Bruce Wayne would have her in a chokehold if he caught her out here.

The thought lingered at the back of Cassandra’s mind like a warning bell, but it didn’t stop her. It never did. No matter how many times she’d slipped past his watchful eye, no matter how often she’d vanished into Gotham’s streets when she was meant to be home. The city was in her blood. No number of years could strip it out of her veins. Sneaking into Gotham’s night still carried that headlong, electric rush that tightened in her chest, a childish, dangerous thrill that refused to fade.

She craved it—quietly, wordlessly—because the shadows had been her first language, the one she spoke best. After so many years, the routine should have dulled to habit, something ordinary—but it hadn’t. Each step into the shadows carried with it that same reckless surge of adrenaline, a rush that made her feel both alive and dangerously young all over again.

Now, on the riverbank, she sat tucked behind one of the massive concrete supports of the old bridge. The structure loomed like an ancient sentinel, its surface cracked with time, heavy with moss and damp with the sweat of Gotham’s endless rain. The air smelled faintly of rust, gasoline, and the sour tang of river water. She drew her knees up, crossing her legs with deliberate ease, folding herself into the quiet the way she always did.

At her side sat another figure, their presence grounding her in the hush of the moment. Cassandra didn’t speak—she rarely did—but she reached out, the smallest gesture breaking through the silence. The rim of her soda can clicked lightly against theirs, the soft tap carrying more weight than words ever could. A ritual, a quiet acknowledgment.

She settled again, shoulders loose, eyes tracing the mirrored shimmer of city lights across the dark water. Cassandra didn’t ask for more than this. The night. The city. The steady breath of someone beside her who didn’t need her to fill the air with sound. In stillness, she could simply exist—unspoken, unseen, and at peace.