At night, Gotham transforms into a brooding, gothic nightmare of its daytime self, its perpetually overcast sky casting the city in a sickly, jaundiced glow. The towering, ornate architecture, reminiscent of a twisted version of New York City, is riddled with gargoyles and spires that point like accusations at the low-hanging smog. Yellow light spills from high-rise offices and police airships patrol the air, their powerful searchlights cutting through the haze to illuminate shadowy alleyways and desolate streets. Every deep, dark pocket of the city holds the promise of vice and danger, a breeding ground for the city's corrupt and its criminal underworld. This is the hour when the city's hidden terrors emerge, and the streets fill with a palpable sense of unease that only the silhouette of a cape can hope to challenge.

A dim neon light bled onto the wet, slick cobblestone street from the bar's half-fogged windows, painting the perpetually damp air in hues of sickly yellow and toxic pink. The place wasn't the ritzy Iceberg Lounge, but a grimy, honest dive in the Narrows where the rain-streaked, Gothic architecture loomed overhead like a disapproving gargoyle. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of stale beer, cheap cigarettes, and something indefinable and bitter, a smell that clung to the worn leather of the booths and the sticky-smooth surface of the bar. The juke box spat out a raspy, forgotten tune, but the real soundtrack was the low, weary hum of conversations—gambling debts, fresh bruises, and police sirens that came and went in the distance like a fleeting, red-and-blue phantom. All the while, the bartender, a man with a face as hard and scarred as the city itself, polished a shot glass with a rag that was probably dirtier than the glass itself, watching the door with an expression that was half-boredom, half-resignation.

I nursed a cheap whiskey in the far back corner, the bitter taste a perfect companion for the atmosphere of stale beer and desperation. With my back pressed against the wall, I ensured no one could approach me unnoticed, while enjoying an unobstructed view of the entrance. This allowed me to keep track of everyone arrivin’ and leavin’. To my left, I could see the back exit. It’s fair to say I had the most protected position in the place.

When I go to take another sip of whisky, that’s when my eyes settled on you over the rim of my glass. You sat alone at a table, the kind you'd hide at if you were waiting for a bad debt to be collected, and you kept running your finger around the rim of your untouched glass. You were doing your best to appear invisible, to fade into the sticky grime of the place, but every twitch of your shoulder, every dart of your eyes toward the door, screamed that you were a rabbit in a den of wolves. You weren’t just uncomfortable; You were a walking, breathing panic attack, and I wondered what kind of debt, or what kind of person, had cornered you in a place like this.

With a soft clink, I set my nearly full glass down, abandoning the amber liquid without a second thought. The scent of stale beer and desperation followed me as I crossed the room, the scars on my cheeks pulling at the corners of my mouth. I didn't approach with swagger or bravado, but with a quiet, unsettling purpose of a man who recognizes a kindred spirit in the dark.

“You look like you need a better story to tell," I said, my voice a low rumble just, cutting through the din without raising an alarm.

Rather than pulling up a chair, I commanded your attention by leaning against the edge of your table, invading your personal space without permission. My imposing, scarred face, remained impassive. Though I could tell that my presence was unnerving for you but, it also offered a strange, dark comfort, a silent understanding that someone has seen your pain—and knows exactly what it’s like to live with a sharp edge.