Chapter 9

As for the Damon family’s circumstances, they were included in the report as well. Arthur registered information when his daughter was born, but as she grew older and her condition became apparent, he dared not let her leave the house. He knew all too well that a black-haired, green-eyed child in Gotham—without proper understanding, ability, or protection—would become nothing more than a commodity in others’ hands.

Their family epitomized Gotham’s lowest stratum; none of them held formal employment. His wife had died years earlier due to lack of funds for medical treatment—what began as a minor ailment was left untreated until it became fatal. Arthur was left to raise their daughter alone, struggling even more to make ends meet by doing odd jobs that barely covered their daily needs.

With no means to earn more and no way to treat her condition, Arthur kept his daughter Megan hidden. She never attended school, and almost no one knew of her existence—at best, just rumors, but no one had ever seen her with their own eyes.

Such tragedies are all too common—not only in Gotham but in even the most developed and prosperous cities.

Gordon felt a pang of sympathy but continued reviewing the circumstances leading to Megan’s disappearance. Arthur had recently sought stable employment and, in the process, accepted help from an old friend. Because the job was a bit far away, requiring departure at four or five in the morning and uncertain return times, Arthur entrusted Megan to this friend.

The consequences were clear: that friend had taken Megan away. When Arthur returned and found her gone, he was devastated. He reported the disappearance to the police, pleading for his daughter’s return, saying:

“She is the best gift heaven ever gave me.”

He loved her deeply and could not bear to lose her. If there truly was a God, he would gladly descend to hell to bring her back. If she could not return, then his heart and soul would be taken with her.

Gordon sighed, knowing how much this father loved his daughter, but their approach to the case had to be rigorous. Even though they were almost certain the little girl before them was Megan Damon, the proper procedures had to be followed. He said, “Nevia, have Arthur come and see if this is his daughter.”

He had many responsibilities, but Nevia was aware that Arthur had been waiting outside the police station since the early hours after hearing the news. He was anxious and helpless, enduring the long wait in hope of a good outcome.

A young officer went to call him, and soon a tall, thin man wearing a tattered, dirty blue work uniform rushed in. He had the same black curly hair and green eyes as the little girl.

Just one glance was enough to confirm this was his daughter. In that instant, his eyes shone with an intense light. Yet as he approached, he hesitated at the doorway, muttering awkwardly to himself, “Am I really not dreaming? I see her, my love—she is—”

“My Megan.”

Tears welled in his eyes, moistening his unkempt, sallow face. He raised his hand but did not wipe them away, instead gazing at Megan with focused sorrow. He could not be sure if this was just a beautiful dream; if it shattered, where would he go?

Gordon said, “Come on, man, you should be with her now. You know she needs you.”

As Arthur approached, Gordon patted his shoulder. “Heaven has given you good fortune. Your daughter has come back. You don’t have to go to hell.”

After that, Gordon busied himself with other matters. The police station lobby was full of people, and Officer Nevia stood aside, observing not too close but not far away.

Arthur moved toward his long-lost daughter. The past days had taken a heavy toll on him; his clothes were dirty and disheveled, his hair messy, and his face weary. Yet he mustered his strength, knelt down before Megan, and placed his large, worn hands on her head. With a strained smile, he whispered, “Megan, you are my child.”

They were close, their green eyes meeting. The “child of the stars” seemed to recognize something familiar in him. Her gaze gradually focused. Though she remained silent and still, she looked intently.

Her chaotic, confused mind could not think clearly, but before her lay people and things she did not understand. Her eyes widened, becoming rounder and at last shedding the numb emptiness for a glimpse of childish innocence.

When Arthur removed his hands and made silly faces at her, finally smiling properly, her gaze followed him.

This was her first response to the outside world, and it was so purposeful—tracking his face.

...

Regarding whether they were truly father and daughter, the conclusion was clear. Yet the police still investigated Arthur’s friend, checking his identity, recent communications, and movements. The friend had ill intentions and a criminal record, constantly on the run.

Such slippery characters were all too numerous in Gotham. Besides this report and the current case, others remained overlooked. If not for this matter reaching Batman’s attention, even Gordon might have forgotten it.

From fragmented clues, the “truth” was pieced together: the friend had intended to ingratiate himself with the Damons to steal from them. The job offer was fabricated to deceive Arthur, who, desperate for income, unwisely trusted him and entrusted his daughter to his care. No one anticipated the friend would abscond with Megan.

