"Jude, where's that pumpkin you carved yesterday?"
"Yeah, I remember it being pretty unique. Didn't you bring it in today?"
Santos and Castro's questions sounded casual. Curious. Innocent.
Jude's smile felt like it might fracture.
He shouldn't have carved that thing in the restaurant kitchen yesterday. Now his coworkers—Falcone family members—were asking questions he could not answer honestly. What was he supposed to say? Yes, the murder pumpkin was mine, I sold it to a mysterious man in a trench coat on the street, who then used it while killing the godfather's nephew?
The deceased was Falcone's nephew. The Roman had thrown a lavish celebration for the nephew's wedding months ago. Spared no expense. The entire organization had attended.
The Falcone organization might be reasonable people. Might listen to explanations.
But probably not when one of their own was assassinated and the key piece of evidence pointed directly to someone sitting in their break room.
Sweating, Jude immediately created a save point. Current moment. Just in case.
Then, with a strained laugh, he pulled out the tiny pumpkin lantern from his system inventory.
"Nah, when I tried to sell them yesterday, nobody wanted something that ugly." He held up the miniature lantern. "Look, still got it right here."
The three men examined it carefully. The pumpkin in Jude's hand was definitely different from the one on the news. But it shared one critical similarity with yesterday's carving.
They were both spectacularly ugly.
"I still feel like these two have similar energy," Rick said, stroking his chin. "The style is too close. They both radiate the same... abstract ugliness."
"Please don't discriminate against me." Jude's confidence grew as they hesitated. "There are billions of people in the world. Some of us just can't carve pumpkins well. It's not like I'm the only terrible artist!"
He drew himself up with indignation. "You're acting like I'm some criminal. I'm a law-abiding citizen!"
The TV in the corner droned on, filling the awkward silence.
"—according to information provided by the Gotham City Police Department, approximately twenty million dollars in cash stored in a warehouse caught fire on Halloween night, reducing the entire sum to ash. Testing of several samples that escaped the blaze revealed all currency was legal tender, not counterfeit."
Jude's voice trailed off mid-protest.
"However, the amount of funds was exceptionally large, and their origin remains unknown. Police speculate this money was illegally obtained by a criminal organization using the warehouse as temporary storage."
Real money.
Twenty million.
"This also demonstrates that the criminal group in question has been unable to complete their money laundering operations for quite some time, showcasing the efficiency of the Gotham City Police Department and its ability to deter criminal forces."
Gordon's voice finished the broadcast.
Jude's mouth hung open slightly.
Santos slammed his fist on the table. "Those bastards went too far! If it weren't for that bank manager, the family company would have been—"
"Enough." Philip's voice cut through the outburst. The supervisor walked into the staff area and switched off the TV. "Don't be crude. We still have customers to serve today. Don't let this affect your work."
Santos gritted his teeth and nodded.
"What's the rush?" Philip's tone carried dark certainty. "Everyone knows you don't touch the Godfather's money casually. No matter who it is, if they dare challenge Falcone's authority, they'll pay the price eventually."
He turned to Jude. "Mr. Sharp, today's conversation was just casual chat between colleagues. I trust you're not one to gossip?"
"Ha ha, of course! Ha ha, absolutely." The laugh sounded strangled. His smile looked worse than crying.
Everyone assumed he was nervous about overhearing family business.
Nobody could understand his actual terror.
Twenty million dollars. Real money. Falcone's money.
Three facts. Each more devastating than the last. Combined, they delivered a very specific kind of existential dread.
If his previous anxiety had been like staring at a backpack full of unfinished homework on the last night of summer vacation, his current anxiety was the teacher announcing students had to arrive a day early to present their work.
While the school was on fire.
And he'd started the fire.
System, you set me up.
"Jude, are you alright?"
Philip appeared at his shoulder suddenly. "Are you sick? Do you need the day off?"
Jude forced another smile and waved him away. Then he grabbed the newspaper, scanning desperately. Maybe the reporter had made a mistake. Maybe he'd misheard the broadcast. Maybe—
Please let it be counterfeit. Please let it be someone else's money. Please let there be a typo.
After thorough verification, he finally lowered the paper.
His expression shifted.
Relief washed over him. Peace. Serenity. Complete acceptance.
The kind of calm that came from realizing the situation was so catastrophically bad that panic no longer served any useful function.
Well then.
According to the timeline, cooperation between Falcone Imports and Gotham Bank had dragged on for over half a year. During that period, the Falcone family's money laundering operation had stalled at its final step. Which meant the twenty million dollars represented all of the organization's current dirty money, waiting to be cleaned through the company.
Not only that—the Falcones were likely coordinating with crime families from other cities. Judging by the import company's business scope, probably organizations from New York, Metropolis, Chicago. Maybe more.
By burning the money at this critical juncture, Jude hadn't just fought crime.
He'd slapped Carmine Falcone across the face.
Publicly.
Great. Wonderful. Fantastic.
So when Falcone discovered that some nobody named Jude Sharp had left his signature ugly pumpkin at the nephew's murder scene, then learned this same person had burned twenty million dollars of family money...
The residents of the East End could enjoy a fireworks show. The kind that launched people and buildings into the sky together.
I can never tell anyone. Ever. Because if I expose myself, I will actually die.
"I want that arsonist dead! I want that cowardly rat, that mysterious murderer, that lawless criminal DEAD!"
In the penthouse overlooking all of Gotham City, Carmine Falcone paced like something caged. Three scars marked his face—testament to decades of survival in Gotham's underworld, each one earned, each one a reminder.
"I'm going to cut off their heads and hang them from Wayne Tower! Dump their bodies in the streets! Show everyone in Gotham what happens when you cross the Falcone family!"
This rage was uncommon for him. As Gotham's godfather, as a man known for self-control and refined manners, he rarely lost composure to this degree. Ordinary provocations didn't merit this response.
But his network of spies and informants across the entire city had carefully collected every scrap of information about the warehouse fire. They'd investigated. Interrogated. Searched.
Found nothing.
No leads. No suspects. No one to punish.
That was what broke his legendary calm. He had no target for revenge.
Confronting this situation, he had nowhere to direct his fury—a feeling he hadn't experienced in years. The last time he'd felt this helpless had been facing masked vigilantes like Batman.
Because he couldn't find them. Couldn't find their families. Couldn't make examples of them.
Twenty million dollars, gone. His nephew, murdered. And the perpetrators remained ghosts.