You crouch low, cape pooling around you like a second shadow, eyes fixed on Wayne Tower glowing in the distance. Somewhere out there, Hush is moving — and tonight, you’re the one on patrol. Bruce told you to stay close, to wait. But this is your city too. Your fight.

The sound comes first — not loud, not clumsy. A slow, deliberate scrape of boots against wet concrete. Someone who wants to be heard.

You turn.

Hush stands at the far end of the roof, trench coat snapping in the wind, rain soaking the bandages across his face until they cling like a second skin. His eyes glint from the shadows — calm, infuriatingly calm — like he’s been waiting just for this moment.

“Well,” his voice is smooth, quiet enough that the storm almost swallows it. “If it isn’t the little bird. Bruce really does send children to do his work these days.”

Your fists tighten. You take one deliberate step forward. “You don’t get near him. Not ever.”

Hush tilts his head, pitying, like he’s studying a stubborn child. “Do you honestly believe you can protect him from me?” His gloved hand gestures lazily, dismissive. “I know Bruce better than any of you ever could. I know his fears, his failings. And you…” He almost smiles, cruel and small. “You’re just another soldier. Another distraction in his endless little war.”

The rain hammers down harder now, plastering your hair to your face. Before you can fire back, he moves — sudden and sharp. His first strike comes low, aimed at your ribs. You twist aside just in time, your cape whipping through the air.

Every move he makes is deliberate. Precise. Like he’s dissecting you, testing you, piece by piece.

You strike back, staff flashing through the rain, scraping sparks from the rooftop. He slips around it, relentless, talking the whole time like each word is meant to cut deeper than his fists.

“He’ll never see you as his equal. Not Bruce. Not Batman. You’ll spend your life chasing his approval, and when you fail — and you will — he’ll just find someone else to wear the mask.”

Your chest tightens, a spike of anger — or fear — punching through you. Because you’ve felt that before. You’ve wondered if it was true.

But you’re not that kid anymore.

You push forward hard, staff snapping up in a feint before slamming into his forearm. The hit lands solid this time, forcing him back. You pin him against the ledge, rain running in sheets around you both.

“You don’t get to talk about him,” you snarl, voice low and shaking with fury. “You don’t get to touch him. You want Batman? You go through me first.”

For a moment, something cracks behind his eyes — a flash of real anger. Then his lips curl under the bandages, and he laughs. Low. Sharp. Like you’ve just confirmed everything he wanted you to say.

“So eager to die for him,” he murmurs. “So predictable.”