"The world suffers a lot. Not because of the violence of bad people, but because of the silence of good people." ~Napoleon

          Eve swiftly leaps down with the poise of a gazelle from where she stood on the dumpster, having set up the last of her trusty security footage. All over town, she spent the last three long days wiring up cameras and microphones outside any mob owned business she knew of that was also safe enough to do so. From every safe house, bar and business front to every restaurant, casino and dock on record.

          She's never been one for self-appraisal, but Eve can't repress the self-satisfied flare that surges through her at the current moment.

          It's an adrenaline rush working such a treacherous case, she can't deny that. She's not in it for an adrenalin fix though, or for the rush of admiration and appreciation she could possibly receive if her identity and involvement was brought to light. No, the bigger reason she's partaking in this jeopardous endeavour is for the safety of those who don't deserve to be caught in the crossfire. A smaller part of her, a selfish part of her, may be doing it out of her own damn curiosity, but that's all that it is. Small.

          Pulling the familiar fabric of her trench coat sleeve up, she analyses her wrist, checking the time on her white and gold Michael Kors watch. 1:24am. It's that late? She rhetorically asks herself, blinking back her bewilderment at how the time flew. It was worth it in her opinion, that was the final camera after all.

          Eve manages to hail a taxi before the daunting, edgy man with premature yellow teeth who was a few meters off decidedly gets too close. And before the raucous gang of typical Gotham street thugs takes too much of an interest in her.

          By the time she returns to her apartment, it's near two o'clock. Brains need sleep; she firmly chastises herself as she slides the rusty, worn key into her threadbare door. This case will be the death of you Evangeline Mendax Winter.

          She felt it the moment she walked in that front door.

          Eve soundlessly closes the door behind her, refusing to even budge towards the light switch. Her entire apartment is bathed in shadows, the few run of the mill windows towards the back of the main room sucking all the lights the city offers and trying to spread them amongst the darkness. Eve knows her apartment. She knows every crack, crevasse, book, dust ball, splinter and corner down to the last millimetre. She knows how the shadows cast over the rooms like a tsunami of darkness. She knows how the very air sits, swarms and convulses in every damn room.

          So she knew, the moment she walked in that front door, that something was off.

          Her back presses into her own front door, similar to how it was twelve days ago in that monumental alleyway. Her eyes devour every inch of the room, surveying for the probable threat. Before she's even permitted a chance to deduct a conclusion or a plan of action, it speaks.

          "Miss Winter."

           Instead of jumping up to her throat, Eve's heart plummets several stories downwards to the ground floor, her breath along with it. She didn't see him at first, but now he's unmistakeable. Even the air stills in his presence. The imposing, looming wall of darkness that manoeuvres to stand more prominently in what little light there is, creating a silhouette of the shape. He looks like the Grim Reaper, and besides the simple movement to make himself more noticeable, he doesn't move an inch. Eve can't even see him breathing.

          "I had a feeling Jim let you off your leash to spy on me," Eve barely manages to push out, miraculously subduing the initial quiver in her tone. "Here to warn me how dangerous this truly is? Or did you stop by for a cup of tea?"

          He still doesn't move. "Do me a favour and lose the sense of humour."

          "Do this entire city a favour and buy one. You evidently have enough money to do so." She meant it as a playful joke, yet she still prays that he took it as one.

          "You attempt to use either kindness or humour upon first meeting someone," his impossibly low voice states. "As a means of gauging their initial personality, reaction and possible mannerisms. You buy yourself time to read their body, posture, speech pattern, tone, attire and eyes as if they were their own walking auto-biography. From then on out, you use that information to best determine how to act around them and treat them, as well as the appropriate language to use and what to address them by."

           Eve appears strangely unfazed by this stage, simply slipping her petite hands into her white coat pockets. "You attempt to use surprise and intimidation upon first meeting someone, and even after your first meeting, you continue to use the same method as a means of reminding them who you are." Eve courageously takes a step forward, the sound of her brown, heeled ankle boots clacking against the flooring, cracking through the air.

          "When you surprise someone from your abrupt presence, you determine their current emotional and mental state by the vulnerability of the 'caught off guard' moment. If they're on edge and jumpy by your materialisation, you know they're up to something. If they're calm and collected, you know they were expecting you. You remain in the shadows even after announcing your presence, only extracting yourself from them when you sense the other person challenging you or deem the situation even the slightest bit threatening as a way of further promoting your intimidation technique. Once you've adjudicated that the person doesn't really pose a threat, you slacken, just in the slightest."

