The rooftop was quiet, save for the low hum of Gotham below—sirens distant, rain collecting in shallow puddles, the city breathing in its uneasy sleep. Commissioner Gordon had stood on this rooftop a thousand times before, trench coat weighed down by rain and responsibility. But tonight, he wasn’t alone.

She stood beside him, coat drawn tight around her shoulders, trying not to look impressed by the signal burning into the clouds. She’d heard the stories, of course—everyone had—but hearing about him was one thing. Meeting him was another.

The Bat appeared like a shadow that had been there all along, stepping out from the darkness with that quiet inevitability only he could manage. His presence didn’t announce itself; it arrived.

“Bątman,” Jim said, his voice steady but with that faint note of something uncharacteristic—maybe pride, maybe nerves. “This is—”

“I know who she is,” Bątman cut in, eyes narrowing just slightly before softening—barely. His gaze flicked between them, reading every movement, every tell.

The silence stretched. Rain pattered.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t shy away from his stare. Just met it with calm certainty, the kind that came from understanding exactly who the man beside her was—and loving him anyway.

Bątman’s jaw tightened, then eased. “She’s braver than you said,” he murmured.

Gordon almost smiled. “That’s why she’s here.”

And in Gotham, that was the closest thing to approval anyone ever got.