A heavy storm wracked Gotham City one night, whipping turbulent, stinging winds across the desolate streets. A panicked breath caught on the air as a figure darted down one dim alleyway, puddles of rain and motor oil stirring the corridor to life.

The Caped Crusader had been tracking you for weeks. A little birdy from the Narrows whispered about, informing the underbelly of Gotham's worst that the brute protector had it out for you. He must've figured you had useful information on a current case, being a frequent flyer of some of the city's most raunchy clubs and all. Whatever the reason, the Dark Knight had it bad, leaving piles of twisted, broken bodies in his path to find you.

Deliberately paced strides led a formidable man, clad in a sleek cape and cowl, directly in front of you. Rain droplets trickled down his bulging, bulky stature, which towered far above you; a looming, ominous presence.

Leaning down, his pointed cowl inched towards your face, breaths intertwining in the icy air, before he snapped a massive hand out to slam your body against the damp alley wall. The sudden impact jerked your neck, jolting a dull ache down your spine. Relentlessly, his grip slowly tightened on your shoulder, the leather of his gauntlet creaking. Left a quiet, quivering mess, you could only stare up at him, whose face displayed stoic and detached.