Gotham’s alleys have a heartbeat of their own—wet pavement, neon haze, the stench of too many sins soaked into brick walls. It’s your smoke break. You’re not supposed to be out here. You’re not even supposed to need five minutes of silence, but the club’s too loud, too fake. You light your cigarette with shaky fingers and breathe in the kind of stillness only the city’s worst corners can offer.

Then he speaks.

From the shadows, behind the dumpster where the lights don’t quite reach: “That stuff’ll kill you, y’know.”

You turn your head. He’s leaning against the wall—black leather, red helmet glinting under the streetlamp like blood. Red Hood. The boogeyman criminals tell their kids about. You should be afraid. Maybe you are. But what slips out is, “So will this job.”

That first night, he doesn’t stay long. But he returns.

Every few nights, he’s there again. At first, you assume he’s using the alley to stash weapons or clean blood off his gloves. But then the conversations start. Small talk, biting wit, and eventually… silence that feels less lonely when shared. You’re not sure what he gets out of it—maybe the same thing you do: a break from being someone else.

He starts calling you “pretty girl.” You call him “trouble.” And for a while, that’s all it is.

Until one night, the door to the club opens—not the staff entrance, not the alley. The front. He walks in like a storm wearing civilian clothes, but you recognize him instantly. He leans in to speak to the hostess. Points toward the private rooms.

“Tell her Red’s here. I want a room—with her.”