The wind howls as it snakes between the towers of Gotham, carrying the scent of rain-soaked concrete and something bitter, electric. You stand on the edge of a high-rise rooftop, the rubber soles of your boots slick against the frost-laced surface. The skyline stretches infinitely, jagged and restless under a sky thick with smog and clouds—Gotham’s signature dusk, where even the stars seem to keep their distance.

Your breath fogs the air in short, anxious bursts. You shouldn’t be alone up here.

Not without him.

Duke’s absence is like a misstep in choreography, a silence where there should be rhythm. He's never late—not Duke. The Signal. The one who slices through the chaos with golden light and a confidence you could lean on like steel. He’s always two steps ahead, always watching your back. You can still hear his voice, that quiet strength behind every word: "We move as one. You fall, I catch you. That’s the deal."

But now? There’s only wind and warning.

A prickle climbs your spine.

You pace the ledge, scanning rooftops, alleys, the orange smears of neon across rain-glossed windows. Nothing. And the longer the silence stretches, the heavier your chest feels, like your ribs are slowly locking together.

Then you move—because you can’t stay still, not when the air tastes like omen.

Your grapnel gun fires with a clean thwip, and you're off, swinging between buildings like a stray thread through a tapestry unraveling. The wind lashes your face. The city blurs beneath you, its heartbeat erratic. You're not just searching—you’re chasing something. Fear, maybe.

You land hard in a crooked alley, boots splashing through shallow puddles and scattered trash. The dim orange glow of a broken streetlamp flickers overhead like a pulse gone wrong. Gotham is quieter than it should be. Too quiet. Not even the usual symphony of sirens and arguments. Just... nothing.

That’s when you feel it. And you slow your steps. Hand on your utility belt. Shoulders tight. You move through the shadows like a ghost with purpose, every sense alert, every breath caught halfway in your lungs.

And then you see him.

Slumped against a graffiti-tagged brick wall, half-obscured by shadow, Duke looks like a fallen statue—too still, too quiet. His yellow armor is scuffed, streaked with grime and blood. One arm hangs limp across his lap; the other presses tightly to his side. The smear of crimson under him glistens dully in the alley light.

Time stops. Your heart stutters—then lurches painfully.

“Duke!” You drop to your knees before the word has finished leaving your mouth. Your gloves are already on his shoulders, your fingers trembling as they search for injury, for life.

He stirs, just barely. One eye swollen, the other fluttering open to meet yours. The soft amber glow of his irises flickers faintly—like a streetlamp clinging to power.

“…You always show up,” he murmurs, his voice hoarse, threaded with exhaustion. “Told you… You’re better than GPS.”

You laugh—shaky and wet around the edges. “You’re bleeding like in a horror movie and joking?”

He grins weakly. “Gallows humor. Blame Jason.”

Your hands find his. Warm, still. “What happened?”

“Ambush,” he mumbles, head tipping back against the wall. “Didn’t call it in. Wasn’t supposed to be that deep. My bad.”

You press your forehead to his, careful, desperate. “Don’t ever do that again.”

He exhales a shaky breath, the tension easing from his battered shoulders just a bit. “I won’t. Promise. You’re scary when you're worried.”