          Just as Eve foretold, the Batman's shoulders droop a couple unseen centimetres. And, if Eve could see in the dark, she would've caught onto the fact that his lips twitched up for a few eternal milliseconds. "So you know that – judging by your original reaction – I know that you're up to something, that you've done something."

          Eve remains impassive, refusing to allow him any more chances to deduce her physically. "I'm a private investigator. I'm investigating. Of course I'm up to something."

          "These aren't nice people Miss Winter," Batman gravelly reminds her, and when he takes a silent step forward – more like a glide really – Eve has to stop herself from taking one back. "They won't all smile and thank you should you offer them a cup of steaming coffee."

           How does he know about that...? She pauses. Gordon.

          "You don't think I know that?" Evangeline perplexedly asks. "But I'm stopping this mob war before it happens, Mr Knight. And I don't need to trade in my morals and who I am to do so. My father always asked me when I was a kid; Are you strong enough to stand up to the inhumane? Or humane enough to offer them kindness? You're the strong one here Mr Knight, so all I can be is the humane one, one of the only humane one that appears to be in this city."

          Once again, she didn't mean it as an insult or an ego boost on her behalf, but from what Eve has seen and heard from this city, no one treats the criminals as if they were proper human beings with their human rights and human nature. Even the psychiatrists at Arkham sounded as if they didn't truly regard their patients as people, as equals. Everyone is equal to Eve, and even if they don't bestow you with the respect you deserve, they nonetheless should be treated with kindness and like actual people.

          Lucky for her, the Dark Knight knew what she meant.

          "There's a reason people like you aren't found in this city," Batman continues to debate, but Eve detects the slightest hint of gradual acquiescence weaving into his tone. "They die out. They're corrupted, tainted by the city's pessimism and brutality. Even the strongest of them fall prey to criminal underworld." There it was. The meaning behind it all. Eve could see it, she could feel it. The unspoken insinuation of this city's once White Knight hung in the air – Harvey Dent. But not just Harvey, other good people have fallen victim to the tempting bad side of the law. Harleen Quinzel. Victor Fries. Pamela Isley. Good people with good intentions, all snapped by the figurative 'dark side'.

          Eve refused to be one of them. Her morals and ethics are what define her, what make her her. No one, not this city, its cops, its vigilantes or it's so called 'super criminals' were going to take that away from her. Even the strongest of them fall prey to the criminal underworld he had said. Eve's mouth curves up, but it isn't an act of arrogance. It's a sign of assurance. "I already told you, I'm not the strong one."

          The Dark Knight looks at her. Really looks at her. He stands by his previous assumption – that she's dangerous, not special – but now, having met her, he can personally identify a buried spark that loiters within her. A spark the rest of the people in this city fail to possess. A spark of hope. But it's not just limited to that, it's so much more. It's intellect. It's faith. It's determination. It's tactics. It's optimism. It's compassion. It's humanity. Even in his line of work, Batman can't afford half of the qualities her spark maintains.

           He has to admit, although falteringly, she seems somewhat capable of getting the job done.

           Against his initial intentions, the Dark Knight angles his body ever so slightly, allowing the stolen light from the city outside to frame half of his foreboding structure. Only half. The light treads around him in a way that almost resembles caution, or fear, as if it is afraid that one wrong move would grant it a severe punishment by the Dark Knight's hand. Eve knew that the reputation of the Batman preceded him from the moment she lay her eyes on him, and even prior to this encounter she referred to him as a force of nature. But here she is, for the first time truly understanding the meaning behind those words. Nature almost bended to his will, his presence. Nature, dark, light... it is all his army, and he is its commander. Not the top dog, but an intimidator utilized by the top dog; justice.

          "Don't let your confidence turn into arrogance," he warns, words permanently ringing in the air. "Many before you have, and many before you have fallen."

         Eve purses her rosy lips, sharp chin marginally jutted upwards as she scrutinises him under her observant gaze. "Have you heard of the doting nickname Commissioner Gordon has labelled me with?" When he remains silent, Eve continues. "Angel. That's what he calls me, from time to time. Evangeline 'Angel' Winter. I personally don't believe I do the name justice, but he thinks otherwise. Angels are messengers and warriors of God, and I am neither of those. However, over the course of biblical history, there have been a select few who have fallen from grace, Lucifer – the devil – included." She takes another tentative step forward, less than a meter away from him now. "I will not be one of them. You either die a hero, or live long enough to see yourself become the villain. I would sooner die with my morals, than trade them in for my ambition or arrogance."

