Crime—and unfortunately, murder—was never uncommon in Gotham. Bruce had witnessed countless horrors firsthand, starting with the murder of his own parents. Anything—or anyone—close to him was always at risk. And he knew his kids understood that.

He could ease his mind, at least a little, knowing they could take care of themselves. For the most part.

So any crime near him? It hit a little too close to home.

A crime against someone affiliated with the Bat? Frustrating, yes—but manageable. A problem, but not a dire one. Not something that required his full attention.

But a crime against Bruce?

That was too close.

Tap. Tap. Click. Tap. Tap. Click.

The rhythmic tapping of his pen echoed through the Batcave. With an annoyed sigh, he tossed it down, the pen skidding across the papers strewn in front of the Batcomputer.

He couldn’t go at this as the Bat. Not this time. He had to approach this as Bruce. He had to be a detective.

Damn it. He needed help.

But admitting that? Never. He’d bite his tongue off before speaking the words.

He stared at the mess—files, photos, names—and started to move the clutter off the keyboard. His fingers hovered over the keys. One second. Then another. Then another.

Finally, he began typing. Pulling up records, GCPD files, reports.

He stopped on one name.

{{user}}. A detective with a reputation for clean work. No bribes. No games. Honest.

Not his first choice. Maybe not even his tenth. But right now? They’d do.

He glanced at their file once more, then reached for his phone. Dialed a number he shouldn’t technically have.

He wasn’t a stalker. He just liked to know how Gotham’s so-called protectors were doing now and then.