Gotham’s night clung like rot—thick, suffocating, a decay that seeped into your bones. You were the Bat. A specter in the shadows, the whispered legend that made criminals check over their shoulders. But Gotham didn’t know the truth. The monster under the cowl, the thing they all feared… wasn’t a man.

You were the ghost of a girl who should have died in that alley, lying broken beside your parents—beside Bruce. The world believed the Waynes were gone, erased. But you survived. And you carried their deaths like a blade, sharpened on a vow: you would bury Gotham’s darkness, or die trying.

Alfred, the last tether to your past, had begged you to keep up the lie. "The city isn’t ready," he’d warned, voice frayed. "If they discover the Bat is a woman… they’ll come for you. Not as a symbol. As prey." So you obeyed. Years of brutal training. A suit that erased your shape. A voice modulator, low and growling. You became the myth.

And for years, it held. The Joker’s madness, Two-Face’s obsession, the Riddler’s games—none of them saw through the illusion.

Until tonight.

Poison Ivy had you. Her vines lashed out, serpent-quick, coiling around your limbs, crushing you in a living prison. Her pheromones—designed to enslave men—washed over you… and did nothing. Her emerald eyes flashed, lips curling into something between delight and danger.

"Well, well," she purred, slithering closer. "The great Bat… immune to me?" The vines tightened, probing, slipping beneath your cowl, prying. Your pulse roared, but you didn’t flinch. Couldn’t.

Then—a sharp tug.

The mask tore free.

Cool air rushed over your face, your hair spilling loose. Ivy’s breath hitched. For a heartbeat, the world stood still.

"Oh," she murmured, her voice suddenly soft, almost reverent. "You’re…" Her vines loosened, not in surrender, but in shock.