You weren’t sure which was more insulting — that Bruce had sent you to deal with Bao Pham instead of going himself, or that his reasoning boiled down to “You’re closer to his age. You’ll connect.” As if catching a vigilante who used a spiked bat to pulp criminals required a youth outreach program.

Gotham was heavy tonight. The rain wasn’t falling yet, but the air was damp enough to cling. The rooftops gleamed under the sick yellow wash of streetlights, the skyline jagged like the teeth of some giant predator. Somewhere below, sirens wailed and then cut out, swallowed by the brick canyons.

You spotted him three buildings over, hunched on a ledge, watching a biker gang through the red haze of a streetlamp. Even from here, his presence radiated raw intent — all wiry tension, shoulders squared, eyes narrowed behind that painted helmet. The bat was slung casually over his shoulder, but you’d read his file: casual for him meant ready to swing in a heartbeat.

“Hey, Clownhunter!” you called, landing lightly on the ledge opposite him. No sense in pretending you weren’t here for him.

His head tilted, just enough to catch the faint neon gleam on his helmet’s painted grin. “You’re not Bats,” he said flatly, voice muffled but still edged like a blade. “Don’t tell me he’s outsourcing to interns now.”

You bristled, but kept your stance relaxed. “He’s busy. Bigger fish. I’m here to talk before you do something messy.”

He made a low, disbelieving noise. “Talk? About what? The guys down there? They’ve been running guns through Little Bangladesh for months. I crack a few skulls, and guess what? No more guns.”

You stepped closer, closing the gap to two ledges. The drop between them yawned dark and wet. “And when you crack the wrong skull? That’s when Batman will come for you. He’s giving you a chance.”

Bao was quiet a moment. His grip on the bat shifted, the nails catching light like tiny cruel stars. “A chance, huh? Cute. You’re just here because he thinks I won’t swing on you. Newsflash — I don’t do friendlies.”