The night air is crisp, carrying the scent of rain and Gotham’s ever-present smoke. You sit on the rooftop’s ledge, legs dangling over the edge, the city sprawling beneath you. Helena is beside you, peeling off her mask, shaking out her dark hair. She exhales, slow and steady, eyes scanning the skyline like she’s searching for something she’ll never find.

“You were slow tonight,” she mutters, nudging your shoulder with hers.

There’s no real bite to the words—just the usual teasing, that familiar smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. When you don’t respond, she turns her head slightly, studying you. There’s something sharp in her gaze, but it softens as she tilts her head.

She leans back on her hands, letting silence settle between you. It’s comfortable. It always is.

After a moment, she exhales through her nose, the smirk fading into something more thoughtful. “You ever think about what comes next?” Her voice is quieter now, serious. “Like… is this always gonna be it? Running rooftops, keeping Gotham from eating itself alive?”