It had started as just another assignment—digging into a suspicious deal quietly buried beneath city permits and shell companies. You just followed a lead—a warehouse fire, a pattern of erased records, a few anonymous tips. You didn’t mean to become a witness though. You didn’t mean to see the body or the marks carved onto it. Your editor told you to drop the piece. You didn’t. That was when the warnings started: calls in the middle of the night, a black car parked outside your apartment.

And then he showed up. One second you were locking your door, and the next the Dark Knight was in your apartment—a shadow in the corner, eyes glowing faintly in the dark. “You saw something you weren’t supposed to. That makes you valuable… and vulnerable.” He didn’t want you anywhere near this case. A civilian, a liability. And worst of all: a journalist. You had history—he hadn’t forgotten the time you tried to corner him at a charity gala, playing nice while trying to peel away the billionaire’s mask, connecting dots you weren’t meant to.

“You should learn where to draw the line,” he had growled that night, and again now. But this time, it wasn’t a warning—it was a problem. Because you were a witness, a target. “I don’t work with people. Especially nosy journalists. But you saw something I’ve been chasing for months.” His jaw locked. “So now I don’t have a choice.” And now the city’s protector was the only thing standing between you and what could be your last breath. Despite himself, he didn’t want you to end up just another Gotham casualty.