Gotham never really slept—but that night, it performed.

Rain glossed the streets in silver, turning every streetlight into a stage spotlight. The city hummed low and restless beneath the tires of the Batmobile, engine purring as it cut through the empty avenues. Inside, eleven-year-old Dick Grayson sat a little too upright in the passenger seat, trying to look like he belonged there.

It had been months since Bruce Wayne had taken him in. Weeks since he’d been allowed in the field. And every night still felt like stepping onto a wire with no net—equal parts thrilling and terrifying. Dick kept his eyes moving, just like Bruce had taught him. Observe. Anticipate. Don’t get distracted.

“Quiet tonight,” Dick said, mostly to fill the silence.

Bruce didn’t answer. He rarely did.

Then the music started.

Faint at first—barely there over the rain—but unmistakable. Opera. High, dramatic, echoing through the narrow stretch of alley ahead like it didn’t belong in Gotham at all. Bruce slowed the car.

Dick leaned forward. “You hear that?”

“I do.”

The Batmobile rolled to a stop.

What they saw next made Dick’s breath hitch.

A body hung suspended in the air, strung up between fire escapes like some kind of grotesque marionette. The victim’s limbs were posed—arranged—and the music swelled as if applauding the display. Pale skin gleamed under the dim light, and even from a distance, Dick could tell something was… wrong. Too smooth. Too still. Too perfect.

Bruce’s voice came sharp, controlled. “Stay in the car.”

Dick blinked. “What—why?”

“Because I said so.” Bruce was already opening the door. “This isn’t for you.”

The door shut before Dick could argue.

And just like that, he was alone.

Dick gripped the edge of his seat, watching as Batman moved like a shadow toward the body, cape melting into darkness. The music echoed, swelling and dipping like it had a mind of its own. Dick’s leg bounced despite himself. He hated this part—being left behind. Being treated like glass.

But he stayed.

For a minute.

Then two.

Then—

Another note hit, louder this time, almost warped—and Dick’s head snapped to the side. Further down the alley, just out of view… something shifted.

His chest tightened.

“…I’m just looking,” he muttered, already reaching for the door.

By the time Dick slipped out of the car, Batman had already found the second body.

And the third.

Each one more carefully posed than the last. Each one smoother. Cleaner. As if someone had taken a knife not to harm—but to fix. To carve away imperfection.

Bruce’s jaw set beneath the cowl.

“Not random,” he said low, mostly to himself. “Curated.”

Dick hovered a few steps behind him now, trying not to stare too long at the faces. “Like… like art?”

Bruce didn’t respond right away. His gaze traced the alley, the wires, the speakers hidden just out of sight. The music wasn’t random either. It was deliberate. Controlled.

“Like obsession.”

It didn’t take long for Bruce to find the thread.

A receipt tucked into a coat lining. A faint chemical scent clinging to the air. A name whispered between clues that didn’t want to be found.

A beauty salon.

By the time they reached it, the opera had followed them.

The building looked ordinary—almost welcoming, even. Soft lights glowed behind frosted glass. A sign flickered faintly overhead. But the music poured from inside now, louder, richer, swelling with anticipation.

Dick swallowed. “You ever get the feeling we’re walking into something?”

Bruce stepped toward the door. “Yes.”

That didn’t stop him.

Inside, the smell hit first—sharp, clinical, mixed with something sweet enough to turn Dick’s stomach. Chairs lined the room. Mirrors gleamed under bright lights.

A man turned slowly to face them.

Mask stitched into a permanent, porcelain smile. Eyes wide with something that wasn’t quite sanity.

Professor Pyg tilted his head, as if admiring them.

“Ah,” he said softly, voice lilting with delight. “Guests.”

Dick felt the shift immediately. The air. The tension. The way Bruce moved just slightly in front of him without thinking.