Dent

Dent had been ushered into a small backroom that felt more like a prison cell. It wasn't just the cramped dimensions—the pale chartreuse walls seemed to press inward, as though he were being detained. Two stiff wooden chairs stood near the doorway, flanking a low coffee table where a glass ashtray rested. A leather wingback chair sat against the far wall.

He shrugged off his coat, draping it over the armrest of one chair. His gaze drifted over the sparse decor before settling on a painting of a heron mid-flight, its crimson tail arcing in a sharp, almost violent curve against the stark white backdrop. The bright overhead light only deepened the sense of unease, as if dark deals had been struck here. He exhaled slowly, regretting not chasing after the girl in the green dress.

"Mr. Harvey Dent, this is a surprise."

Thanh Ha's voice pulled him from his thoughts. She stepped into the room, her red silk áo dài shimmering faintly. With a graceful motion, she gestured toward one of the wooden chairs. "Please, sit, Mr. Dent."

He complied, noting how she waited for him to settle before lowering herself into the leather chair across from him.

"May we offer you a drink?" she asked.

Dent turned slightly, catching sight of the man who had escorted him here now stationed in the doorway. His imposing frame filled it completely, arms crossed and watchful.

"I'm fine, thank you," Dent replied, shifting his focus back to Thanh.

"Bao recognized you," she continued, her tone conversational yet calculated. "From the commercials during your campaign. What was your slogan again? Ah, yes—'Harvey Dent, a man of his word.'"

"Is Bao the muscle?" he asked.

"No, that's Bui. Bao was by the elevator," she corrected.

"Ah, twins," Dent remarked dryly. "And the old man in the lobby? One of yours too?"

Her smirk deepened—amused but enigmatic. She didn't answer.

"Mari sent you?" she asked, tilting her head slightly.

"She did," Dent confirmed. "Said you could help me."

Thanh's gaze sharpened, her tone turning pointed. "I didn't realize her connections were so... refined. Quite a feat for a crime reporter from a low-rank paper like The Gothamist. How did she manage to rub shoulders with an attorney of your caliber?"

She was probing, but Dent knew better than to give anything for free. "Probably the same way she found you," he replied with a smirk.

Thanh didn't return the smile. Instead, her brow arched. "She went to your restaurant too? Did she ask for pho as well?"

Dent chuckled. "When I announced my campaign, she hunted me down. We talked over drinks and kept in touch."

Thanh's expression remained unreadable, her black eyes weighing him. "Is it that easy to secure a meeting with you?"

"When you've got something to offer," he said.

"And what does a crime reporter offer? Can't be notoriety—you already have quite the reputation."

"She doesn't just report the beat. She digs for the truth, finds it, and writes it. To do my job, I need to know what's really going on in Uptown. If you want the truth, you don't go to the big papers or the news stations. You go to the streets." He leaned back slightly.

Thanh's lips curled, almost as though she were about to smile but thought better of it. "Is that how you removed Carter's gang from West Park? With the truth you learned from the streets?"

"No, that was all Isaiah's doing," Dent replied. "He turned them in. Came in with his lawyer and made a deal. Now he's with the U.S. Marshals."

Thanh leaned back, her gaze sharpening. "Odd, isn't it? That Carter would turn?"

Dent shifted slightly. She searching for something, but when it came to Isaiah Carter, he knew as much as everyone else.

"Carter was inching into his seventies," said Dent, "And, the Crime Alley Boyz were losing their connections inside Gotham. You can't survive this city alone. Something was bound to give."

She said nothing for a moment, her eyes glossing over his suit, assessing his worth.

"Why do you think he did it?" Dent asked.

Thanh shrugged, her small shoulders barely moving.

"A pound of flesh must be collected," she said.

Dent raised a brow, leaning forward slightly. "What does that mean?"

Thanh's smile was faint and unreadable. "What do you need from me, Mr. Dent?"

He leaned back, eyes narrowing. She certainly knew how to dangle the carrot. "You have a guess, I'm sure," he replied, his tone challenging.

Thanh studied him in silence, then said, "Information."

"And that's what I'm here for," Dent admitted.

Thanh didn't respond immediately. She waited, hands clasped, letting the silence stretch. Dent shifted in his seat, feeling her eyes on him. This was a gamble, and he knew it—but big risks were the only way to win big. His eyes snagged on the heron behind her, its red tail matching her dress. He exhaled slowly, then spoke.

"I need to know what Ron Ferguson said to the officers who killed him."

If the request unsettled her, she didn't show it. Her expression remained as revealing as the concrete walls around them. She called out to Bui, who stepped forward from the doorway. They spoke in Vietnamese—her tone calm and measured, his curt and clipped. He nodded, then disappeared without a word.

"Is that something you can find out?" said Dent.

"We shall see," Thanh said softly, her gaze sliding back to him.

Nestled in a corner of Little Saigon, a few blocks north of Main Street, a small, unassuming spa advertised itself with a flickering pink sign that read "OPEN." Inside, a tarnished linoleum counter sat under harsh fluorescent lights. It was manned by a tubby man in a yellow shirt stretched tight over his belly. He scratched at his teeth with a jagged fingernail, his gaze distant. Behind him, a beaded curtain swayed slightly, leading to a dim hallway. From beyond the closed doors, muffled sounds of grunts, moans, and the rhythmic slap of flesh on flesh seeped through, blending with the thrashing storm outside.

The sultry noises drifted upward, climbing the staircase to the fourth floor. There, in a darkened room, another kind of business unfolded.

At a cluttered desk sat Mei Lam, a young college student with thin black hair loosely tied at the nape of her neck. The desk was littered with cassette tapes, small stickers for labeling, and a thick textbook titled Mathematics for Engineers. Over her ears, a pair of faded blue headphones was plugged into a bulky cassette player. The volume was cranked up. Her voice, haunting and sweet, cut through the room as she sang along softly:

"I do no sleeping, I get lonely, well you can touch me if you want to...I just might bite you..."

The phone on the desk lit up, its red indicator light flashing insistently near the receiver. Mei snatched it up, tucking the phone between her ear and shoulder. Her responses were short as she spoke in Vietnamese. She lifted her textbook, revealing a yellow notepad hidden beneath.

Her thin finger skimmed down a handwritten list of names, badge numbers, and rooms, stopping at one entry: Arnold Flass - 40487 - Room 12. She relayed the information quickly into the phone, her voice steady.

"He was here," she said in English, "But I haven't listened to the tape yet."

The voice on the other end, familiar and authoritative, replied.

"Listen to it and call me back," Bui instructed.

Mei hung up without a word, placing the receiver back on the base as she reached for a stack of cassette tapes, flipping through them like a deck of cards.