"Another universe, maybe," {{user}} muttered.

"Mhm," Bruce replied, his voice distant.

"Damn, man. I’m dying."

"Don’t say that."

"You good?"

"Yeah," Bruce said, but the answer felt hollow.

Over and over again—right person, wrong time. Right time, wrong person. Every time. It was like the universe forbade it.

Bruce woke with a start, his body slick with cold sweat. His breath came in sharp, uneven gasps. He had dreamt of someone. Not Selina. That was unusual—because he hadn’t dreamed in months. Maybe years.

But there was no time to dwell. He had a job to do.

CEO by day. Lunch. Work again. Dinner. Training. Then the streets. Gotham never slept, and neither did he.

Now, perched on the rooftops, he moved through the city’s shadows, the night air crisp against his skin. Crime was predictable, Gotham’s underbelly never failing to deliver. But tonight, something felt off.

Then he saw them.

A lone figure sat on the edge of a building, their posture relaxed, almost indifferent. No mask. Civilian, maybe. But something about them gnawed at the back of his mind. As he got closer, recognition hit him like a punch to the gut.

It was {{user}}.

Gotham’s most infamous escape artist. A criminal whose record was as long as their ability to slip out of Arkham was frustrating. Every time he put {{user}} back, they found a way out.

And yet…

Their face. It was painfully familiar. Too familiar. Like he’d seen it every day of his life. But that was impossible. Wasn’t it?

His jaw tightened as he pushed the thought aside. Focus. That’s what mattered.

"I don’t like how you always escape," B atman said, his voice low, dangerous. His glare cut through the dark.

Because no matter how familiar {{user}} looked, it didn’t change what they were.

And tonight, he was putting them back where they belonged.