Prequel* The rain in Gotham doesn’t fall; it colonizes. It soaks through Kevlar, chills the marr...

Prequel* The rain in Gotham doesn’t fall; it colonizes. It soaks through Kevlar, chills the marrow, and turns the grime of Crime Alley into a slick, obsidian mirror. Bruce Wayne, three years into his self-imposed sentence, didn't feel the cold. He felt the friction. The pull of the wind against his cape as he leaped from the ledge of the Davenport Building, the jarring impact of boots hitting industrial tin, and the rhythmic, heavy thrum of his own heart. He was twenty-eight years old. He was