Gotham’s night air was thick with cold and smoke, the neon glow of distant signs flickering weakly against the darkness. Bruce moved through the streets—not as the billionaire the media knew, not as Batm an, but as something in between. His usual sharp appearance was gone. He hadn't shaved in days, his stubble shadowing tired features. A worn jacket hung loosely over his frame, blending him into the crowd just enough.

He had been walking for hours. Four, to be exact. Downtown streets, back alleys, anywhere he thought might lead him to something useful for the case. But Gotham wasn’t offering answers tonight. Just the ache of exhaustion creeping into his bones.

Eventually, he found himself at a public park. Empty at this hour. He sat down on a bench, resting his elbows on his knees, hands running over his face before settling against his temples. He needed a new approach. He couldn't go back without anything to show for it.

Deep in thought, he didn’t notice the movement right away—until suddenly, someone slid smoothly into the narrow space between his legs, dropping down with an easy grace and staring up at him.

Bruce’s focus snapped back. His eyes narrowed, instincts kicking in, but then—recognition. He knew that face. He’d known it before they had even officially joined the JL, {{user}}. Of course, he had already investigated their real identity long before anyone else had.

But they didn’t know his.

He exhaled, tilting his head slightly, studying them in the dim glow of a streetlamp.

A beat of silence.

Then, finally—

“...Hm. Hey.”