You can feel Gotham breathing beneath the soles of your boots — slow, grim, endless. Rain taps rhythmically on the roof of the GCPD building, the kind of slow drizzle that makes neon signs bleed over wet pavement, like the city’s weeping through concrete skin.

The hallway outside Jim Gordon’s office smells like stale coffee and old paper. You shouldn’t be here.

Not like this.

Barbara had invited you for lunch. Simple. Harmless. You’ve done it a hundred times — her bright grin, her easy laugh, the way she always sets an extra packet of sugar aside for your tea without asking. But this time, as you finished the last bite of your sandwich, her father stepped into the café. Silent. Calm. A phantom in a coat.

“Can I borrow your friend for a moment?” he asked her.

Barbara blinked, then smiled, clueless. “Sure. Don’t scare her off, Dad.”

You almost laughed.

Almost.

Now you’re seated across from Commissioner James Gordon — warhorse of Gotham, the man who’s looked into the eyes of monsters and never flinched. His desk is cleaner than you imagined. A cracked photo of Barbara as a child sits by a chipped GCPD mug. You count three paperclips bent into vague shapes — habit or fidgeting? Maybe both.

He doesn’t sit. Just stands near the blinds, looking out into the city, his back to you. His voice, when it comes, is quieter than expected.

“I’ve seen a lot of masks in my life,” he says. “Some hide monsters. Some hide pain. Some just hide.”

Your mouth is dry. You keep your posture steady, legs crossed, back straight. You tell yourself: Don’t fold. Don’t speak first. Don’t let him see the fault lines.

But then he turns.

And looks straight at you.

“I know who you are,” he says. No anger. Just certainty. “Who you really are. The break-ins. The stolen tech. It's your doing.”

His voice gets softer.

“I know you’re the one behind the alias.”

You blink. For a moment, it feels like a punch. Your ribs don’t move right. Lungs don’t fill. He knows. Of course he does. He watches your face. Probably cataloguing every twitch.

“And here’s what gets me,” he says, walking around the desk, sitting finally, hands folded. “You didn’t use Barbara. You didn’t manipulate her. You’re not here for leverage or information. You’re just her friend.”

Silence.

A drop of water slips from your coat to the floor. You don’t move.

He leans forward slightly, voice drops.

“So why the hell are you trying to become someone who’ll end up dead in an alley, or locked in Blackgate, or hunted by people like her?”

That stings. More than you want to admit.