THE DEATH KNELL

Gordon muttered the name under his breath, rolling it over in his mind like a puzzle piece that refused to fit. The title lingered with an eerie weight, a whisper of something he should remember. Despite years of service, first as a detective and now as Gotham's commissioner, his knowledge of the place was fragmented at best.

To most, Indian Hill was nothing more than an abandoned junkyard, a forgotten stretch of land where rusted cars lay in piles like the discarded skeletons of Gotham's past. Feral cats prowled the wreckage, and the occasional desperate soul sought shelter beneath broken chassis. Even the weeds seemed reluctant to take root in its tainted soil.

Yet, for all its desolation, the most unsettling thing about Indian Hill was its silence.

No gang activity. No smuggling rings. No desperate lowlifes looking to make a name for themselves. Even in Gotham—where chaos was the natural order—this place remained untouched. It was as though something unseen loomed over it, an unspoken force that even the city's most hardened criminals dared not challenge.

Falcone sat across from him, watching his expression with quiet amusement. The old crime lord nursed a glass of amber liquid, the ice clinking softly as he swirled it. His gaze was patient, studying Gordon like a teacher waiting for a student to catch up.

"You haven't figured it out yet, have you?" Falcone mused, his voice carrying the weight of a man who knew far more than he let on. "Maybe a different name will help. Does 'Indian Hill Paramilitary District' ring a bell? Or perhaps... the Gotham City Research Institute?"

The words struck Gordon like a slap of cold water. His posture stiffened.

A military zone. A research facility.

The pieces clicked together in his mind with terrifying clarity.

Even without full knowledge of its past, Gordon understood the implications. If such a facility had existed beneath Gotham, it had to be something hidden above government oversight—an operation so classified that not even the city's law enforcement had been made aware of it.

A pit formed in his stomach.

Falcone was mad.

Gotham had seen its share of lunatics—Joker, Black Mask, Two-Face—but this was different. Falcone wasn't a deranged psychopath acting on impulse. He was methodical, patient. A man with resources, influence, and—most disturbingly—a plan.

"You're out of your mind," Gordon finally said, his voice low, steady.

Falcone chuckled, shaking his head as though Gordon were the one failing to see reason. "No, Jim. I've never been clearer."

He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, his demeanor shifting. This wasn't the calm, calculating mob boss Gotham had always known. There was something personal in his tone now, something that felt inevitable.

"This place... Indian Hill," Falcone gestured subtly, "was once one of the most important research centers on the East Coast. But it wasn't built by the city. Not by the military, either. No, Jim—it was built by the Amazons."

Gordon's breath hitched.

Amazons. The ancient warrior race. The hidden nation from which Wonder Woman—Diana Prince—hailed.

Falcone watched him carefully, nodding when he saw the understanding dawn in his eyes. "The Amazon Council set this place up decades ago," he continued, his voice smooth, unhurried. "They used it to study chemical warfare. Specifically, bio-weapons designed to wipe out entire populations. Because even Paradise Island—even Themyscira—knew that a war with Atlantis would demand more than just steel and skill."

Gordon felt a cold sweat forming at the back of his neck.

The League of Shadows—Ra's al Ghul's secretive network—would hesitate before meddling in Amazonian affairs. Their knowledge of warfare was ancient. Their weapons, while primitive to the modern eye, were devastatingly effective.

That such a facility had existed beneath Gotham—was still active—was staggering.

Falcone's lips curled into a slow smile. "Ah. Now you're starting to understand," he said softly. "That sharp mind of yours—it's why I respect you, Jim. Yes, you're right. This was a research institute, a facility designed to end wars before they could begin. And yes, it still functions."

Gordon clenched his fists beneath the table. "And let me guess—you want to use it."

Falcone's smile didn't falter. "Correct."

The fire crackled in the hearth, casting long shadows along the room's stone walls. Outside, the distant hum of Gotham's night life pulsed beyond the windows—a city oblivious to the monster that sat in its heart.

"Let's talk history, Jim," Falcone continued, swirling his drink. "This city—our city—was built by four founding families: the Waynes, the Kanes, the Elliots, and the Cobblepots."

At the mention of Bruce Wayne's lineage, Gordon tensed.

"Back then, they weren't the untouchable elites they are today. They were just men—businessmen—some wealthy, some struggling. But building Gotham wasn't cheap. And when the Amazon Council came offering funding in exchange for a foothold on the East Coast, they didn't hesitate."

Gordon felt his breath grow shallow.

"The deal was simple," Falcone continued, voice like silk. "The Amazons financed Gotham's rise—and in return, the city became their secret warfront. Research labs. Supply chains. A network of loyal families ensuring everything stayed quiet."

He leaned forward.

"The Waynes handled infrastructure. The Kanes controlled security. The Elliots oversaw medical research. And the Cobblepots? They ran logistics—supplies, transport, the dirty work."

Penguin's family.

Oswald Cobblepot—the crime lord who once ruled Gotham's underworld—had inherited more than a name.

"The city was built," Falcone said, "and for decades, the council kept their promise. But then, the war with Atlantis never came. The Amazons cut ties, withdrew their funding. And the families were left scrambling to fill the void. That's when the corruption took root."

Gordon exhaled sharply, rubbing his temple.

Falcone studied him carefully. "Fast forward to today," he said. "And Gotham? It's a rotting corpse of what it was meant to be. Criminals rule the streets. The police are powerless. Even Batman, even the League, can't fix this mess."

He leaned back, voice dropping lower.

"I'm offering you a way out, Jim."

Gordon's heart pounded.

"Below us," Falcone continued, "there are forty million cubic meters of an Amazonian chemical compound. Originally designed to end Atlantis. But I have other plans."

Gordon's stomach churned.

"I'm going to cleanse Gotham," Falcone said, his voice eerily calm. "Purge the criminals, the corrupt, the unworthy. And when the storm passes, Gotham will be reborn."

Gordon's fists clenched.

"You seem to forget your daughter," he spat. "This is her city too."

Falcone's expression darkened.

"No, Jim. This city will belong to you."

Gordon stood. His voice was steady, unwavering.

"No," he said. "This isn't justice. It's genocide."

Falcone sighed, rubbing his temples. "You disappoint me, Jim."

Gordon's mind raced. He needed to stop this.

Falcone lifted his glass, smiling. "Tomorrow, Gotham will be pure," he said. "And when the sun rises, you'll thank me."

Gordon met his gaze, jaw tight.

"The hell I will."

And in that moment, he made his choice.

Gotham would not fall.

Not while he still drew breath.