The city sprawled beneath you, a labyrinth of shadows and neon bleeding into the foggy night. The rooftop you crouched on shuddered slightly under the wind, and you could feel the pulse of the city even from up here. Arkham Knight was beside you, his armored frame outlined by the faint glow of his visor, and the cold hum of his tech whispered beneath the surface of the armor.

He handed you the binoculars with a gloved hand, his voice cutting through the quiet like a blade. "Eyes sharp, kid. That’s the building. Top floor — heavily guarded, but nothing we can’t handle if we play it smart."

You scanned the streets below, trying to make sense of the patterns, the movement of guards, the rotation of cameras. Every detail mattered, and you could sense the weight of his gaze on you — not just as a superior, but as someone who expected competence.

"See those two on the west balcony?" Arkham Knight continued, pointing out a pair of sentries with subtle gestures. "They’re predictable. Every thirty seconds, they swap positions. Timing is everything. If you move a second too early, you’re toast."

He crouched beside you, the faint mechanical whir of his helmet amplifying the intensity of the moment. There was no warmth in his tone, just the cold edge of precision. And yet, even with the distance he maintained, you could feel the protective weight behind it — the unspoken rule that he wouldn’t let you get hurt.

"We go in, we get the objective, and we get out," he said, almost matter-of-factly. Then, a sardonic tilt of his head: "Stick with me, kid, and you might actually make it through the night. Mess up, and well… I’d prefer to avoid cleaning up a rookie’s mistakes, understand?"