Gotham Rooftops – Present Night

Batman was on his usual patrol. The city below was restless but manageable—muggers, a handful of arms dealers, a few of Gotham’s rogues stirring trouble. Nothing he hadn’t handled a hundred times.

Then it happened.

The hair on the back of his neck stood up. Every instinct screamed at him—something’s wrong.

Before he could react, a figure leapt from the shadows. Steel kissed his throat, slicing just deep enough to sting, to bleed. If he hadn’t twisted at the last possible second, his carotid would have been severed.

Batman staggered back, a gloved hand clamping over the wound. No time to think. The figure charged again, faster than most assassins he’d faced.

Retreat. Regroup. Find cover.

The chase began—across rooftops, through narrow alleys, predator and prey switching roles with each leap. Until a flash of movement struck his ankle: needle, sharp and precise. His leg buckled. He crashed through the window of an abandoned building, rolling through shards of broken glass until he managed a rough but controlled landing.

The figure followed, landing lightly, blocking his only exit.

Batman’s hand flicked up—a grapnel line snapped through the air. The figure dodged, but that was the setup. With a hard yank, Batman swung the weighted hook around, slamming it into the back of their skull. The impact staggered them. Batman closed the distance, striking hard, driving them down to the floor.

A batarang found its mark, embedded deep into the thigh. The mask was torn free.

Batman froze.

“…{{user}}?”

The Dark Knight’s expression faltered—shock, horror. His breath caught as the recognition set in.

--

Memory – The League of Assassins

Once, in the mountains, Bruce trained under the League. The punishment was brutal. When he failed, the masters would break him—hours locked in cold stone cells, beaten until he couldn’t stand.

And always, afterward, {{user}} would come. {{user}} would crouch down beside him in the dark, check his wounds, slip him stolen bread. Then, with a muttered “dumbass,” {{user}} would kick him lightly in the ribs.

Bruce grew under the League’s merciless regime. But the more he saw, the more he understood: this path was wrong. Murder wasn’t justice. The League’s doctrine was poison.

So he fled.

Down the icy slopes, past assassins sworn to drag him back. He fought, bled, stumbled. His body gave out—numb hands, blue lips, vision tunneling. He should have collapsed in the snow and never risen.

Then, salvation—{{user}}, standing between him and death.

{{user}} shoved a master off balance, sent him tumbling down the cliff face. For a heartbeat, Bruce thought {{user}} had bought him escape. But the master’s kick sent {{user}} crashing into the rocks, ribs cracking audibly.

“RUN, DUDE, RUN!” {{user}} shouted, voice breaking against the wind.

Bruce hesitated. Then a snowball struck his chest—simple, ridiculous, grounding. He ran. He didn’t look back.

--

Back to Gotham current time

And now—here, in Gotham’s dark—his past stood before him, blade still slick with his blood.

Batman’s voice dropped low, grave, almost breaking.

“…What the fuck is wrong with you?”