They stepped into the cramped utility closet where their journey had begun after leaving the Undercarriage, walls lined with cleaning supplies, a crooked broom leaning against the corner. The stale air carried dust and detergent. Harley pressed her ear against the utility closet door, holding up one finger for silence.
"No footsteps," she whispered. "No weird coughing. We're clear."
The door swung open with a squeal, and the three slipped out, moving quickly down the showroom aisle. The dealership floor was unusually still—employees behind desks moving papers too quietly, sales chatter absent. The silence felt like a held breath. They melted into the background, three more customers vanishing toward the side exit.
Moments later, a janitor in a faded blue uniform shuffled into view. A bulky vacuum pack clung to his shoulders, hose dragging against the tile. His posture was rigid, movements deliberate, sweeping the floor in precise arcs. When the hall emptied, he crouched in front of the closet door, pulling a lockpick tool from his belt.
The lock clicked open in under ten seconds. He slipped inside and shut the door behind him.
Inside, the janitor's chest rose and fell with slow, controlled breaths. Then his hand lifted, peeling back a rubber face mask to reveal the hard lines of Batman's jaw and the cold weight in his eyes. He scanned the closet quickly, gaze sharp as a blade.
"I knew it," he muttered. "Too many villains tied to this place. It has to be a front."
He tugged shelves, kicked aside a mop bucket, pawed through a cabinet of gloves and bleach bottles. Nothing. His stare caught on a wooden baseball bat propped inside a bucket. Scuffed, ordinary, forgotten. He froze, jaw tightening.
"Oh. A bat." His voice dropped flat. He took a step back, shoulders taut. "Yeah. No. Nope."
He didn't touch it.
"Nothing concrete," he said under his breath, scanning once more. "But people keep coming here for a reason. The investigation continues."
He pulled the rubber mask over his face again, smoothing it flat before tugging his cap low. Mop in hand, Batman stepped back into the showroom, his disguise blending among the fluorescent lights and idle cars.
Outside, fog hung low over the cracked asphalt of the lot. Pamela, Barbara, and Harley walked briskly toward Barbara's gray armored sedan parked against the wall. Harley tilted her head back toward the dealership.
"You know who just walked into that closet after us, right?"
Barbara didn't even glance back. "That was Batman. That rubber mask trick of his? It only fools the Joker and people with an eighty-eight IQ."
Harley laughed, light and sharp. "Yup. Last time I pointed it out, Mister J lost his mind. Said I ruined the magic. 'You don't tell a magician his tricks are obvious,' he yelled. Big tantrum."
Pamela arched an eyebrow. "So if we catch Batman creeping around in dollar-store disguises, we're supposed to ignore him?"
"Exactly," Harley said. "He's super touchy about being interrupted while investigating. It triggers… something."
"Psychological trauma," Pamela murmured.
"Bingo," Harley replied. "Nobody knows the details, but everyone figures it started in hit childhood. None of us ask questions."
Pamela nodded. "Makes sense."
They reached the car. Barbara unlocked it with a click, the reinforced doors swinging open. "Harley, you riding with us?"
"Sure," Harley chirped. "I gotta see this lair of yours."
Barbara slipped into the driver's seat, muttering, "Oh, you mean Midnight Madness?"
Pamela shot her a look, sharp enough to cut. "Barbara. We talked about this. We need a better name. Or better yet—no name. Then I can mock you every time you pitch a bad one."
"That sounds fun," Harley said brightly. "Babs, you should make a list of lame names."
Barbara grumbled, thumbing at her phone. She crossed out Midnight Madness in her notes app, typing a question mark beneath it.
They piled into the sedan. The engine rumbled to life, deep and powerful, its reinforced frame humming with hidden strength. Barbara gripped the wheel.
"This baby can handle speeds over two hundred without coming apart," she said with pride.
Pamela glanced sidelong at her. "Not even a Batmobile could pull that off."
Barbara snorted. "Batmobile tops at one-fifty. Any faster and he'd wrap it around a lamppost."
"True," Pamela said, satisfied.
From the back seat, Harley leaned forward with a mischievous glint in her eye. "I'm gonna get you so much clown gear for your lair, it'll make you puke rainbows."
Pamela groaned. "Wonderful. Clown-themed tools."
"Hey, I'm a specialist," Harley argued. "Who do you think decorates all of Joker's hideouts?"
Barbara narrowed her eyes at the road. "We're going to have a serious talk about that."
"I'm in deep denial," Harley admitted. "You can't pull me out of the clown theme."
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