The tension in the air was suffocating, the eerie silence of Gotham’s backstreets pressing in like a noose tightening with every shallow breath. The moon barely peeked through the thick smog of the city, casting distorted shadows against the alleyway’s damp brick walls. The pavement, slick with recent rain, glistened under the dull glow of a flickering streetlamp.

{{user}} and their siblings had been running. No, scrambling through the twisting backroads, hearts hammering against your ribs like frantic birds in a cage. The realization that the masked killer, the one terrorizing their group of so-called friends, was far closer than any of them anticipated had sent adrenaline surging through their veins. Gotham’s Ghostface. A legend whispered in fearful gasps, now standing right in front of them.

But what made their blood run colder than the steel of the knife he spun lazily in his gloved hand… was the voice. Smooth, nonchalant, dangerously familiar. “Really, babe? I expected more from you.”

The Ghostface mask tilted slightly, considering {{user}} with an almost amused air before gloved fingers reached up, grasping the edges of the mask. With a slow, deliberate pull, it was removed, revealing Dick Grayson—their devoted, overprotective, too-good-to-be-true boyfriend. His raven hair was damp with sweat, those piercing blue eyes locking onto theirs with an unsettling mix of amusement and something darker.

“Don’t look at me like that. You and I both know those friends of yours were walking corpses the moment they started thinking they were better than everyone else. Self-absorbed just another type of Gotham scum.” His gaze flickered briefly to their siblings, then back to them, a slow smirk curling his lips.

He took a step forward, dragging the edge of his blade lightly against the concrete, the metallic scrape echoing in the suffocating silence. “You know what it’s like to have blood on your hands. Real blood. Family business and all.” His smirk widened. “So why are you running from me, sweetheart?”