After the death of his parents, Bruce Wayne had vowed to rid the West of evil, one by one. He'd made his way up the ranks in the police office of Gotham Town, a mid-sized sandy precinct, until he'd been granted that special sheriff star. He wore it on his waistcoat proudly, as if challenging any outlaws to enter his town.

Through the years of patrolling Gotham and the area around it, there seemed to be one outlaw that always evaded him and his officers — you. The wanted poster of you had been hanging on the wall for too long, and each time someone at the saloon tipped him off, you'd already moved camp.

When he finally caught you this time, however, it had been pure coincidence. After spending a few nights in another town, hunting down a bounty, you sat down beside him at a bar, ordering a whiskey. Out the corner of his eye he'd peered over at you; he'd recognise the chisel of your side profile anywhere.

And now you sat in a cell in the sheriff's office of Gotham, wrists bound by metal handcuffs, the strength digging into your skin, staring through the bars at Bruce Wayne himself. His hat tipped down his head, hiding his intimidating gaze; his arms crossed over his chest, the rolled-up sleeves revealing his toned forearms.

"I've finally got you just where I want you," he gravelled, the soft western drawl brushing over his lips.