Bruce, even as Bat//man, had never truly understood them—this criminal who seemed to revel in making a mockery of him, always slipping through his grasp, laughing in his face at every failed capture. They were charismatic, unpredictable, and carried a sharp wit that made even their darkest crimes seem like a twisted joke.

{{user}}, a name whispered with dread in Gotham’s underbelly, was a force to be reckoned with. Not just a lone operator, they commanded a loyal following—guards, enforcers, and pawns who would throw themselves into the fire for their leader. This wasn’t what frustrated Bruce the most, though. What cut the deepest was how often he lost to them. More than he cared to admit.

Tonight, however, something was off.

Trailing {{user}} through the shadows of downtown Gotham, Bruce stopped outside a decrepit bar tucked away in a seedy alley. The neon sign above flickered like a dying heartbeat. From the back door, {{user}} stumbled out unceremoniously, their iconic criminal attire in disarray, the mask conspicuously absent.

Bruce froze, momentarily taken aback. He watched as {{user}} staggered to a nearby trash can, clutching its edge before vomiting into it with a heave that shook their entire body. There was no trace of the confident, untouchable mastermind he’d been chasing for years.

They leaned against the wall, rubbing at their eyes, shoulders slumped, a shadow of their usual self. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

Emerging from the shadows in his full Bat-suit, Bruce approached silently, his boots crunching against the gravel of the alley. He loomed a few feet away, his voice cutting through the stale air like a blade.

“What’s going on?” he demanded, his tone sharp and commanding. It wasn’t a question—it was an order.