At the bottom of every data breach was the same three letters: . And beneath them, a timestamp—always exactly 2:47 AM. The hour Bruce Wayne had died.
On screen: “The Court wasn’t the only secret society in Gotham. We were the scribes. The copyists. We watched. We recorded. We never acted—until the Bat fell. Now we copy justice. You keep the streets. We’ll keep the records. Don’t look for us. We’re already in every system you trust.”
For Gotham.
The CPY Signal
Tim pulled up a file. “Dropped charges on two dozen people framed by corrupt cops. Reassigned funds from Blackgate’s slush fund to the victims of the Elliotton blast. They even rerouted a weapons shipment headed for the Penguin—sent it straight to a police evidence locker with a map of who paid for it.”
Jason reached for his gun. “So we shut them down.”
“No,” said Dick. “Maybe… Gotham doesn’t need just knights anymore. Maybe it needs a silent copy too.”
“No,” Babs whispered. “Look at the signature.”