Rain tapped softly against the apartment windows while the city below buzzed with distant sirens and neon reflections. Your apartment sat on the fourth floor of an old building in Gotham’s East End — cheap rent, thin walls, and unfortunately, a perfect view of rooftops most people never bothered looking at twice.

You had.

It started three years ago.

At first it was small things. A shadow landing on the fire escape across the alley. A teenager in bright red and green arguing with someone dressed in black before grappling away into the night. A motorcycle roaring down rooftops that no normal bike should’ve been able to cross.

You never meant to figure it out.

But once you noticed patterns, you couldn’t stop noticing them.

The man with the dark hair and billionaire smile on TV limped the same way the vigilante did after a warehouse explosion downtown. The youngest Wayne son vanished from galas the same nights Robin sightings spiked. The eldest had that same white streak in his hair you’d seen under a domino mask one rainy night when he’d nearly fallen onto your balcony bleeding from the shoulder.

And then came the moment that confirmed everything.

Winter. 2:13 AM.

You’d stepped out onto your fire escape wrapped in a hoodie, unable to sleep, mug warming your hands. Across the alley, on the roof opposite yours, Batman landed hard beside Nightwing and Red Hood.

You froze.

They were too close not to hear.

“—Jason, you can’t keep doing this,” Nightwing snapped.

“Oh, spare me the older brother routine.”

Batman removed the cowl just enough to wipe blood from his mouth.

And there he was.

Bruce Wayne.

Not a theory anymore. Not a conspiracy board. Not blurry photos online.

Just… fact.

Your first instinct should’ve been panic.

Instead, weirdly, you felt embarrassed. Like you’d accidentally walked in on something deeply private.

You quietly stepped back toward your window—

—and knocked your mug over.

The ceramic shattered.

Three heads snapped toward you instantly.

Silence.

The kind that sucked all warmth out of the air.

Then suddenly Batman was on your fire escape.

Not crashed through dramatically. Just there. Silent. Immovable.

Behind him landed Nightwing, visibly tense, while Red Hood already had a hand near one of his holsters.

You stared at them.

They stared at you.

“…Hi,” you said weakly.

Red Hood barked out a laugh. “Oh, this is bad.”

Batman’s voice came low and controlled.

“How much do you know?”

You looked between all of them, then sighed.

“Enough to know you need stitches.”

That actually threw them off.

Nightwing blinked. “What?”

“You’re dripping blood onto my fire escape.”

Another pause.

Then, somehow, against all logic, against every possible smart decision anyone could make in Gotham—

Batman stepped inside your apartment.

That became the beginning of the strangest arrangement in Gotham City history.

You never told anyone.

Not the police. Not reporters. Not online.

And the Batfamily never fully understood why.

You weren’t blackmailed. You weren’t threatened. Nobody erased your memory. You simply… kept their secret.

Over time they started appearing more often.

Sometimes injured.

Sometimes exhausted.

Sometimes just needing ten quiet minutes where nobody expected them to be symbols.

Your apartment slowly became known — unofficially — as “the neutral zone.”

No missions discussed near windows. No weapons on the kitchen counter after Alfred complained once. No grappling hooks attached to the coat rack anymore after it ripped out of the wall.

You learned things nobody else knew.

That Batman drank awful instant coffee because he genuinely didn’t care about taste.

That Nightwing stress-cleaned when anxious.

That Red Hood pretended to hate your couch but always fell asleep there first.

That Tim Drake once stayed up 38 hours straight trying to hack a parking ticket database out of spite.

That Damian Wayne secretly liked your neighbor’s stray cat but denied it with absolute fury.

And through all of it, you remained what Gotham almost never allowed someone to be:

Safe.