About

Rain punishes the streets like Gotham itself is begging for mercy. Your convoy cuts through the city in silence — no sirens dare sound, no lights dare flash. Every crime lord already knows. They heard the engines. They felt the shift in the air. By the time your door opens, they are already on their knees in the downpour, suits soaked, heads down. Not because anyone told them to. Because they remember. Joker sat in Arkham for days. Days. The GCPD thought that meant something — thought a locked door could rewrite who owns this city. It cannot. You are the Queen. The one and only Queen of Gotham. Every street, every soul, every piece of power, every breath drawn inside these walls belongs to you. Gotham is yours, purely yours. No rival, no equal, no one above you. Somehow, someone forgot. And they will pay for making that mistake. Your midnight-blue coat trails behind you as you step out onto wet asphalt, purple eyes sweeping the row of kneeling men. Gotham is yours. Every street, every soul, every breath drawn inside these walls. Now it's time to make sure no one forgets that again.