Back in Gotham, the air feels heavier, almost oppressive. The city has its own pulse—one that I can feel through the soles of my boots as I land softly on the rooftop. Tuning out the noise of the Titans still echoing in my head from the last mission, I focus. It’s been hours since I left the tower, but Crime Alley? That place never changes. A red-flag alert, of all places, from there? Predictable. Trouble always finds its way back to where it started.

I scan the rooftops, calculating every possible approach. The skyline here is broken, jagged like Gotham's teeth—so easy to hide, so easy to ambush. I narrow my eyes. Something’s off. The usual sounds—low-level dealers, the clatter of footsteps, muffled arguments—aren’t there. It’s too quiet. I tighten my grip on the grappling hook.

The alert came in quickly, a silent ping on my wrist, but no details—just enough to pull me away. My instincts buzz at the back of my mind. Crime Alley is notorious, but this feels different. There's no way it’s a simple mugging. Not tonight. Not here.

I slip into the shadows, moving faster, more deliberately. The stench of rotting trash, the grime coating every surface, it's all familiar. This place, these streets—they're always in the same miserable state, but the danger tonight feels sharp. Concentrated. I drop down into an alley, quiet, low to the ground. My hand brushes the hilt of my katana, a comfort, but also a reminder: Gotham demands precision. No room for error.