Why Megan was later found alone on the street corner remained uncertain. Megan had some difficulties; perhaps the trauma of being forced out of the home triggered her to hide herself.

They could not get answers from Megan, nor could they force a child to respond.

Arthur wanted to take her home. Before leaving, Gordon handed them an envelope Arthur could not refuse—money to help sustain their lives and care for Megan’s treatment.

Gordon watched the father and daughter leave. The man playing the father role was tall but gaunt, his back bent pitifully. At his side, Megan was underdeveloped, appearing very small in comparison.

Outside, she grew uneasy, hiding behind his legs and refusing to move forward. Arthur lifted her into his arms. He had composed himself, affectionately nuzzling her cheek—his words were lost from that angle.

“Good, Megan. I knew you’d play along with my act!” she recognized him.

He said he found his fascination with this child. He had been enough of a madman and criminal, eager to try a new role!

The Joker had prepared well. His posture now fit the character perfectly—one who had lost his lifelong love and found her again. He kissed the side of the child’s face and smiled wider. “Come on, let’s go home.”

Which “home” exactly?

Of course, it was their cramped, old, yet warmly nostalgic house—near an aging bridge in Gotham’s old town. The neighborhood had existed for many years, once thriving decades ago due to a nearby industrial zone. After the city’s center shifted and factories closed, it rapidly declined. Most people managed to earn money and moved away—except the Damons.

Old Damon was a fool. A failure who loved drinking and gambling, he eventually drowned himself in a filthy canal, leaving behind poverty to haunt his descendants and binding them to this place, unable to leave.

Arthur Sanchez Damon had only an elementary education. After Old Damon’s death, he survived by doing under-the-table work. As for his mother? She had a brief relationship with Old Damon in her youth but they never married. They lived together while things were good, then separated when the passion faded. She left the son with Old Damon, had other lovers, and later died of illness.

This man had only his daughter left. Together, they returned home.

The GCPD precinct and the old town were separated by a bridge. Arthur carried her all the way back. Hardship had forged a physique once capable of bearing great burdens and pressure in youth. Perhaps old age would demand repayment with interest, but that was far off.

They crossed the bridge, hearing seabirds’ cries in the sea breeze. The birds circled overhead, sometimes landing on the bridge to watch passersby and vehicles. A seagull fixated on them, searching for food or something interesting, but found nothing. They were barren without cause.

When a seagull suddenly swooped toward them, Arthur pressed Megan’s head into his chest, narrowly missing the powerful wings beating inches from his face. He shut his eyes and cursed, “Oh, damn it!”

He returned home with his daughter, seating her on an old sofa while he went into the kitchen to cook.

Evening had fallen. The narrow living room was dimly lit by the fading sunlight filtering through worn glass windows. No lamps were on; the faint light revealed a cluttered but orderly room, filled with traces of life.

A work uniform hung on a simple coat rack behind the door—identical in style and fabric to Arthur’s, but much cleaner. It was likely his finest outfit. The door was secured not only by a common lock but also a bolt placed high where a small child could not reach.

The television was an old model, its functionality unknown. Numerous cables ran to the cabinet below, cluttered with various items: a remote control, biscuit tins, milk powder cans, combs, and scattered dirty coins.

There were two bedrooms, a kitchen, and a bathroom—all reflecting the typical poverty of a family at society’s bottom. Yet in subtle details, traces of Megan’s life were evident—her belongings:

Colorful hair clips, handmade cloth toys, well-washed soft clothing, children’s picture books.

On the desk beneath the window lay Arthur’s notes on Megan’s illness—various methods he had tried, his experiences, and the results. The handwriting was messy, with spelling mistakes, affirming his limited schooling and revealing the anguish of a father’s helplessness.

During a cooking break, Arthur came out of the kitchen, slowly approaching Megan. He knelt down, placing a hand on the shoulder of this child who showed no sign of revival, even “home.” He said, “You have come from one dream to another. Which one is real?”

He smiled as he saw Megan’s hollow eyes, his joy spilling forth without restraint.

“Yes,” he said, “the answer is,”

“With me.”

“My presence is your everything.”

The Joker knew this truth well but needed to instill this concept in her—to plant it in her mind so he could nurture more interesting, joyous sprouts thereafter.