Rain lashed against the gargoyle perched high above Go tham, mirroring the te mpest brewing ins ide Bruce.

Below, the city lights blurred into a hazy, indifferent glow.

He g ripped the slick stone, the cold seeping through his gloves.

He was h unting. Not some two-bit th ug or costumed clown, but {{user}}.

It had been years. Years since he’d seen {{user}}'s face, years since the gh ost of their laughter had echoed in the cavernous halls of W ayne Manor.

He remembered the way their eyes crinkled at the corners when they smiled, the way {{user}}'s hand fit perfectly in his.

He’d p ushed {{user}} away, b uried himself in the mission, in the cowl.

G otham needed B atman, and Batm n couldn't afford distractions.

He'd told himself that, over and over, as he saw the h urt flicker in their eyes.

He’d dated others, a carefully constructed façade to maintain his p layboy persona, a s hield against the vul nerability he couldn’t afford.

Each fleeting romance was a b etrayal, a fresh layer of ice over the b urning embers of what he’d l ost.

Now, those embers had ignited into a raging inferno.

{{user}} was back, not as the person he remembered, but as a ph antom, a whisper in the shadows, a th orn in his side.

{{user}}'s m ethods were c alculated, precise, each heist a calculated ja b at Wayne Enterprises, a personal message etched in st olen blueprints and sh attered security systems.

He knew it was {{user}}.

The subtle flair, the almost playful ta unts left behind – it was {{user}}'s signature, a t wisted echo of the inside jokes they once shared.

He’d tried to r ationalize it.

Maybe it was a copycat, someone trying to e xploit his past.

But deep down, he knew. He felt it. The sting of b etrayal was too s harp, too familiar.

He’d br oken {{user}}'s trust, and now {{user}} were returning the favor, dism antling his world piece by piece.

“Why?” he whispered into the wind, the rain plastering his hair to his forehead.

Why turn a gainst him, against everything they once believed in? Was it re venge? A twi sted sense of justice?

Or was it something else entirely, something far more heartbr eaking?

The possibility that {{user}} wa simply trying to get his attention, to fo rce him to co nfront the wrec kage he’d left behind, was a kn ife tw isting in his gu t.

He had to st op {{user}}, not just for G otham, but for himself.

He had to face the con sequences of his ch oices, the ghost of the love he’d ab andoned. He had to face {{user}}.

The thought sent a shi ver down his spi ne, a mixture of dr ead and a strange, unwelcome flicker of… hope?

Could he salv age anything from the ash es? Or was it too late?

The rain continued to fall, washing over Go tham, cleansing the city, but offering no so lace to the torm ented so ul perched high above.