          "You say that now, but adversities change people," he challenges, taking his own step forward. "All it takes is one moment, one bad day. People only change once, and you have yet to experience that. And when you do, what you come out as is what I'm worrying about."

          Eve's gaze turns razor sharp. "Who says I haven't already changed?"

          "Just be careful," he relents, part of him aware that he has sparked a flicker of doubt within her that she is still oblivious to. He doesn't want her to doubt her capabilities, but too much self-assurance in this city never bodes well. The Knight just wants her to be wary. "You're not from here; you haven't seen what this city is capable of doing to the people in it."

          "I will be careful," she tenderly and understandingly reassures, knowing that Gotham's black clad vigilante is merely looking out for her. "On one condition."

          This piques Batman's attention. "And what is that?"

          Eve huffs, almost exasperatedly. "Stop putting bloody bugs in my apartment, please."

          Once again, if Evangeline Winter possessed the ability of night vision, she would've perceived the uncharacteristic and entirely unpredictable twitch of Batman's lips. Soundlessly, he glides across the floor like a Reaper adorned with its dark cloak, the Dark Knight's cape trailing behind him obediently. He manoeuvres to the illuminated windows, only pausing momentarily to cast Eve a sideways glance over his broad shoulders. "Take care of yourself Miss Winter."

          She sighs, suddenly finding her scratched and beaten boots rather interesting. "Only if you do."

          When she glimpses up, he's gone.

***

          Eve stares unblinkingly at the buzzing, hypnotic security footage screens as she fiddles with the overly plain silver cross around her neck, her expression devoid of anything and everything bar one obvious sign; fatigue.

          If I sleep, I may miss something, she relentlessly contends with herself, well aware that this case is progressively consuming her like a virus from within. How long ago did the notorious Dark Knight drop by? She dazedly pondered. Two days, six days... or was it only nine hours? The more she contemplates, the more frustrated she becomes with herself.

          Rebecca once commented that watching Eve become irksome or irate was thoroughly entertaining. Bec, apparently, couldn't regard her high school companion seriously when she did. Eve recollects Bec explaining that 'You're too nice Eve. You try to look angry, but you just look like a kitten whose ball of yarn has been confiscated. Face it Eve, you can't maintain a truly bitter expression for more than eight milliseconds.'

          'I can be angry,' Eve had defensively bristled, but it was more like a cute pout. 'And scary.'

          Bec had laughed. 'Yeah, and I can give up smoking any day I want.'

          In spite of not desiring to admit it, Eve knows the Batman had effectively succeeded in his visitation. There was a tiny, near inconceivable seed of doubt planted within the soil of her mind. Each new thought and logical reasoning of what could become of her during this investigation, is like another drop of water being fed to the soil, nourishing the seed of doubt. But Eve couldn't let it grow into something that could obstruct or compromise her mission, her case. She has never failed or given up on a case before, and she sure as hell isn't going to start now.

          Gotham is truly something to be frightful of, though. One turn down a bad street could result in a beaten, mugged, raped or dead body being discovered the next morning. There is no censor on what transpires within this metropolitan, no moral code. Even thieves tend to have honour amongst them, yet the common populace of criminals in this city scarcely have a scrap of it.

          It's mid-day, Eve tries to coerce herself from her disarrayed office. Go get some lunch out for once. Air. You need air.

          Against her better judgement to not abandon the security tapes without someone to monitor them, Eve collects her iconic white coat and swiftly slides out the door.

          It's astounding how different Gotham is during the day. All the shadows and brutality of the Gotham criminal underworld have curled in on themselves, hissing like vampires at the light that drowns the streets of the city. Even with the imperious radiance of the sun however, the cold still manages to pierce and nip away at each passer-by, and the snow that buries every inch of concrete and grass it can displays no signs of budging.

          Eve ambles around aimlessly for a while, drinking in the sights and the sun that's offered to her. Upon spotting a neat, rustic little cafe tucked away almost covertly down a fairly quiet street, Eve wanders towards it and welcomes herself inside.

           Not too boisterous, not too placid. That's how Eve likes it. She orders her golden toasted banana bread with lukewarm camomile tea – a splash of honey added to the mix – and takes a seat in one of the austere chairs facing the front door, observing as people come and go. Most would think that Eve struck a metaphorical gold mine uncovering such a place within Gotham; reticent, peaceful, not enervated and has quality food and drink. Yet, it wasn't a coincidence that she stumbled upon it. She meant to come here. Why? Because this particular cafe is run on a protection racket, a protection racket enforced by none other than the infamous Harvey Dent.

