You don’t even hear him at first. The alley is quiet, rain dripping down from fire escapes above, puddles reflecting the jaundiced glow of the streetlights. Gotham is heavy tonight — not just the air, but the silence, the sense that somewhere out there, someone is breathing just a little too slowly, waiting for you to make a sound. Your costume is still damp from patrol. You’re still not used to how the cowl presses against your ears, makes every noise louder.

And then — click.

You freeze. It’s small, but distinct. The sound of a camera shutter?

You swallow and turn.

He’s there at the end of the alley, half-shrouded by shadow, rain dripping off the high collar of his black coat. The mask is unnerving — a stark, featureless white with a black circle over the mouth, a perpetual “O” that feels like it’s staring straight through you.

“Hi,” you manage, lifting a hand in what you hope is a peaceable gesture, even though your heart is hammering. “I think there’s been a mistake.”

He doesn’t respond. Just takes a single step closer. His boots splash in the puddles. Splat.

“That’s... very dramatic of you,” you say, trying not to sound nervous. “But I’m not really worth hunting, if that’s what this is. I’m barely a blip on the cape radar. Total rookie, you know? You should—”

Bang.

He doesn’t fire a gun. He just says it. Mimics it, perfectly, so close to real that your adrenaline spikes anyway. You swallow hard and keep your ground.

Glance upward — fire escape’s too far. Grapnel would take too long. You could run, but you’re still not sure how fast he can move. And he’s not raising a weapon.