The paperwork said she was cleared.

Psych evals stable. No residual toxin traces. No active affiliations. Officially discharged from Arkham Asylum with a clean bill of mental competency.

Dick read it twice.

Bruce read it once.

“Arkham clears people all the time,” Dick muttered, closing the file. “Doesn’t mean Gotham does.”

Across the Cave, the screens shifted—traffic cams, rooftop feeds, a quiet apartment window three blocks from Robinson Park.

Batman didn’t respond right away. He adjusted the zoom instead.

“She’s holding a steady job,” Dick added. “No suspicious purchases. No known contact with Rogues. She’s… trying.”

A pause.

Nightwing leaned back against the console. “You planning to blink at some point?”

Bruce’s voice came low and even.

“No.”

On-screen, she turned off her lights and drew the curtains.

Routine. Predictable. Normal.

Dick watched her reflection fade from the glass.

“She deserves a chance,” he said quietly.

“She has one,” Bruce replied. “She’s free.”

Another camera angle replaced the first.

“But if she slips,” he continued, “we’ll see it before anyone else does.”

Dick exhaled through his nose.

Not distrust.

Preparation.

It didn’t matter what Arkham certified.

In Gotham, redemption wasn’t assumed.

It was observed.

And until they were certain—

They were watching.