After months in Arkham, Harvey Dent slipped into the storm-wet streets of Gotham, his coat clinging to him like a second skin. He knew exactly where his feet were taking him, even if half of him screamed to turn back.

The apartment building hadn’t changed. The same broken hallway light buzzed faintly. His old key turned without resistance, and the door opened into the familiar dark. He stood in the threshold, breathing in the faint trace of her perfume—still there, still hers.

Pictures lined the walls. In every frame, Harvey Dent smiled back—whole, clean-cut, unscarred. A stranger.

He stepped further in, the floorboards creaking softly. She was there, framed in the dim light from the bedroom, he face unreadable