          Eve had done her research prior to her visit. This street is on the very edge of O'Reilly's territory, and from what she can piece together after having an amicable, pleasant conversation with the barista and cashier up front, Maroni had attempted to put up a protection racket of his own merely for the satisfaction to spite O'Reilly and encroach his turf. Power plays, as always.

          Evidently, Two Face stepped up because he isn't shy of brashly fomenting the other families' ire should they display the act of arrogance first. Eve has to pity the proprietor of the alleviating café, as well as the other business owners on the street – being at the beck and whim of such a largely notorious and certifiably insane criminal can't possibly be favourable for one's health or finance.

          Much to Eve's disliking, the closer it nears to one o'clock, the more crowded and raucous the cafe begins to grow. For one fleeting moment, she ruminates the idea of returning to her disorganised apartment, and then abruptly discards the idea just as quickly as it came. She requires more time spent out in public, socialising. She doesn't need any companions to socialise with, but to go to the effort of traipsing around the mall or treating herself to a delectable meal is well enough.

          "Is this seat taken?"

          Eve has to reign in her startled expression, whipping her head in the direction of and regarding the source of the intrusive voice. "Hmm?"

          Her eyes devour the appearances of the three gentlemen politely awaiting her response. Immaculately presented suits. Expensive, definitely expensive. A Rolex wrist watch even seems to be peeking out from the blonde one's sleeve. Practiced, firm postures. The brunette's especially. He could possibly possess a few years of military training under his belt. Suit jackets are all puffed out marginally more than necessary, which when paired with the fact that we're in a mob-rogue owned cafe, most likely implies that handguns are veiled behind them. Mob men, obviously. Despite the cafe indirectly belonging to Two Face, these men could still possibly work for O'Reilly or Markovic. Maroni, Black Mask and Falcone lackeys wouldn't harbour the audacity to frequent a rival's cafe in delicate times such as these, so that rules them out at options. Other lower families or gangs aren't remarkable or powerful enough to be figuratively 'sitting with the big boys', which therefore results in a selection of three. Eve tries to boil it down from the three options left presented to her.

          Markovic, O'Reilly and Dent. It isn't uncommon for allying families to permit each other's henchmen in each other's bars, casinos and restaurants. Eve decides however, that the three towering criminals before her belong to Two Face. Simply an educated speculation based on the snobbish behaviour usually displayed by the other families when regarding the hiring of henchmen, especially the Italian families. And in spite of his ruthlessness and sadistic ways, Eve was stunned upon reading Gordon's personal jottings on how Dent is more lenient with the ethnicity of his men. It appears at least one mob man is capable of surpassing the ethnic barrier and employing workers based on skill, Eve had commented after reading the near illegible notes left by the police Commissioner.

          The sound of a throat being cleared shatters her thoughts like glass.

          Eve blinks up at the men again, her mouth indecisive in whether it wishes to remain ajar or shut firmly closed. Eventually, Eve regains jurisdiction of her jaw and stammers "Sorry, yes. I mean, no, it isn't taken. You may sit, if you wish."

          The three men chuckle. Eve shudders. "Thank you," the dark skinned criminal with the single pierced right ear praises. His arms are as thick as tree trunks, and his teeth are whiter than a toothpaste model's. He conveys the initial impression of amiability Eve concurs, but criminals – specifically mafia members – maintain a living out of deception. This has always been Eve's fatal flaw; jumping to conclusions. She realizes she needs to analyse more, yet when regarding unanswered questions, Eve becomes atypically impatient and yearns to identify the answer.

          "You new to the area?" He continues, his intimidating colleagues heuristic of Evangeline's answer as well. "This place just doesn't usually get many customers outside its repertoire of regulars," the man justifies his blatant curiosity, blinding white teeth bared back into a semblance of a smile.

          Eve deliberates how much information she can fabricate about herself without rousing their suspicion. Mob men procure the eyes of a hawk for lies and deceit the moment they enter the world of organised crime, so Eve would prefer to be as honest as she can. Granted, the situation and nature of her current case doesn't enable a large amount of honesty from her at the moment, should it later be used against her, but that doesn't require her to lie about everything. As mentioned before; Eve would prefer to be as honest as she can.

          So after much deliberation, she settles for "Yes, actually. In fact, I'm new to Gotham as whole."

