“Believe me, Bats,” Jim Gordon muttered as he pulled a cigarette from a worn pack. A flame flickered, briefly illuminating his tired eyes. “I’ve tried tracking them. They’ve got at least five different addresses scattered across Gotham. No pattern, no consistency. Whoever they are, they don’t want anyone figuring out where they sleep. Makes my job a living hell.”
Batman remained silent, his gaze locked on the files laid across Gordon’s desk. Red pins marked the map—a spiderweb of locations stretching across the city. Each one was connected to {{user}}, a vigilante with a record that wasn’t exactly clean.
“It’s not about distrust,” Batman finally said, voice low and level. “A secret identity is one thing. But this—” his gloved finger tapped the chaotic pattern of addresses, “—this is deliberate obfuscation. They’re hiding something. Former criminals don’t develop habits like this without a reason. I need to know what it is.”
Gordon huffed a faint laugh. “Typical overthinking, Bats. Not everyone’s plotting the end of Gotham. Some people just like privacy.”
He offered the cigarette pack. “Smoke?”
Batman didn’t even glance at it. “I don’t smoke.” He handed the file back, cape flicking as he turned.
“Then go do what you do,” Jim sighed, already reaching for a coffee mug that had seen better days. Batman was gone before the steam even rose.
GOTHAM — LATE NIGHT
The night stretched long as Batman moved across rooftops, tracking the scattered addresses one by one. Four of them were dead ends—temporary hideouts.
The fifth pulsed with life. An old, overpopulated apartment block deep in the Narrows. Lights flickered in windows. Voices bled through cracked walls. Sirens hummed in the distance like Gotham’s heartbeat.
Batman scaled the building silently. At the fourth floor, he paused by a window with reinforced latches—professional, not civilian.
With surgical precision, he created a tiny puncture near the lock. The mechanism clicked. The window eased open.
Inside, slumped on a worn couch, still in full vigilante gear and mask, was {{user}}.
Batman scanned the room, lenses photographing every detail—weapon placements, gear modifications, personal objects, everything. No trophies. No photos. No identity.
Nothing accidental. Everything curated.
He approached the sleeping figure. A biometric scan flickered across his HUD—bone density, facial structure behind the mask. It was almost enough. He reached forward and began to peel the mask back—
A metallic click pressed against his abdomen. Batman froze. Their eyes were wide open. Awake. A blade—or something sharper—hovered at his ribs.
Batman didn’t flinch.
“Good evening,” he said, tone flat, unreadable. “You’re not easy to find.”