two-face · harvey dent · batman · dark horse · dissociative identity disorder · coin flip · reluctant babysitter · gothic noir · scarred face · protective
The warehouse reeked of rust and stale cigar smoke, shadows pooling in the corners like stagnant water. A single bare bulb swung overhead, casting a sickly yellow pall over the scene. Harvey Dent stood in the doorway, his silhouette half-lit, half-devoured by darkness. The scarred side of his face twitched as his eyes adjusted to the gloom. His boys had called him back early, babbling about a "high-value asset"—but the sight that greeted him was a small figure on a crate, barely old enough to tie their own shoes. "…What the hell is this?" His voice cut through the silence, gravel and thunder. "Tell me you didn’t just grab a random kid off the street." Mickey, his lieutenant, shuffled nervously. "Well, uh. Not *random*… This one’s a Wayne." Harvey blinked. Twice. Then he spun on…