          The blonde haired man quirks an eyebrow. "I thought I detected a Southern accent. Whereabouts are ya from?"

          Eve mutters a gentle 'thank you' to the waitress and smiles when she cleans away Eve's drained cup and picked clean plate, after having served the men their appropriate meals. Twisting her neck to face the blonde again, the private investigator keeps the refreshing grin plastered on her lips. "North Carolina. Yes, we kill people with kindness. Yes, we all praise Jesus like there's no tomorrow. Yes, we party harder with our drinks than an Irish on St. Patrick's Day. And yes, we're all total Frat and Sorority snobs."

          Her spirits are lifted immeasurably when the three criminals share a genuinely entertained laugh at her drawl. The brunette with the small yet noticeable scar standing out on his strong jaw amongst all the stubble grins at her, admitting "I was wonderin' if that was a Carolinian drawl in your voice. Couldn't figure out if it was North or South."

          "You don't speak with their slang though," Blondie keenly observes. "Just the greater relaxed twang that's really more of an ever-extendin' drawl, like Jack said."

          "Mm, we emphasize more naturally rhythmic elements in our speech from our Caribbean influences. But growing up with my dad's Irish accent has made me soften my vowels and harden my consonants more than the typical North Carolinian," I explain, fingering my silver cross pendant absent-mindedly. "I'm Eve, by the way."

          "Mike," the dark skinned man with the blinding white teeth introduces, jabbing his finger towards Blondie and saying "This is Rob, and that's Jack," he finishes by pointing at the brunette 'Jack'.

          "Pleasure," Eve beams contagiously, her presence a stark white contrast of purity and benevolence in comparison to the tainted, experienced criminal ambience of the three men. Their demeanour – their aura – is scarcely concealed behind the deceivingly amiable smiles and friendly words. If only they knew of her acute, observant eye for reading people and situations. Perhaps then they wouldn't be as careless and throw up a half-hearted wall to veil their lawless lives.

          "I met a broad like you once," Rob offhandedly remarks, rubbing a haggard hand against the light blonde stubble tickling his jawline. He doesn't appear as intimidatingly built as the other two, masculine, but not overly so like Mike and Jack. His eyes however, remind Eve of her own. Sharp. Astute. Crafty. His irises even mimic Eve's own – the hazel swirl that hides a dangerous intellectual. I'll have to be wary of him, she internally notes to herself.

          Eve arches a perfectly plucked eyebrow as a means to prompt him onwards. "Oh?"

          "Yeah. Pretty face that could, as you so accurately put it, 'kill with kindness'. She was a South Carolinian to top it off, and a massive Christian," Rob prods his BLT with the mayonnaise contaminated toothpick, Mike and Jack having dug into their own burgers quite animatedly.

          "What happened? If you don't mind me asking," Eve tries not to overstep her boundaries, because despite the collected demeanour she's so eloquently flaunting in front of the presumed Two Face henchmen, she's actually quite anxious and frightened inwardly. They are hired criminals, and the likelihood that they've murdered quite a few people in their lifetime is pretty high.

            He cracks a knuckle. "We had a falling out. After a while, I couldn't tell if she was bein' nice or passive aggressive. It was a double edge sword I tell ya. All her friendliness could also be a razor sharp exercise in passive aggression. In the end, she made off with half of my life's savings and my 1972 Plymouth Barracuda. Bitch just had to take the car," he bitterly scowls under his breath, voting to down a rapacious gulp of his boiling beverage instead of ripping into his BLT.

          "She was good in the sack though, wasn't she?" Mike indecently leers, having momentarily forgotten the company that they are entertaining.

          Rob smirks. "Yeah, she was fucking amazing in the sack. I think she praised God more in bed than she did outside of it, if that's even possible."

          Jack awkwardly clears his throat, appearing to be the only one of the trio who hasn't neglected Eve's presence. "Not exactly the best conversation to have over lunch, is it boys?"

          Rob shrugs it off, gaze sliding elsewhere indifferently. Mike mock surrenders, deciding to swipe his burger up again and ravage it contemptuously. Glimpsing apologetically back to Eve, Jack stirs his protein shake idly with the straw, saying "Gotta keep them in line more often than not. Lucky for me, during working hours they behave a bit more than the five year olds they are outside of work."

          The incoherent albeit unimpressed protests and growls from the other two criminals voice their displeasure at Jack's remark, yet they refrain from intervening. Eve smiles, but it's not entirely due to the near comical exchange. Here she is, in the company of what are most likely highly detrimental men, and they're quarrelling like any other average Joe would with his mates. It's farcical, ludicrous.

