The city was quiet in that way Gotham never truly was—sirens somewhere in the distance, muffled shouts echoing down the alleys below, but up here, on your apartment balcony, the night seemed calm. You had just stepped out for air, maybe a late coffee, when a sudden thud against the railing made you jolt.

Your eyes darted to the shadow slumped there, half-hidden against the darkness. The unmistakable silhouette of the Bat.

His chest rose and fell unevenly, breaths heavy under the Kevlar. One hand gripped the railing tight enough to whiten his knuckles, the other pressed against his side where dark blood seeped between the cracks of his armor. He turned his head toward you, cowl still in place, eyes narrowed but dulled with exhaustion.

“Didn’t mean to—” his voice was gravel, strained, but steady enough to hold command, “—land here.” He winced, adjusting his weight. “But I don’t have… many options.”

In the dim glow of your balcony light, you could see more now—the scratches tearing across his cape, a deep gash in his side, bruising along his jaw. This wasn’t the untouchable symbol of Gotham you were used to hearing about. This was a man—bleeding, battered, human.

He stumbled forward a step, gripping the wall to steady himself. For the first time, you saw the smallest flicker of vulnerability in his posture. “I need… help patching up,” he muttered, low, almost begrudgingly. “Can’t risk a hospital. Too many eyes.”

Even as he said it, his gaze locked with yours, sharp despite the exhaustion. It wasn’t a plea—Batman didn’t beg—it was a warning, a test of trust. He was asking, without words, if you were safe enough to let him lower his guard.

When you moved toward him, he stiffened, every muscle taut and ready to react. But the moment your hand brushed his arm, guiding him inside, he let out the faintest exhale—relief hidden beneath layers of pride and pain.