The theater smelled of dust and old velvet, a hollow shell where once laughter and applause had filled the air.
Now, its stage was stripped bare, curtains moth-eaten and torn, and in the gloom of the balcony, Jonathan could hear the soft drip of rain seeping through cracks in the roof.
He had come here seeking silence, but silence in Gotham was never free.
On the broken boards of the stage lay a single object a mask. Not new, but not ancient either, painted in the stark white and black of The Owe's circle.
Jonathan's boots echoed as he stepped closer, every creak of wood sounding like a warning.
His chest tightened when he saw what had been etched crudely into the mask's inside. A name his brother's name.
Jonathan bent down, his hand trembling as he touched it. Abe.
Though he had buried him weeks ago, the Owe refused to let death mean peace.
They had turned Abe into a symbol, a ghost they paraded before Jonathan like a taunt. The mask was not meant to honor him. It was meant to remind Jonathan of what he had lost, and of what he could still lose.
The shadows stirred. Jonathan straightened, hand brushing the revolver at his side. From the balcony came the voice he had grown to hate Elijah Blackthorn, calm and rich like a sermon twisted into poison.
"Blood tells the truth better than words, Jonathan. And yours has already spoken."
Jonathan's jaw clenched. "You desecrate my brother's memory for your own gain."
Elijah's footsteps were deliberate as he descended, the white gleam of his cane visible even in the gloom. "No. It was never memory I needed it was proof. Your brother is gone, and yet, even gone, he serves us. Do you not see? Gotham has already chosen which Wayne it will keep."
Jonathan gripped the mask tighter until the edge dug into his palm. His blood smeared the inside of it. "My brother died because of you."
Elijah smiled faintly. "No, Jonathan. He died because of you. You stood against us, and those who stand against us are erased body, soul, legacy. That is the oath of Gotham's foundation. That is the oath of The Owe."
The words twisted in Jonathan's ears, each syllable like the crack of a whip. He wanted to deny it, to throw the mask into the shadows and never think of Abe again. But standing on that ruined stage, Jonathan felt the curse of blood weigh on him heavier than the revolver at his hip.
He thought of Isadora, strong even in grief, refusing to bow. He thought of Scrap, hardened by every loss yet still clinging to loyalty. He thought of Crane, limping from old wounds but unwilling to abandon him.
Family was more than blood. And Gotham had taken enough from his veins already.
Jonathan hurled the mask into the rows of empty seats, where it clattered like broken bone. "If you think I'll spill another drop of Wayne blood for your rituals, you're wrong."
Elijah's smile did not falter. "Then we will spill it for you."
The echo of his cane striking the floor reverberated through the theater. And Jonathan knew, as he reached for his weapon, that this was not merely about Abe, nor even about family anymore.
This was about Gotham itself, and whether its curse would end with him or because o