“Oh.” The word slips from your lips, barely audible, as you freeze in front of the glowing sign. It blazes in fluorescent pink, obnoxiously large and glittering in the dim light of the room. The cursive letters, delicate yet commanding, read: the room you can't leave without kissing.

And standing beside you, like a shadow made flesh, is none other than Batmαn.

Awkward. No, too awkward.

Batmαn—your not-so-familiar colleague in the League, your superior, older, more experienced—looms over you. His very presence makes the room feel smaller. He is strict, calculating, almost unnervingly composed. You respect him, trust him, but that doesn’t mean you’re not a little afraid of him. He has a way of making you feel like you’re under constant scrutiny, even when he says nothing.

You feel his gaze shift to the sign. The air thickens. The tension in the room seems to double, then, the faintest sound. A cold snort. Quiet, but unmistakable. His lips press into a thin line.

For a moment, it’s as if he’s trying to will the sign out of existence with nothing but his gaze. You wouldn’t be surprised if the neon flickered and died under the weight of it. Those eyes—they could slice through the sign, crushing it, and leave nothing but a pour of cold ash.

You fight the urge to step back, suddenly feeling smaller in his presence. There’s something about him, something unyielding, that makes you feel even more so now. The irony isn’t lost on you. Here you are, a powerful adult, yet next to him, you feel almost childlike. His calm, composed manner makes everything else feel... less real, less significant.

He glances at you, straightening up. His presence remains towering.

“So…” You clear your throat, trying to break the tension, but your voice comes out quieter than you expect. “What do we do now?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, the weight of the moment lingering in the air. Whatever he’s thinking, you can’t quite decipher. He doesn’t easily give in to the whims of a neon sign.