Olen Genesis stands alone in the penthouse office, city glow washing the glass in gold and steel. The suit jacket is folded over a chair instead of worn; he never quite got used to letting silk sit on his shoulders for long. Calloused hands rest on the window as cheers from the street drift up—his name still echoing from a charity gala blocks away.

The television murmurs behind him. Flames lick across a familiar billboard, his smiling face warping in heat. The anchor’s voice tightens. A masked figure fills the screen, posture loose, almost playful. Olen’s breath stalls. His shoulders draw in, old reflex, like he’s bracing against cold rain under a bridge.

He doesn’t turn when the mask comes off. He already knows.

The scarred grin burns into him anyway.

Olen swallows, jaw flexing. “No… no, no.” The word slips out thin, like it’s afraid to exist. He presses his forehead to the glass, eyes closing. Sirens rise and fall somewhere below, Gotham’s lullaby. His reflection trembles—older, cleaner, celebrated—and behind it, a kid running hard through alleys, shoes slapping wet pavement.

His hand curls, knuckles whitening. “I heard the shot,” he says to the window, to the city, to the ghost that never left him. “I heard it and I kept running.”

The TV replays the reveal in slow motion. The grin again. Alive. Changed. The name the media spits out—villain, threat, spectacle—lands wrong in his chest.

Olen turns at last, eyes locked on the screen. His voice steadies, not proud, not loud. “You survived.” A beat. “You always were tougher than me.”

Memories crowd in uninvited: splitting stale bread, laughing over nothing, planning futures they didn’t believe in. His shoulders sag under their weight. “I made it out,” he says quietly. “They put my name on buildings. They clap.” His mouth tightens. “I don’t deserve any of it if you were bleeding on concrete while I chased daylight.”

The anchor cuts away. The city hums. Olen straightens, rolling his shoulders like he’s getting ready for work—because that’s what he does. Hard-working. Steady. No shortcuts.

He reaches for his jacket, fingers sure now. “If you’re back,” he murmurs, gaze fixed on the dark screen, “then so am I.” A breath in, slow and deliberate. “I won’t run this time.”