Chapter 1: Sarah's Suffering
The rain fell on Gotham's Lower East Side like tears from a broken sky, each drop carrying the weight of the city's sins down into the gutters where they belonged. Sarah Martinez pressed her face against the cold window of Mickey's Diner, watching the water streak down the glass like the mascara that had run down her cheeks three hours ago.
Her hands trembled as she counted the crumpled bills for the seventh time. Forty-three dollars and sixteen cents. Not enough. Never enough.
"You gonna order something, lady, or just fog up my window all night?"
Mickey's voice cut through her thoughts like a rusty blade. She looked up at the grizzled owner, his face a roadmap of scars and disappointment. Even he looked at her with pity now, and that made everything worse.
"Coffee," she whispered. "Just coffee."
The hot liquid burned her tongue, but she welcomed the pain. It was better than the cold numbness that had settled into her bones over the past six months. Six months since the accident. Six months since the insurance company found their creative ways to deny her claim. Six months since Vincent Torrino had appeared at her door with his shark's smile and his generous offer.
*"Mrs. Martinez, I heard about your husband. Terrible thing, accidents like that. But you got bills, right? Medical bills? And little Sofia needs her medicine..."*
Sofia. Her eight-year-old daughter was at home right now, probably doing homework at their kitchen table under the flickering light that Sarah couldn't afford to fix. The seizure medication cost four hundred dollars a month, and without David's income...
Sarah's phone buzzed against the diner's scarred formica table. The screen showed Vincent's number, and her stomach clenched like a fist.
"Hello?"
"Sarah, sweetheart." Vincent's voice was silk wrapped around a razor blade. "You missed our appointment today."
"I... I was at the hospital with Sofia. She had an episode, and—"
"That's touching, really. Family first, I always say. But business is business, and your payment was due yesterday."
Sarah closed her eyes. "I need more time. Just another week, I swear I'll have—"
"Time?" Vincent's laugh was like breaking glass. "Honey, time is the one thing you can't afford. You owe me twelve thousand dollars. Plus interest. Plus late fees. We're looking at fifteen grand now."
"Fifteen?" The number hit her like a physical blow. "But you said—"
"I said a lot of things. What I'm saying now is simple. You pay by tomorrow night, or we start taking collateral."
The line went dead.
Sarah stared at the phone until the screen went black, her reflection staring back at her like a ghost. She thought about David, about the night shift at the chemical plant that was supposed to be routine. About the "equipment malfunction" that had filled his lungs with poison. About the insurance investigator who'd found David's signature on a waiver he'd never signed.
About the way the plant manager had smiled when he told her there was nothing they could do.
She thought about Sofia, about the seizures that came without warning, about the way her daughter's body would go rigid and her eyes would roll back until only the whites showed. About the bottles of pills that kept her alive, and the bills that kept piling up.
About Vincent Torrino's hands on her shoulders three days ago, his breath hot against her ear as he whispered what would happen if she couldn't pay.
The coffee had gone cold. Sarah left a dollar tip—Mickey needed it more than she did—and stepped back into the rain.
The walk home took her through five blocks of urban decay, past boarded-up storefronts and apartments where the American Dream went to die. She passed the burned-out shell of Chen's Market, where the Wong family had lived above their store until their protection payments fell behind. Vincent's boys had made an example of them—gasoline was cheap, and screams carried far in the thin-walled tenements.
Sarah's building squatted on the corner like a concrete tumor, its windows dark except for the occasional flicker of candlelight or the blue glow of a television someone hadn't pawned yet. She climbed three flights of stairs that smelled like piss and desperation, her keys jingling like wind chimes in the darkness.
Sofia was asleep at the kitchen table, her small face pressed against an open textbook. Math homework—fractions. Sarah remembered helping her with the same problems last week, back when she still believed things might work out.
She carried her daughter to bed, tucking the thin blanket around her narrow shoulders. Sofia stirred, her eyelids fluttering.
"Mama?"
"Shh, baby. Go back to sleep."
"Are we going to be okay?"
The question hung in the air like smoke. Sarah smoothed her daughter's dark hair, the same color David's had been.
"Yes, sweetheart. Mama's going to fix everything."
Sofia smiled and drifted back to sleep, trusting in the lie with the faith only children possessed.
Sarah sat at the kitchen table, staring at the homework still scattered across its surface. Fractions. Parts of a whole. She thought about the fraction of a life they were living now, the fraction of justice they'd received, the fraction of hope she had left.
Outside, Gotham's night symphony played its familiar tune: sirens in the distance, the rumble of elevated trains, the occasional gunshot that might have been a backfire. The city didn't sleep—it just closed its eyes and pretended not to see.
She opened her laptop, the ancient machine wheezing to life like a dying animal. The internet connection was spotty, but she managed to navigate to her email. Bills, mostly. Overdue notices. A message from Sofia's school about the upcoming field trip she couldn't afford.
And something else.
The subject line was blank, the sender listed only as "Final Court." Sarah frowned, her finger hovering over the delete button. Probably spam, or worse—another predator sensing her desperation like blood in the water.
But something made her click it open.
The message contained only an address: 1247 Bleecker Street, Apartment 3B. Below that, a single line of text:
"When justice fails, judgment comes."
Sarah stared at the screen until her eyes watered. She'd never heard of Bleecker Street, but the words echoed in her mind like a prayer. When justice fails...
She thought about David's insurance claim, denied on a technicality. About the plant manager's smirk. About Vincent Torrino's hands and his promises of what tomorrow would bring.
About fractions, and the pieces of her life that were disappearing one by one.
Sarah closed the laptop and walked to the window. Somewhere out there, in the maze of Gotham's streets, Vincent Torrino was probably counting money or breaking bones or planning which collateral he'd take first. Somewhere out there, the scales of justice sat rusted and broken, tipped so far toward the powerful that the weak couldn't even see them anymore.
But somewhere out there, someone else was watching. Someone who understood that when the system failed, something else had to take its place.
Sarah touched the glass, her fingertips leaving prints that would fade by morning. Tomorrow, Vincent would come for his payment. Tomorrow, she would have to choose between her daughter's medicine and her daughter's safety.
Unless judgment came first.
The rain continued to fall, washing the city's sins toward the river where they would join all the others. In the distance, a church bell tolled midnight, marking the end of one day of suffering and the beginning of another.
But in the darkness between the raindrops, something else was stirring. Something that had been watching and waiting and remembering every unpunished crime, every unanswered cry for help, every broken scale on Lady Justice's blind eyes.
Something that understood the difference between justice and vengeance.
And didn't care.