           Eve recognises the window of opportunity thrown open by Jack, and leaps for it with all her might. "So you all work together? Well, it must keep the workplace entertaining in the least." Innocence. Flippancy. Humour. Eve strives for all three of them, whilst attempting to remain as inconspicuous as possible. You never know, she comments. They may just let something slip about Dent or the other mobs. Highly unlikely, but worth a shot.

          Jack's eyes brighten. "Yeah well, generally we can't afford to be 'entertaining' in our line of work. 'Specially around the boss."

          "I get what you mean," Eve makes an effort to sympathize so she doesn't come off as too invasive or curious. "I've tried bringing a bit of ease and humour to the workplace. Isn't always appreciated. Strict jobs are like that though. Is yours overly so, or just enough to maintain a sense of professionalism?"

          "Can be both," Jack weighs his thoughts carefully. "Security businesses ordinarily have to maintain their professionalism, particularly in this city with all the nutcases runnin' around."

          The cover story, of course. She should've expected that. Eve lightly chastises herself for being so enraptured by the moment and not even considering the fact they're canny enough to not speak with loose lips. She isn't Batman, they're not going to quiver in pure, unadulterated fear before her and allow all their knowledge to burst out of their mouths like opened floodgates. She wouldn't be surprised if said Dark Knight had already been fully informed and aware of every when, why, who and how involved in the calamitous instigation of the mob war when he had come to visit her. If he did, and purposefully didn't enlighten me...

          What would she do? What could she do? Like Bec had said, Eve is 'too nice'. If she can't even properly intimidate a normal, everyday person off the streets, what hope did she have to leech information from Gotham's most notoriously formidable vigilante?

           Heck, she doesn't even know for certain that these men are condemned criminals, let alone Dent's lackeys. Eve is merely going off her own educated theories and speculations. They could be employed within a security business for all she knew, but the likelihood of such immaculately dressed men who throw up an air of experienced intimidation – and also seem to frequent a decently renowned mob café – to just work in a security firm seems severely dubious in Eve's opinion.

          Eve's lip quirks, despite feeling marginally deflated internally. "I wouldn't go so far as to call them nutcases..."

          The three men blink at her like she's morphed into the Joker before their very eyes.

          "You're kidding right?" Mike splutters, almost inanely. "You're saying that freaks like the Joker and Poison Ivy aren't nutcases?"

          Eve scrutinizes her word choice gingerly. "I think Gotham underestimates the sanity of the majority of them. Most aren't actually 'insane' by the book, just by society's standards. Look at Joker for example. The media has mused over what psychological illness he possesses for years now, even the Arkham psychiatrists have concluded various conditions from multiple personality disorder and psychopathy to sociopathy and schizophrenia. He changes, constantly. Like he wants everyone to consider him insane, yet grow infuriated and come up empty when it comes to pinpointing the particular illness that obstructs his sanity. In a way... he's acting. He's sane, but prefers to be in the character of a madman. He just likes being evil, and crazy. Doesn't mean he is."

          All three blink again. Rob, the nimble intellectual that Eve has been treading carefully around, narrows his eyes into sharp razor slits. "Interesting theory. You're quite observant, aren't you? Most would throw you into Arkham for even usin' the words 'Joker' and 'not crazy' in the same sentence."

           "I honestly couldn't give a damn about what others think of me," Eve shrugs off. "I'm entitled to my own opinions, just like everyone else. Others may have pessimistic and negative opinions on the people and events around them, but I prefer to remain optimistic and positive. More bad than good comes out of fighting hate with hate."

Jack, Rob and Mike peer down at the North Carolinian as if she were a fluffy, white bunny rabbit, finding her untainted optimism and idealism more than adorable. "No offence Eve," Jack stares at her through half-lidded eyes, "but people with that kind of positivity, decency and idealism don't last long in this city. Gotham is an unrelenting black storm cloud that blocks all forms of happy sunlight, casting the vilest shadows of crime this world has seen. It would be a dream come true if everything here was sunny and bright like North Carolina, or even Central City. But it ain't. The people of this city can't afford that way of thinking."

"'Specially now with the mob war hangin' over the streets of the city and everyone in them," Mike unenthusiastically grunts his input, Rob immediately slicing his gaze through the air and warningly pinning it to his companion.

