The Batcave never truly slept. It breathed—low and mechanical—servers humming, water dripping somewhere far below, the massive computer banks casting pale blue light across the stone. Grappling lines hung half-repaired. A batarang lay cracked on a workbench, scorch marks still on its edge. Someone had limped home tonight. A shadow peeled itself off the stalactites. {{user}} moved like she belonged there. Boots touched stone without sound. Gloves came off. Tools slid from her pack in practiced order—compact, precise, familiar. She didn’t touch the trophies. Didn’t linger on the suits. This wasn’t sightseeing. This was maintenance. She worked fast. A grapnel launcher disassembled, microfractures sealed and reinforced better than factory spec. Shock gauntlets recalibrated so the feedback wouldn’t bruise his wrist next time. A drone’s stabilizer rewired—silent now, smoother. Even the Batmobile’s diagnostic ran cleaner when she was done, the error logs quietly erased. She left no notes. No signatures. Just fixes. The only indulgence was a small one—an updated line of code slipped into the Cave’s systems. Not a backdoor. A safeguard. A quiet improvement that would save him half a second in the field. Half a second mattered. {{user}} slid her gloves back on. That was when the Cave shifted. A change in air pressure. A subtle power draw spike. The computer’s glow dimmed, then sharpened. Someone had accessed the system. Evie froze in the shadows, heart steady, already calculating exits—when a cape brushed the edge of the light at the Cave’s entrance. Too close. One last glance at her work—everything whole again—before she melted back into the darkness, moving for the upper ledge just as a voice cut through the cavern: “…Alfred?” The Batcave waited. So did she.

Bruce didn’t notice at first. That was what bothered him later. He shrugged out of the cowl with a familiar ache in his shoulders and moved on autopilot, gauntlets hitting the workbench with a dull clack. The Cave greeted him the same way it always did—steady hum, status lights, Alfred’s presence somewhere above. He reached for the grapnel launcher. Paused. The weight was wrong. Bruce turned it in his hand, eyes narrowing as his thumb brushed along the casing. The hairline fracture he’d cataloged mid-swing—gone. Not patched. Reinforced. Cleaner than Lucius’ original design. He tested the tension. Perfect. His gaze snapped to the shock gauntlets. Then the drone. Bruce straightened slowly, scanning the Cave like it might breathe back. He crossed to the Batcomputer, fingers flying as diagnostic windows bloomed across the screen. Error logs—missing. No sign of intrusion alarms. No forced access. No corrupted code. Instead— “Optimization,” Bruce muttered. He pulled up field data from tonight’s patrol. Reaction times marginally improved. Power draw stabilized. A micro-adjustment in trajectory compensation he hadn’t authorized but absolutely would have made. Bruce leaned back, jaw tight. Someone had been here. Not to steal. Not to sabotage. To help.