The sun had set, but Gotham never truly went dark. Neon signs flickered to life along Main Street. Traffic crawled, thick and stagnant, like clogged arteries. Uptown's nightlife stirred—a cheap, liquor-soaked, strung-out thing waking up. An organism that thrived on vice, feeding on those foolish enough to wander in.
Sal's Pizzeria sat in the thick of it on the South B-side that touched Main Street. An after-hours pizza parlor nestled between a rundown coffee shop and a liquor store. A "Closed" sign hung limp in the door, but inside, under the dim flickering glow of a back booth, Harvey Dent waited.
His coat and jacket lay folded beside him, the sleeves of his grey button-down pushed up to his elbows. A shimmer of silk in his tie cut through the dimness, an out-of-place flash against the greasy, faded walls. He lounged with an arm propped along the booth, the posture of a man who had spent his youth here—because he had. Only now, he had outgrown it. Too sharp. Too refined for the worn linoleum and split vinyl seats.
Sal emerged from the kitchen, thick arms dusted with flour, carrying two slices of pepperoni on a ceramic plate.
"For Uptown's A.D.A.? We bring out the nice shit," Sal chuckled, setting the plate down.
Dent smirked. "Your standards have improved."
Sal slid into the seat across from him. "Your secretary—she's some gal. Didn't just ask me to open. Told me to have a pie ready."
"She has a way about her." Dent took a bite, the cheese stretching perfect. "How's business?"
"Busy. Money's good." Sal frowned. "Finding workers is a pain. Kids these days don't want to work."
Dent chuckled. "You said the same thing when I worked here."
"Well, it was true then too." Sal's tone shifted, but still casual. "You got some balls, you know that?"
"That's what the ladies say."
Sal huffed a laugh, shaking his head. "The girls always did like you. I hear they still do." He leaned in. "You still like your meat browned, huh?"
Dent shot him a look. Normally, he wouldn't let it slide, but he knew Sal so he ignored the comment. "You think I shouldn't have called them gangsters?"
Sal leaned back. "Hell, why not? It's what they are. Everyone calls them that too."
"What's the neighborhood saying?" Dent asked.
"That you're a ritzy, coked-up whore like the rest of Downtown," Sal said.
Dent laughed. He needed a good chuckle.
"Ain't no one giving a fuck about four cops that off'd themselves—at least no one in Uptown." Sal's gaze flicked to the front door. "That the guy you're waiting for?"
Tobias Liech stood outside, jiggling the handle with jittery impatience. He was small with a slight build. His face pinched and balled up like a crumpled napkin. When Sal unlocked the door, he loomed over Liech like a bear eyeing a trespasser in its den. He shut the door with a heavy thud, causing Liech to flinch. Sal chuckled, disappearing into the kitchen.
Liech surveyed the place with barely concealed distaste, eyes sweeping over the floors and walls as if expecting cockroaches to scurry into view. When he reached the booth, he hesitated, scrutinizing the vinyl like a man checking a motel bed for stains.
He carefully slid into the booth. "Guess you can take the kid out of Uptown, but you can't take Uptown out of the man, huh?"
"What do you want, Toby?" Dent said dryly, his eyes still on the plate.
Liech winced at the nickname, then glanced around, ensuring no one was within earshot. "The Commissioner's pissed. Calling cops gangsters was reckless, Harvey. People might like it, but the cops don't."
Flour from the crust stuck to Dent's fingers. He rubbed them together, listening to the soft grind—the motion was grounding.
"Loeb wants a sit-down."
Dent didn't look up. The crust crunched under his teeth, dusty and perfect.
"This could all go bad fast, but if we play it right, we all win." Liech smoothed his lapels, annoyed by Dent's silence. "Loeb understands that sometimes his boys need to take a fall. That's just the way it goes."
Dent took another bite, chewing slow.
Liech exhaled sharply, switching tactics. "I know the election was tough. The whole thing about you being on the take with Falcone and Cobblepot—it was strategy. I wanted Tiff to win. She worked under the previous A.D.A. before he retired. She was part of his team." He paused, measuring Dent's reaction. "It wasn't personal, Harvey. Just politics."
Dent wiped the dust from his fingers, then smirked. "You still fucking her?"
Liech's expression flickered. He cleared his throat. "Let's not get nasty, Harvey."
"Nasty?" Dent leaned in, voice dropping to something darker. "Toby, nasty would've been putting those photos of you and Tiffany at that motel on a billboard outside your wife's work. I didn't do that because better people than me said to take the high road."
He let it hang before continuing, softer, colder. "But if it meant I'd win? I would've done it. Because it's not personal, right, Toby? It's just politics."
Liech stiffened, eyes darting like a rat looking for an escape hole. He found none.
"I've given you leeway, Harvey. Let you run Uptown's office how you want—firing and hiring whoever you please, but—"
"I don't work for you." Dent's voice was casual, but final. "Technically, my office reports to yours, but we both know that's not how it works."
Liech tried another angle. "Loeb's gonna go after Bill's cops. All of them. As many as he can get. He's already started."
Dent nodded, smiling faintly, which only irritated Liech further.
"Run back to Daddy," Dent said, voice low, taunting. "Tell Loeb if he wants to talk, he can come to my office."
Liech stood, frustration twisting his face bitter. He hesitated.
"You were always so fucking cocky. Do you know how many precincts are in Gotham? Seventy-eight. Do you know how many precinct chiefs are on the take? Sixty-five. Soon, no one—not even Loeb's guys—will be able to do a thing in this city without it getting back to the Commissioner."
Dent didn't flinch. Liech stormed off in a huff, shoving the door open, vanishing into the street.
A hack. But still—he was part of Loeb's inner circle.
Dent leaned back, rolling the words over in his head. It wasn't the numbers that stuck. It was a single phrase.
"Not even Loeb's guys?" he murmured, chewing on the thought.
Above him, a flickering light buzzed, half his face swallowed in shadow. His mind wrestled with the thought that Liech may have let something slip—and if so, what it might mean.