Could not have asked for a better opening, Eve inwardly beams, beyond the point of ecstatic at the presented opportunity. She draws her dark, petite eyebrows into a delicate knot, once again reminding the three mobsters of a bunny when her nose slightly twitches along with it. "Mob war? I thought I vaguely read about that somewhere in the paper... but I didn't really pay it much mind. Isn't there always discrepancies in organised crime anyway?" Unbeknownst to the men across from her, during her innocent confusion, the private investigator had elegantly slipped her phone from her white trench coat pocket and smoothly tapped away at it until she turned the voice recording on. She had practiced doing that without glancing for weeks, knowing fully well that it would eventually be beneficial.

Tension that hadn't originally been there began to rise in the men's bodies. Eve knows she's treading on extraordinarily thin ice, but if the Dark Knight could go out every night and risk his life against some of the largest criminals in American history, then she could damn well ask three henchmen a few innocuous questions.

Rob raps his knuckles on the splintering table, jaw nearly unnoticeably set. "There's always tension, and of course the backstabbing, lies and thinly veiled threats. But actual outright arguments and quarrels? Those aren't common at all. Mobs like bein' quiet and discreet about shit like that."

They're trying to be concise and brief as they can, Eve can tell. But she's not done with them quite yet. "Then why is this mob war plastered all over the papers? Doesn't seem discreet to me."

The men share a look. Eve almost holds her breath at it, but is aware how suspicious that would seem, especially with Rob's hawk eyes devouring her for any reaction she gives that may be out of line. A silent conversation passes between them, unspoken to Eve, but it occurs so fleetingly that their stiff behaviour could be brushed off as three security guards fearing for the wrong ears to hear the wrong words. Jack decides to jump in, his sigh drawn out exhaustedly as he leans forward and shakes the tension from his shoulders subtly. His calloused hands clasp together, thumbs ringing around one another for a few moments. "How much did you read in the papers?"

Eve angelically shrugs. "Just that a girl and guy from two crime families were shot dead and found in the same alley as the Wayne killings. I threw the paper out. Like I said, I didn't pay it much mind."

"Well everyone says that a mob known as the Maroni crime family is behind it. The Maroni family is one of the oldest mafia families in Gotham. Not a family you want to be screwin' around with," Rob elaborates in a controlled manner, the other two mobsters stepping down in case they slip up with a word or two. Smart move. Eve tips her hat off to them for allowing the sharper intellectual to do the talking.

Eve nods her understanding, but the profound knot between her brows doesn't budge. "Everyone says that the Maroni's are behind it? Why, you're not as convinced?" She's asking too many questions, and she knows it. But she's that close to getting something valuable out of the condemned criminals. She can practically taste it.

Rob scrutinises the private investigator cautiously. "No. I'm not. I got no solid proof or nuthin', just my own opinions and speculations. Just like your theory of the Joker not bein' a nutcase. Look, let's just say there are a lot of whack jobs in this city who, for the right price or blackmail, will do things for certain people."

So someone may not necessarily be tricking Maroni, but controlling him... A rogue perhaps? Eve shakes her internal deliberation. No, by the sounds of things, rogues and Mafia like to steer clear of one another, Sionis and Dent being the outstanding exceptions.

"Look, doll," Mike shatters her thoughts, gaining her exhaustive attention. "You gotta be careful with the kinds of questions you ask 'round these parts Eve. You're new to Gotham, so you don't know any better. But all kinds of ears can be found all over this city, and when they pick up of a sweet, pretty broad like you askin' too many dangerous questions, they'll start gettin' curious. The only thing in this city that is worse than a curious civilian, is a curious criminal. Especially mobsters and rogues."

"Which is why we like keepin' our noses out of that kind of business," Jack finalises, all three eyes bearing down on the raven haired woman. "And so should you."

Flashing her pearly whites, Eve inconspicuously switches her phone off and sleekly slides it back into her coat pocket under the table, bringing her hands up to clasp each other softly on the table afterwards. "Sorry," she airily giggles, striving for the bashful, humble act of an innocent Carolinian. She hunches her shoulders marginally, allowing her hair to act as a curtain in front of half of her face. Signs of sheepish, timid and modest behaviour. "Mum always said I was too curious for my own good. Suggested that I should take up being a scientist or a journalist. However, I've always perceived journalists to be too invasive and hard-headed. Not to mention indecently rude."

"So you a scientist then?" Mike queries, having devastated the remnants of what was a burger.

