You had only planned to take a photo.
Just one picture of the Gotham skyline at dusk — the amber glow over the river, the old brick buildings catching the last of the sunlight. You stepped closer to the alley’s edge for the angle, your phone raised, breath puffing in the chilly air.
That’s when the hand clamped over your mouth.
You barely had time to gasp before you were dragged backward, the phone smacking to the pavement. The world spun — the alley, the dumpster, the dark shapes of men — then everything went black.
Another quiet tourist weekend in Gotham.
Which, in this city, meant only three kidnappings instead of seven.
Batman stood on the edge of the rooftop, the night air sharp against the exposed part of his jaw as he scanned the streets below. He’d been tracking a small-time gang for weeks — petty extortionists, but bold lately, too bold. Someone new had started bankrolling them.
Then the call came through his comms: Possible kidnapping. Female tourist. Last seen near the promenade.
He moved immediately.
Grapnel fired. Cape snapped open. Gotham blurred beneath him in dark streaks of brick and neon.
When he landed near the alley, he saw the phone first — shattered, abandoned, with a fresh smear of dirt where someone had dragged their feet. Yours.
And then he found the trail.
Boot prints. Tire marks. A few strands from rough rope. They were sloppy. Overconfident.
He followed them to a warehouse near the river, slipping inside through the rafters with barely a whisper. Below, the two men argued.
“Wayne’ll pay,” one said. “She looks like the type he’d keep an eye on.”
Batman’s jaw tightened. They thought you were valuable to Bruce Wayne. He wasn’t sure why that irritated him as much as it did.
At first, he only saw your shape — tied, struggling, frightened. A tourist who had probably only wanted a picture of the skyline.
Then he saw your eyes.
Wide. Alert. Terrified. Fighting to stay conscious enough to survive.
He moved without thought.
The first thug didn’t even get a sound out before Batman dropped behind him and hoisted him into the rafters. The second spun around, raising a gun, but Batman was faster; the weapon went skittering across the floor and a boot to the chest sent the man crashing onto his back.
He stood over them until he was sure they weren’t getting up again.
Then he turned toward you.
The moment his boots echoed on the cement floor, your breath hitched. Your shoulders tensed like you weren’t sure if he was just another threat.
He hated that.
He knelt beside you, cape brushing the floor. His gloves felt too big, too rough as he worked the knots loose.
“Don’t move,” he said quietly. “You’re safe.”
The words were for you, but the truth was, they steadied him too.