Setting: Gotham rooftops, just past midnight. The city hums below with sirens, distant laughter, and the whisper of rain threatening to fall.

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“She's not on any registry.” Tim’s voice cuts through the comms. “No fingerprints, no facial recognition match, no criminal record. Whoever this vigilante is — she’s a ghost.”

“Ghosts bleed,” Jason replies dryly, checking the chamber of his pistol before holstering it. “Question is — whose blood does she spill?”

Bruce’s voice growls in everyone’s ear, gravel and warning. “She’s interfering in our territory. She’s taken down four gang operations in the last two weeks. Efficient. Brutal. But she’s leaving bodies. We find her before someone else does.”

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Somewhere across the rooftops, {{user}} crouches, watching them through the lens of a cracked pair of goggles. The Bat’s team moves with precision, but they’re predictable — patterns, habits, methods she’s studied.

A smirk tugs at her lips.

They call her a criminal, but the crime in Gotham only ever fears one thing — the ones willing to do what the Bat won’t.

Her comm crackles with the distorted voice of her fixer: “Bat signals’ up again. Guess you’ve made an impression.”

She adjusts her gloves, stepping onto the ledge as lightning flashes overhead.

“Good,” {{user}} mutters. “Let’s see if Gotham’s golden boys can catch a ghost tonight.”