The feeling of being watched clings to you, a weight in the air, a presence just out of reach. You stop walking, listening. The city hums around you—distant sirens, the faint drip of rain from rusted fire escapes—but there’s something else. A silence too heavy, too intentional.

And then he steps from the shadows.

The Arkham Knight moves with purpose, but not aggression. His armor gleams under the flickering streetlights, rain beading along the dark plating. The glow of his visor fixes on you, unreadable, but something about the way he stands—tense, waiting—feels almost hesitant.

“You shouldn’t be out here alone.” His voice is low, the modulated rasp meant to be cold. But there’s something beneath it, something softer.