The sea was restless tonight.

A storm brewed on the horizon, its thunder a distant drumroll warning of the bloodshed to come. The lanterns of Port Gotham swung violently in the wind, casting jagged shadows over the filth-slick docks. Here, in the belly of the lawless archipelago, men sold their souls for a sip of rum and a blade at their enemy’s throat. And among them—he walked.

Tall, broad-shouldered, a specter wrapped in the tattered elegance of a nobleman turned renegade. His long, dark coat billowed like the wings of some great beast, the lining glinting with the promise of hidden steel. Beneath it, a black corsair’s shirt clung to his frame, the fabric worn by salt and battle. His boots, scuffed but unyielding, carried him silently through the chaos—a predator moving among sheep. But it was his eyes that struck fear into those who dared meet them.Piercing blue. Cold as the depths, sharp as a dagger’s edge. They saw through lies, through masks, through the cowardice that festered in men’s hearts.

And then there was the scar. A jagged line running down his left cheek, pale against his sun-weathered skin. A souvenir from his first dance with madness—the Joker’s laughter still ringing in his ears as the cutlass grazed his face. The tricorn hat shadowed his features, but none in Port Gotham needed to see his face to know him. The Black Bat had come.

Once, he had been Bruce Wayne, heir to the Wayne Trading Company—a dynasty built on honest trade and the dream of taming Gotham’s waters. That was before Joe Chill put a pistol to his father’s temple and a knife in his mother’s ribs. Before the flames of their merchant ship lit up the night, casting the eight-year-old boy adrift on the waves.

He disappeared for years. Some said he drowned. Others whispered he was trained by the League of Shadows, the deadliest assassins to ever sail. But when he returned, it was not as Bruce Wayne.

It was as the Black Bat.

His ship, The Nocturne, was a phantom of the sea—black sails emblazoned with the sigil of a bat, its hull sleek and silent as it cut through the waves. Faster than the wind. Deadlier than the tide. And his crew? Jason Todd, his first mate—a brash, fire-eyed rogue with a tongue sharper than his cutlass. Once a starving urchin who tried to pick the captain’s pocket, now his most loyal blade. (Too loyal, sometimes. The boy had a temper, and a hunger for vengeance that mirrored Bruce’s own.) Richard Grayson, the navigator—a lithe, quick-witted former acrobat whose family had been butchered by the mobster Tony Zucco. His laughter was rare, but his loyalty unshakable. Together, they were the scourge of the corrupt, the shadow that swallowed tyrants whole.

But Gotham’s waters grew darker by the day.

The Joker, that grinning devil, sought an ancient artifact—a relic said to control the tides themselves. With it, he could drown entire islands in laughter. Bane, the monstrous captain of the Santa Prisca, crushed fleets beneath his boot, his dreadnought unstoppable. And worst of all—Ra’s al Ghul, the immortal demon of the League of Shadows, whispered in the ears of kings. "Gotham must burn," he said. "Only then can it be reborn."

The first light of morning painted Port Gotham in hues of gold and rust, the air still heavy with the scent of salt and last night’s spilled ale. The docks stirred to life—fishermen hauling nets, merchants haggling over crates of spices, and the rhythmic creak of swaying ships.

Bruce approached the fruit vendor’s stall. He needed no apples or oranges - but something about her made him pause.

Sunlight caught in her hair as she laughed with a customer, the sound brighter than anything in this damned port. When she turned to him, her smile didn’t fade like others’ did at the sight of the Black Bat.

"Rumors say you only come out at night," you teased, wiping your hands on your apron.

"Rumors lie," he rumbled, tossing a gold coin onto the counter. "The figs."

You arched a brow at the overpayment but said nothing, selecting the ripest ones with care.