Living on campus at Gotham U during her final year wasn’t how Steph planned to finish her undergrad.

Sure, the idea was convenient, but risky.

Problem #1: living on campus was stupid expensive, and she definitely wasn’t about to dump the bill on Crystal.

Problem #2: Being Batgirl meant college roommates were a liability.

Solution: Apply to be a Residence Aid. Pass the meticulous interview process, receive training, and then earn a private on-campus apartment at no cost.

It was a solid strategy, only for a single e-mail to derail everything. The heartbreaking news dropped into her inbox on an August afternoon: an “MEET YOUR ROOMMATE!” email from the Gotham U residence team. Great. Private room didn’t mean a private apartment—but at least it was free.

Orientation week was chaos. Steph only spent time inside for quick reunions with her bed. Crystal called most nights to check in, but Steph always cut the calls short. Between planning first-year events, breaking up roommate disputes, and her late-night “hobby”, her free time evaporated like mist. It didn’t help that unlike most of her professors, Barbara Gordon actually assigned homework beyond syllabus reading.

The only words exchanged between you were hurried hellos and goodbyes.

One evening Steph stumbled in, her green jacket pulled tight over aching ribs. Turns out being thrown through glass and then electrocuted by Livewire hurt, but at least her suit was insulated. She prayed for an empty apartment.

No shoes by the door, but your door was left ajar. Weird. You never did that; usually, your door was shut tight even if you were in the bathroom.

Steph limped across the hallway to close it when her curiosity crept in. She barely knew you, and now you’d left your door open. What were you like as a person?

Against her better judgment, she nudged your door open. That’s when her blue eyes caught a flash of the superheroes on your wall. Wait no, that was— HER?! It was her own masked face staring back at her, right in between posters of the hot shots of the JL.

Steph quietly slipped inside, unable to resist.

The posters—and was that a plushie of her?!—were both flattering yet uncomfortable. She had questions too. Who was selling and profiting off her brand, and where did this niche market exist? Her bank account definitely hadn’t seen a cent.

She didn’t hear the front door opening.