Eve's smile is small and covert, yet it's played off as friendly and animated. "I did a Bachelor of Science and majored in psychology, but I ended up preferring information technology once I did a Bachelor degree in that. My mind didn't have the intellectual capacity for biology, chemistry or physics. Science just didn't really... click. Psychology was okay, but technology was just more interesting." Not a complete lie, I did do a single degree psychology, followed by criminal justice, and law enforcement and investigation...

She nearly heaves a soft sigh of respite when they seem to accept her answer and subtly liberate the tension in their postures. Yet when Jack's jaw unhinges to utter another question or comment, Eve starts up with an endearing jolt as her phone calls out to her with her distinctive ringtone of 'Wanted Dead or Alive' by Jon Bon Jovi. The simmering glance the North Carolinian casts at the three men for impertinently grinning at her startle could barely be classified as a glare, and when their smirks only intensify into light chuckles, she dismays and relents at trying to glower at them.

Her swirling hazel eyes read the caller ID on the fingerprint smudged screen, her petite brows curling so far in towards one another they almost form a line. "It's my brother..."

Jack doesn't miss the surprised yet perplexed expression adorned on her gentle face. "Haven't talked in a while or something?"

Eve lips turn into a line. "Or something." She sends the call to voice mail and swiftly hurries to slide a twenty and a five under the complimentary salt and pepper shakers resting atop the table, collecting the rest of her belongings and smoothly slipping her warmth enveloping black gloves on. "It was lovely meeting you three. Hopefully we'll run into each other here again sometime. Have a nice day," Evangeline politely yet quickly departs, the three mobsters hardly able to rush out a 'goodbye' before she's slipped out the front door.

The harsh, cold air is once again an unwanted wake up call, and as Eve scrolls through the various, seemingly never ending contacts of clients and family members, she eventually identifies one of them to be her brother's.

She dials the number, and waits.

"Eva. You didn't pick up the first time."

The private investigator feels as if her chest has just been released from the iron grip of a human sized vice, euphorically relieved that if the first thing he says is simply a statement pointing her out for not picking up the first time, then he's not calling due to a life threatening situation.

If she had it in her, she would have scowled. "I was preoccupied with work."

The very brief smile in his voice is unmistakable amidst his faded North Carolinian drawl. "You're always 'preoccupied with work'."

"I love my job, you know that," Eve justifies herself softly, her boots clicking and clacking whilst her legs eat up the pavement. "Just like you do."

"Mm," is all he responds with, emotion indistinguishable. "Work is kind of the reason I'm calling."

Eve's breath intake is sharp. "Nate, what's the matter?"

"Europol is catching up with me. I'm returning to America. Just thought I'd let you know."

Her brother's truncated answer shouldn't have been much of a shock to the private investigator, yet it nonetheless unsettled her otherwise collected demeanour. Nathaniel Winter, back in America? Eve knows her elder sibling would undoubtedly keep to himself, after all, ever since their youth the both of them have been the solitary type of people, but at least Eve still cares and exudes empathy. Her brother on the other hand, is a very reserved, unsociable and quiet human being. Nathaniel is a novice in understanding the complex of human emotions.

Several times before Eve has considered him to most likely be a sociopath, yet he still exhibits particular mannerisms and behaviour that challenges that diagnosis. It's nearly as if he can switch his apathy on and off. It's very advantageous and convenient for his profession, yet inimical when his relationships with others are considered.

"I suppose I should be anticipating a few sporadic, 'surprise' visitations from you then?" The raven haired detective is already quite aware of the answer Nathaniel shall offer, but she views the inquiry as a formal inclination that merely confirms it aloud.

"Most likely," he monotonously answers in his customary reticent tone, words so quiet yet they hauntingly linger in the ears of anyone whom he addresses. Nathaniel has always had an intimidating aura. It seeps through his voice, his presence, his eyes.... His immense, masculine size doesn't do anything to lessen his harrowing semblance either. Yet even amidst all of this frightening display, he never utters a word above a whisper. His voice is gravelly, demanding even when it seemingly doesn't try to be, and ultimately it's oppressive. In fact, ever since her encounter with Gotham's Caped Crusader, Eve thinks he sounds almost identical to Batman; the only outstanding difference proving to be the level of her brother's voice. So soft and quiet, and so domineering and clear at the same time.

Evangeline hums her acknowledgment at the response. "Please just try not to track mud into the living room – and keep Black off the couch. His cuspate claws tear up the fabric."

"I'll try," is all that is said before the unmistakeable drone of the ended call drums into Eve's ears.