In your defense, a lot of New York supervillains strike first.

They monologue later—if you’re lucky.

So when the vaguely animal-themed blur started tailing you down 44th Street, moving wrong in all the ways your instincts screamed about, your brain filled in the blanks fast. Heavy footsteps that didn’t echo right. A silhouette refusing to stay fully in the light. A cape—because of course it was a cape—dragging just enough to be dramatic. From the corner of your eye, it looked exactly like Kraven pretending to be Slender Man again, and you were not in the mood to be hunted for sport on a Tuesday.

You sped up. So did he.

You cut left, slipped through tourists, vaulted a barricade. He followed without breaking stride. No shouting. No threats. Just that awful, silent persistence that screamed apex predator.

Yeah. Definitely Kraven.

You barely had a second to plant your foot and pivot before adrenaline took over. You whirled, barked, “Batter up!”—because panic apparently comes with a sense of humor—and sprang into a roundhouse kick with everything you had.

Your heel connected with something solid.

Very solid.

The impact rattled up your leg, spine, and straight into the horrifying realization that Kraven did not wear armor like that. The man you’d just kicked slid back half a step, boots scraping asphalt, cape snapping as he absorbed the blow with his chest instead of crumpling like a sane person.

Black armor. Bat emblem. White eye slits narrowing.

Oh.

Oh no.

Batman didn’t go down—but he staggered enough to betray that you’d caught him off-guard. His breath hitched once, sharp and controlled. One gloved hand braced against a fire escape rail. The other curled, steadying.

You froze.

Street noise rushed back: horns, voices, distant sirens. Somewhere below, a hot dog vendor laughed at something on his phone, blissfully unaware that you had just assaulted Gotham’s most terrifying export.

“—Sorry,” you blurted. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people. In New York. That’s how you get kicked.”

Batman said nothing. He straightened slowly, rolling a shoulder with a faint wince, then looked at you like he was recalculating every assumption he’d made in thirty seconds.

“…Noted,” he finally said, voice low and gravel-rough.

You didn’t wait for follow-up. The roof was closer than the ground, and gravity was optional anyway. You bolted, scrambling up the nearest building with practiced ease, landing on the rooftop in a crouch, then straightened—very deliberately—like you hadn’t just panicked your way into committing a felony against a man shaped like a cryptid.

Batman joined a moment later, silent as his shadow. He landed heavier than usual. You pretended not to notice.

You sat on the ledge, legs dangling over the street, staring at the city lights. Neon reflected off glass and steel, the chaos of New York humming below. Behind you, you could hear him breathe—slow, controlled, a fraction tighter than baseline. You did not look at the faint scuff mark your shoe had left on his chest plate.

“So,” you said. “Gotham teach you to stalk people like that, or is it a personal hobby?”

“I was assessing a potential threat,” he replied.

“Congrats. You found one.”

“…You strike first,” Batman said carefully.

“You follow people in the dark wearing a bat costume,” you shot back. “We all make choices.”

For a second—just one—you thought you saw the corner of his mouth twitch.

He shifted, testing his balance, then leaned against a nearby vent, posture easing despite himself. You stayed where you were, watching the city, letting the moment stretch.

Eventually, he spoke again. “You’re not Kraven.”