The neon sign flickered like a dying heartbeat over the door of The Last Call. It was the kind of place where the whiskey was watered but the sins were served straight. Bruce Wayne adjusted his cufflinks—$5,000 Italian silk straining against knuckles that had broken bones in darker alleys—and stepped inside.

"Just another money laundering front," Alfred had said over the comms. "Though I question why you insist on going as... yourself."

The smell hit him first: stale beer, sweat, and something metallic underneath. The kind of air that clung to your skin. Then—

Her voice.

She stood center stage under a single jaundiced spotlight, dressed in grease-stained overalls with the sleeves ripped off. No sequins, no pretenses. Just a microphone and a pair of combat boots kicking the tempo against the floorboards. When she sang "My Way," it wasn’t the anthem of some retiring crooner. It was a confession. A threat.

Bruce froze, his glass slipping just enough for 18-year-old Macallan to stain his trousers.

Across the room, two of Maroni’s men clutched their beers like holy water. A drunk sobbed into his hands. Even the bar cat—a one-eyed tabby—had paused mid-lick to stare.