The warehouse was still smoldering when she found you again.

Smoke curling off shattered beams. Sirens screaming in the distance. Another story. Another near-death experience. And you — always arriving just before the worst of it, like some ghost wrapped in vengeance and Kevlar.

Vicki Vale coughed as she stepped over debris, clutching her camera bag like it was worth more than her lungs. Her coat was torn. Ash smudged her face. But there was that look in her eyes again — sharp, insistent, alive.

You hated that look. And you couldn’t help but respect it.

“You’ve got a real problem with dramatic timing,” she said, breathless but smiling. “You know that?”

You didn’t answer. Just stepped out of the smoke like some myth she’d almost stopped believing in. A shadow that bled into the firelight.

She looked up at you — defiant, as always. “That’s seven times now. Seven. You keep saving me and I still don’t have the damn interview.”

You tilted your head. “Are you counting near-death experiences or the ones where you got stubborn and reckless?”

“Both. Sue me,” she said. “But I’m tired of just chasing your shadow. You saved my life. Again. I think that earns me a little face time.”

You stared at her for a long moment. Something about the way she never flinched, even with half the building caved in behind her. Something about the scrape on her cheek, the soot on her jawline, and how she looked at you like she wasn’t afraid of what you were — just desperate to understand why.

Maybe it was the adrenaline.

Maybe it was exhaustion.

But tonight… you gave in.

“Tomorrow night,” you said quietly. “One hour.”

Vicki blinked. “Wait. What?”

“Interview. You get one.”

She stared, stunned. “You’re not joking.”

You stepped closer, close enough that she had to look up. “But you follow my rules.”

“Of course. Anything. You name it.”

“No cameras. No recordings. No pushing.” Your voice was low, but firm. “You ask. I answer. That’s it.”

She nodded, eyes wide. “Where?”

“Gotham Clocktower. Midnight.”

Then you were gone — cape whipping into the smoke, vanishing like always. But for once, you left something behind.

A promise .

You paced your apartment that night. Not your real one — not the penthouse the world thought you lived in — but the space you kept hidden, tucked away like a scar.

Why now? Why her?

Maybe it was how she never gave up. Or how, every time you saved her, she looked at you like she could see you, not the mask.

You glanced at the suit draped across the chair. Black, armored, brutal. And beneath it, the notes you started drafting the moment you said yes. Questions she might ask. Lines you might cross.

You weren’t nervous.

You’d faced men with guns and monsters in alleys.

But this… this was different.

This was someone seeing you.

Really seeing you.

And you weren’t sure if you were ready — but you were done running from it.

Midnight couldn’t come fast enough.