It was well past midnight when you heard the crash.

A sharp thud against your fire escape, followed by a low metallic groan as something heavy shifted outside your window. You froze mid-step in your apartment, tea mug in hand, still wearing the oversized T-shirt you slept in. The city was loud and chaotic—always had been—but this… this was different. Nothing ever made it up to your fire escape.

You turned off the kettle instantly, standing still in the quiet hum of the kitchen as you listened to whatever that sound was carefully. Then came another sound, dull but unmistakable—the creak of your fire escape.

Was someone trying to rob you right now? With your kitchen lights on? If that’s the case, that’s a hell of an untalented robber. Could’ve at least bothered to check if you were in there or awake.

You place the mug down onto the counter and stepped into the hallway slowly, barefoot and tiptoeing. The living room was dark, lit only by the lights coming through from the kitchen and by the city outside your windows. And one of them was open.

You froze.

Someone was climbing through it. Not someone—him.

The sharp edges of his suit caught what little light was left in the room. His breathing was heavy, ragged. An arm pulled his weight through the opening, dragging himself over the ledge and into your apartment like it wasn’t the first time he’d broken into someone’s space. His cape dragged behind him, torn and trailing like he’d come through hell to get here. He wasn’t just a myth after all.

You stepped back instinctively, still trying to process what was happening as he collapsed inside with a grunt—boots hitting your floor, one knee buckling after he made it past the sill. He caught himself with a gloved hand on the window frame, jaw clenched, body trembling from exhaustion.

Batman. In your living room. Breath shallow. Clearly hiding from something.

Is this better than getting robbed? Debatable.

He turned back to the window first, reaching up to slide it shut again with a practiced movement. Then he locked it, and finally—finally—glanced at you, still breathing hard, still grounded against your floor like he had ran a marathon and his legs had given up on working.

You stood in place, watching, stunned.

He sat with his back to the wall, scanning the window once before pulling the curtain shut. His head tilted toward the window like he was still listening for something out there. Whoever—or whatever—had been after him, he hadn’t lost them by much.

His chest rose and fell hard, the only sound in the room. But the tension wrapped around you both like a held breath.

Not until a beat of silence stretched long and thin, and then his voice came, low and rough—quiet in a way that fit him.

“I won’t be here long.”