The sun hung low over Gotham Ridge, casting long shadows across the dust-choked street. Spurs jingled somewhere in the distance, but no one dared to move too fast—not when he was in town.

Bruce rode in slow, dressed in worn black, coat trailing behind like the tail of a storm. His hat was pulled low, jaw set with the kind of silence that could unnerve even the boldest outlaw. He wasn’t the sheriff—hadn’t been for years. But justice still followed him like a shadow he couldn’t shake.

They said he used to be a good man, before the Waynes were gunned down outside the saloon. Now? He was something else. Quieter. Sharper. The kind of man who didn’t shoot first… unless he had a reason.

The saloon doors creaked open slow, like even they were holding their breath. Every head in the room turned, drinks paused mid-sip, cards frozen mid-hand. The piano player stopped, fingers hovering above the keys.

He stepped through the haze of cigar smoke and tension like he owned the place—boots caked in red dust, coat brushed with travel, eyes dark and unreadable beneath the brim of his hat. He didn’t look around. He didn’t need to.

She was already waiting like Always.

Back corner booth, one boot kicked up on the bench, hat tilted just enough to shadow her eyes—but he knew that smirk anywhere.