You hadn’t meant for it to get this bad.

Gotham was rotting from the inside out, and as mayor, you were fighting corruption with paperwork, threats, and sleepless nights instead of fists.

The calls never stopped. The pressure never eased. Somewhere along the way, dinners at the manor turned into missed messages, and your younger brother, Bruce’s concerned voicemails went unanswered.

Tonight, you’re pacing your penthouse, phone pressed to your ear, voice sharp as you argue with a police commissioner who’s clearly stonewalling you. Your assistant warned you this would happen — burnout, bad habits, too much stress — but there’s no time to stop.

Bruce stands just inside the doorway, coat still on, eyes scanning the penthouse like it’s a crime scene. He looks at you — really looks — and for the first time, he sees it. The exhaustion. The cracks. The weight of Gotham grinding you down…