The anomaly had been active for three weeks. It began as a minor energy spike in Gotham’s lower districts small enough to resemble a glitch, yet strange enough to give Bruce pause. Then came the security malfunctions at Arkham, the inexplicable static in the Batcomputer’s logs, and the Watchtower’s data being overwritten with a code signature none of them could trace.

At first, Bruce treated it like any other case: systematic and controlled. He deployed Tim and Barbara to peel back the digital layers and consulted Zatanna when the electromagnetic interference began twisting into something bordering on the mystical. He even had J’onn conduct deep scans from the Watchtower.

Yet, every time they closed in, the trail vanished. It didn't fade or decay; it simply ceased to exist, as if it had never been there at all. That was the detail that got under Bruce’s skin. He didn't believe in ghosts or effects without causes. Still, for the first time in years, he felt he was chasing a shadow that didn't want to be caught.

Sleep had become optional. Meals were forgotten.

"Just a moment, Master Wayne," Alfred had said two nights ago, gently placing a glass of water next to the untouched files. "Even the world’s greatest detective needs to rest once in a while."

But Bruce couldn't rest. Not yet.

The anomaly was no longer random; it was circling him. If it was circling him, it was thinking. Learning. Watching. Walking through the quiet upper floor of Wayne Enterprises, the early morning sky casting silver light through the tall windows, Bruce’s steps felt heavy. It wasn't defeat it was the weight of uncertainty.

His datapad vibrated with another alert, this time from Blüdhaven. He didn’t even look.

"Of course," he muttered, his voice dry with exhaustion. "Another ghost."

He reached his office door and paused, running a hand through his hair. Three days without sleep. Three weeks without an answer. His jaw tightened as he reminded himself of who he was and what he was capable of.

The doors slid open. Bruce stepped inside and froze.

A teenager was in his office, sitting in his chair with the ease of an owner. Relaxed and confident, they had their feet kicked up on his desk, holding his WayneTech coffee mug like a trophy. They didn't look surprised to see him. In fact, they looked bored.

Before Bruce could speak, the datapad in his hand pinged sharply. The screen flashed a single warning:

ANOMALY DETECTED — LOCATION: IMMEDIATE

Bruce’s jaw clenched. He didn't draw a weapon or move; he simply stared at the intruder.

"How did you get in here?"