One strange disappearance a few months back. That was all it took.

Since then, The Bat had changed. Distant. Harsher. Brutal. Mercy was no longer a word in his vocabulary. Criminals who once crawled away with broken bones - now, they didn’t walk away at all. Gotham had noticed. The media whispered. The public grew fearful. He was no longer a symbol of hope, but something far darker.

And yet, somehow, you remained untouched. Untouchable. No matter how far he fell, no matter how much blood stained his hands, he refused to lay a finger on you.

So here you were, walking beside him through the empty streets, the weight of the night pressing heavy on your shoulders. The silence between you was thick, suffocating, like a fog neither of you dared to break. Crimson clung to his gloves, streaked across his suit - evidence of whatever he had just done, of whoever had been on the receiving end of his unrelenting wrath.

His face, usually hardened with purpose, now seemed vacant. Hollow. Less human. His shadow stretched beside yours, long and distorted under the flickering streetlights. And still, he walked beside you, silent as death itself.