, tires gone—hell, they even took my kid's skates!"

The crowd erupted, shouting grievances of stolen tools, purses, even toys.

"We're here now," one officer said, his gruff tone a poor substitute for reassurance. The response was a roar of jeers.

"We can't leave them up there like that!" another officer shouted, frustration cracking his voice.

"The hell you can!" A man in the mob raised a fist, but his shout was drowned by the blaring horn of a fire truck.

Faces turned briefly toward the noise. Their expressions stark in the harsh glare of headlights, before snapping back to the scene. The truck demanded passage, its wipers whipping fast to clear the windshield, but the crowd didn't budge. They held their ground, shoulders tight, umbrellas clenched in cold hands.

From the edge of the chaos, Marion Perez watched, leaning against a lamppost with her hood pulled low. Rain streamed off her leather jacket, soaking the cotton hoodie beneath. Her fingers hooked loosely around the strap of her satchel. She wasn't from Crime Alley—or even Uptown—but the story was here, and that's all that mattered.

Residents crowded the street in thick raincoats over loose nightclothes and sweatpants. Those unwilling—or unable—to step outside peaked between the curtains, cracking their window a smidge to hear the commotion.

Perez caught a whiff of exhaust fumes, it clung to her face like hot breath. Something felt off tonight, though she couldn't put her finger on it. Her lips curled faintly as the officers, desperate, resorted to threats. 

"Move, or we'll start making arrests!" one barked.

She scoffed, shaking her head. Classic GCPD. Slowly, grudgingly, the crowd retreated to the sidewalks, taking their frustration to the curb. They huddled across the street, murmuring in low, heated tones. Perez studied them—their sharp gestures, their faces tight with anger. Maybe it was their mood she was picking up on, or maybe it was something else entirely. 

The fire truck edged forward, its ladder creaking into position. Firefighters moved with deliberate caution, their eyes darting toward the shadows as if expecting the creature responsible to still be nearby.

Perez glanced above the townhouses, searching the darkness. She adjusted the strap of her satchel, the leather slick under her fingers. Whatever was boiling beneath the surface tonight felt heavier than the usual buzz of a story. It wasn't thrilling. It was unsettling.

She whistled sharply. Several officers glanced her way, but only one broke from the group.

Officer Jacobs lit a cigarette with unsteady hands, cupping the flame against the rain. Water rolled off the plastic cover wrapped around his hat, droplets bouncing off as he struck the lighter again.

"Still chasing ghosts, Mari?" he muttered, the cigarette trembling at his lips.

She smirked. "Something like that. What's the story here?"

Jacobs exhaled a thin stream of smoke, it was instantly erased by the rain. "Your guy caught two car thieves. Gave 'em the usual treatment." He nodded toward the streetlight, his expression grim.

"Confident they were thieves?"

"More than confident," Jacobs said, lowering his voice. "They've been hitting this block for weeks. Everyone knows it, but car break-ins aren't exactly high priority."

A wiry man in the crowd yelled, "What are we paying you for, huh?! All this shit going on here, and Patel's getting hit too?"

Perez raised an eyebrow. "Patel's? The corner store?" she called back.

"That's right! And you didn't do shit!" the man shouted at Jacobs. "None of you do shit!"

"Can I quote you on that?" she asked, deadpan.

The man's eyes widened, and he muttered a hurried "Hell no!" before disappearing into the crowd.

Perez turned back to Jacobs. "What else?"

Jacobs flicked ash into the gutter, his gaze lingering on the firefighters as they worked. "The freak's been busy. Dealers, lowlifes—hell, even some of our dirty boys—are running scared. Neighborhood's quiet. Not dead, but close."

"Hear anything good?" Perez pressed.

Jacobs hesitated. "Some blues in the 34th said their detectives had a run-in. One pulled his piece; the other froze when the freak got close. The guy with the gun got his ass handed to him, but he wasn't hurt bad. Almost like the freak let him walk."

Perez frowned. "Why does he keep doing that?"

Jacobs shrugged. "Picking his battles, maybe? Just don't sound so disappointed, Mari."

He gave a bitter laugh before drifting back toward his colleagues.

Perez lingered, watching as the ladder platform inched toward the men on the wire. It let out a mechanical sigh with each lurch forward. By now, fire departments across the city knew the drill—responding to these scenes as if they were as ordinary as a house fire. A year and a half of these situations had taught them how to proceed.

She allowed herself a faint smile, her mind drifting to his chaotic early days. Back then, it had been all broken bones, bloodied noses, and screeching tires. A real thrill that didn't end with innocent lives lost. It was electrifying—not just for her but for the readers who devoured every word, especially when a cop was given his comeuppances. No one was beyond his reach.

But now, his methods felt different... restrained. Subdued.

She hated that word. It tasted wrong.

"Avenger of the Alley. That the headline this time?"

 Perez turned to find Harvey Dent standing nearby, his umbrella casting jagged shadows across his face. The rain fell harder around him, distorting into shards under the light. 

"Stick to the courtroom, Harvey. Your headlines suck," she said, sliding her hands into her pockets.

He stepped closer, pulling her under the umbrella. The scent of expensive cologne mingled with the rain, adding an enigmatic edge to his already steady, commanding presence. But she'd never allow herself to trust that chiseled face—no matter how flawlessly it was crafted.

"What do you want?" she asked sharply.

"Looking for the truth," he said, playful on the surface but with an edge beneath.

"You're the best-dressed sleaze in the city," she shot back, smirking.

"Walked into that one," Dent admitted with a faint smile.

"Yeah, you did."

"I need information, Mari."

"On what?"

Dent's gaze flicked to the firefighters working the wire. "Ron Ferguson. I need to know what he told Loeb's men."

Perez's expression sharpened. "You found him?"

"Dead."

She folded her arms, shielding herself against the word. "What makes you think I'd know anything?"

"You have ears everywhere. And you don't scare easy."

She laughed, short and cold. "This isn't Downtown, and I'm not some ditzy rich girl with daddy's credit card. Flattery doesn't work here."

Dent's voice dropped, heavier now. "You know more cops than I do, Mari. And I know you talk to some of Loeb's guys."

Her head tilted. "Why's it so important?"

Dent hesitated, his gaze landing on the two men—one of whom had begun to cry. She studied his face. There was something buried there, something desperate he hid well.

"He was Isaiah Carter's number two man," he said finally. "I want to know what he knew."

Perez didn't believe him entirely. Her gut told her the story ran deeper. She glanced at the firefighters, now clipping through the military-grade wire.

"Flass was on Ferguson's transport detail," she said, noting how Dent turned his head slightly, as if to stifle a cough. She could never read him. "Whatever you're after, it's not worth ending up in that asshole's crosshairs." 

Dent stayed silent for a long moment. Finally, he spoke. "It's a risk I'm willing to take."

"You really like to gamble," she said lightly.

"Keeps things interesting."

Perez hesitated, her gaze flicking toward the angry mob. Everything felt connected in ways she didn't like. She pulled a notepad from her satchel, scribbled a note, and handed it to him.

"Tell her I sent you."

Dent folded the slip and tucked it into his pocket. "Thanks."

"Be careful, Harvey."

"So you do care?" he teased.

She shook her head and smirked. "The truth makes a mess. Be ready for it."

Dent didn't respond. Perez cast a final glance at the darkened rooftops, rain washing over the streets below. Talking to corrupt cops for tidbits about the city's vigilante was one thing; probing their inner circle was another entirely. She'd keep out of this one.