The office lights hum softly, a monotonous sound that matches the tired rhythm of your mind as you sift through a stack of paperwork. The city outside is as noisy as ever, but inside this sterile, familiar space, it’s quiet—too quiet for your liking. Overtime is becoming the norm. Every night seems to bleed into the next. Gotham’s problems don’t take breaks, and neither do you.

As you reach for another report, the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. It’s a feeling you’ve come to know well over the past few years. The unmistakable, cold weight of being watched.

You freeze, the silence around you suddenly suffocating, before you hear it—a sound so faint, you’d swear you imagined it: the soft, nearly imperceptible scrape of a boot against the floor.

You don’t turn your head. You don’t need to. You’ve been through this dance before.

"You're late," you say, your voice steady, betraying none of the irritation or exhaustion you're feeling. You don’t look up from your desk as you know exactly who it is, even before the shadow falls over your papers.

The figure stands in the doorway, just out of the beam of the overhead light. The silhouette is unmistakable—the long cape, the darkened cowl that conceals any human warmth. Batman. The Batman.