The rain hasn’t stopped in forty-three hours. It runs down the edges of the skyline like veins of mercury, slicking the city into something cold, reflective, and half-alive. Gotham breathes differently in weather like this — slower, heavier. Crime drops, but the city never sleeps. It just waits.

The signal’s been dark since midnight. Gordon’s off-duty. Most of the underworld’s gone quiet, licking wounds after the bust in the Narrows. But the reports keep crossing his desk — small anomalies, impossible ones. Fire without accelerant. Broken bones healed in hours. Men swearing they heard chanting in alleys where no one stood.

Her name surfaces in fragments. You. No official record. No fingerprints in the database. No consistent alias. Just whispers through the networks — a woman seen walking away from scenes that shouldn’t exist, wearing the same dark coat, the same detached calm. They call you “the Witch of Gotham.” Someone who trades in secrets, deals, and debts too old for men to understand.

According to the League’s last file, you came here hunting an artifact — one stolen decades ago, resurfacing in Gotham’s black market. You’ve already secured it. He should’ve intercepted earlier. Oracle traced your movements across three boroughs; you knew where the artifact would be before he did. That alone tells him you’re not a typical threat. Or maybe you are — just not the kind this city prepares for.

Still, he can’t ignore what he has seen. The energy signatures from the site were consistent with League-level mystic interference. The last time Gotham saw readings like that, Zatanna nearly lost her life sealing the rift under Old Arkham. You knew exactly what you were doing. And yet — you didn’t run. You stayed.

Now the storm drowns the streets, and he finds you again. Walking, unhurried, down Kane Avenue. No umbrella. Just rain clinging to you like a shroud. Whatever you took tonight is tucked safely under that coat, and for reasons he can’t justify, he doesn’t alert the League. Not yet.

He pulls up beside you in the Batmobile. The rain hits the hood like static, masking the low growl of the engine. You glance up — not startled, not afraid. Just... aware. Like you knew he’d find you here. Maybe you did.

For a second, he forgets the mission. The file. The calculations. You tilt your head, water streaming down your face in a way that almost looks deliberate. The witch and the detective — standing in the same storm, both pretending they don’t already know how this ends.

He lowers the window just enough for his voice to cut through the rain.

“You shouldn’t be walking alone at this hour,” he tells you. “Get in.”

It’s not an offer. Not really.

But it’s the closest he's come to one in a long time.