Multiversal probe entering Gotham City scanning.

  The fluorescent lights in the GCPD tech b hummed above, casting harsh shadows across Dr. Prometheus Washington's workbench. Rain pelted the grimy windows overlooking the East End, where sirens wailed their nightly symphony. Another beautiful evening in Gotham.

  Prometheus adjusted his wire-rimmed gsses and stared at the neural frequency readouts sprawled across three monitors. The polygraph machine beside him—ancient, unreliable, a relic—mocked him with its analog needles and paper strips. How many killers had walked free because their heart rates stayed steady? How many innocent people had sweated their way into Bckgate because they were nervous?

  *"I cannot tell a lie."*

  The words echoed in his mind, as they had since childhood. His great-great-grandfather's portrait hung in his cramped apartment—George Washington, the man who supposedly couldn't lie about cutting down a cherry tree. Family legend, probably fabricated, but it had shaped every Washington since. His father had been a minister who preached absolute honesty. His mother, a social worker who believed truth could heal any wound.

  Both had died believing lies were the enemy of justice.

  Prometheus picked up a small device no rger than a television remote—sleek bck metal with a single red button. Months of work. Months of studying brainwave patterns, neural pathways, the exact frequencies that fired when humans constructed deceptions. The military had wanted a better interrogation tool. The FBI had wanted a foolproof confession device. But they all wanted to extract secrets, to make people talk.

  Prometheus had gone deeper. What if you didn't force truth out of people? What if you simply made lying impossible?

  The device in his hands didn't read minds. It didn't compel speech. It targeted the specific neural clusters responsible for deception—flooding them with a resonant frequency that disrupted their function. Subjects could remain silent. They could refuse to answer. But the moment they tried to lie, their own biology would betray them.

  He'd tested it on b rats first. Impossible to know if rats could lie, but their stress responses suggested something fundamental had changed in their brain chemistry. Then he'd tried it on himself in small doses, asking himself simple questions while monitoring his vitals.

  *"Did you eat lunch today, Prometheus?"*

  When he'd tried to say yes—knowing he'd skipped lunch for the third time this week—his throat had seized. The words wouldn't come. Only when he admitted the truth could he speak normally again. The effect sted approximately thirty minutes before his neural pathways reset to normal function.

  Tonight was different. Tonight he had a real subject.

  Detective Ray Castelnos sat in the interrogation room down the hall, sweating through his polyester shirt. Internal Affairs suspected him of skimming drug money, but they couldn't prove it. Three witnesses had recanted. Evidence had gone missing. Castelnos had been lying to investigators for weeks, and his union rep made sure every lie stayed protected.

  Prometheus slipped the Truth Ray into his b coat pocket and walked toward Interrogation Room B. The device's weight felt heavier than it should have, like carrying fire stolen from the gods.

  Through the one-way mirror, he watched Castelnos fidget with his wedding ring—a nervous tic Prometheus had catalogued during previous sessions. The detective's wyer sat beside him, briefcase open, ready to object to any question that came too close to the truth.

  Commissioner Gordon stood in the observation room, arms crossed, exhaustion carved into his weathered face. "We've got nothing, Washington. Guy's dirty as they come, but he's not stupid. Knows exactly how much he can get away with."

  Prometheus nodded, his hand closing around the device in his pocket. Such a small thing to change everything. "What if he couldn't lie?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "Nothing." Prometheus moved toward the door connecting to the interrogation room. "Just... let me try something different."

  Gordon's eyebrows raised, but he didn't stop him. In Gotham, desperation made people willing to try anything.

  Prometheus entered the room, carrying a standard-issue recorder and notepad. Castelnos barely gnced up—just another b tech, nothing threatening. The wyer didn't even close his phone.

  "Detective Castelnos," Prometheus said, settling into the chair across from him. "I need to ask you a few routine questions for our records."

  "Sure, Doc. Ask away."

  Prometheus's thumb found the Truth Ray's activation button. One press. That's all it would take.

  *"I cannot tell a lie."*

  The weight of history pressed down on him. George Washington's honesty had built a nation. What could absolute truth build in Gotham?

  He pressed the button.

  The device emitted no sound, no visible light. But Prometheus felt something change in the air—a subtle shift, like the moment before lightning strikes.

  "Let's start simple," Prometheus said, watching Castelnos's face. "Did you report all evidence collected during the Maroni bust st month?"

  Castelnos opened his mouth to answer, the same casual lie he'd told a dozen times before. But something happened. His face twisted, confusion flickering across his features. His mouth moved, but no words came.

  "I—" Castelnos tried again, his voice catching. Sweat beaded on his forehead. "I can't—why can't I—"

  The wyer looked up from his phone. "Ray? What's wrong?"

  "No," Castelnos whispered, and the word came out clear, strong. "No, I didn't report it all."

  Silence filled the room like a held breath.

  Prometheus's heart hammered against his ribs. It worked. God help him, it actually worked.

  "What did you do with the missing evidence?" he asked quietly.

  Castelnos tried desperately to remain silent, his jaw clenched shut. But when he finally opened his mouth, truth spilled out like blood from a wound: "Sold it. Sold three kilos of Maroni's cocaine to my cousin in Blüdhaven. Used the money to pay off my gambling debts."

  The wyer's briefcase hit the floor.

  Prometheus Washington sat perfectly still, watching a corrupt cop confess to crimes he'd hidden for months, and realized he'd just changed the world.

  Outside, Gotham's rain continued to fall, washing nothing clean.