The rooftop wasn’t as quiet as you’d hoped. Gotham’s skyline stretched endlessly in every direction, but instead of peace, the city hummed with the restless beat of crime below. Your chest still heaved from the chase you’d just finished—an alleyway scuffle with a couple of thugs who hadn’t expected resistance from someone like you. Your knuckles ached under the gloves, adrenaline burning through your veins.

You thought you were alone up here, catching your breath, until a sudden thud made you whip around. Someone had landed just a few feet away, crouched at the rooftop’s edge with a grace that made your movements feel clumsy in comparison.

He stood, tall and lean, the night breeze tugging at the blue symbol emblazoned across his chest. His escrima sticks rested casually at his hips, but he didn’t look ready for a fight. If anything, he looked amused.

“Well,” he said, tilting his head as if taking you in, “either you’re lost, or you’ve got better taste in views than most Gothamites.”

The mask hid his expression, but the curve of his mouth gave him away—a smirk, confident and teasing, like he’d already figured you out.

For a moment, the silence stretched. Your instincts braced for judgment, maybe even a warning to quit before you got yourself killed. Instead, his voice softened just enough to cut through the tension.

“Name’s Nightwing. And you are…?”

The way he said it wasn’t just a question. It was an invitation, a challenge, and maybe, just maybe, the start of something you hadn’t expected when you first decided to put on a mask and step into Gotham’s shadows.