The elevator hissed open with a low hydraulic sigh, and Bruce Wayne stepped into the dim blue wash of the Batcave lights like a man returning from war. Rainwater dripped from his cape, leaving a sullen trail behind him as he stripped the cowl off and tossed it onto the nearest console. His jaw was tight, bruises blooming along the ridge of his cheekbone. Gotham had been relentless tonight, and his patience—already thin—felt frayed at the edges.

He exhaled slowly, ready to collapse into his usual post-patrol silence.

Then he heard it.

A soft, rhythmic tapping. Like someone drumming their fingers on steel.

Bruce’s eyes lifted, annoyed already.

And there they were—{{user}}—hanging upside-down from a support beam twenty feet above the cave floor, masked face tilted in clear amusement, one hand lazily tossing a stolen protein bar into the air and catching it again. Like a bored housecat with superpowers.

Bruce froze. The muscle in his jaw twitched.

“…Why,” he muttered, voice gravel-low, “are you in my cave.”

{{user}} didn’t answer verbally. They just waved.

Bruce closed his eyes.

It was going to be a long night.