C҉R҉O҉W҉ | ᴍᴄᴜ x ᴍᴀʟᴇ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

V I I - 𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐮𝐠𝐞

𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐: 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚙𝚑𝚒𝚌 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎, 𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎, 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚞𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚖𝚊𝚢 𝚋𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚋𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜. 𝙸𝚝 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚔 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚜, 𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚞𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚖𝚞𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚜𝚢𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚞𝚖𝚊. 𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚍𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚍.

𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐨 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧 𝐮𝐬.

𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐭𝐡, 𝐰𝐞 𝐬𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐲 𝐰𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠.

𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐰𝐞 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐬𝐞. 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐰𝐞 𝐢𝐧𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐭.

THE GCPD INTERROGATION room was bare. A metal table, two chairs, and a two-way mirror reflecting the scene back at the observers beyond the glass.

Samuel Kerrigan sat there, handcuffed, yet somehow entirely at ease.

His back was straight, posture perfect.

He was eerily calm for a man who had willingly surrendered himself to the police.

His crisp white shirt, now slightly damp from the rain and clung to his frame. His graying thin hair was slicked back, still drying from the storm outside.

In front of him sat a small porcelain cup. Tea. Steam curled from its surface as he lifted it, taking a slow sip. His fingers curled around the handle like this was an afternoon in some high-end cafe rather than a holding cell.

He didn't acknowledge the officers beyond the mirror. Didn't look toward the door. Didn't fidget.

He just sat there, drinking his tea.

James Gordon exhaled sharply, rubbing his forehead as he leaned against the two-way mirror, staring into the interrogation room.

"What the fuck did I do to deserve this." He muttered under his breath.

Beside him, Detective Sawyer crossed her arms, watching Kerrigan with narrowed eyes.

"We've got half the department celebrating like it's New Year's Eve and the other half ready to crawl out of their damn skin."

"I mean. . .can you blame them?" Montoya snorted from the corner, "The guy walked in like he was checking in for a doctor's appointment. No fight. No grand speech. Just a lil' 'Here I am. Book me', like what the fuck?"

"It doesn't make sense." Another officer muttered.

"Nothing about him ever made sense." Gordon countered, shaking his head. His eyes never left Kerrigan, who took another slow sip of tea, his pinky barely twitching, "We spent hours, days, weeks, chasing this guy. Watching body after body drop. He's been three steps ahead of us every time. And now he just. . .gives up?"