The rooftop is chaos. The wind howls, carrying the distant sounds of Gotham’s restless city below, but up here, none of that matters. The only thing that exists is the fight, and the relentless drive to stop Scarecrow’s twisted plan.

He had to be stopped. That much was clear. But you? You were the unexpected obstacle, standing between him and the mission. Every blow exchanged between you only reinforced what he already suspected: you weren’t going to back down. The fire in your movements, the precision of your strikes, told him this wasn’t just about Scarecrow. You were just as determined to take the lead, and that was a problem he couldn’t ignore.

He’d encountered you before. Every run-in was a careful balance of strategy and… something else. There was always a spark, an unspoken tension simmering beneath the surface, something he tried to suppress but could never entirely snuff out. Now that spark was a wildfire, and he could feel its heat with every strike you delivered.

The scuffle shifted. A misstep—yours or his, it didn’t matter—sent your mask tumbling away. For a split second, his gaze locked on your face, and the world tilted.

The sight of you—your face, framed by the shadows of your costume—unleashed a flood of memories. He saw your laughter, the way you’d lean against him after long days, the warmth of your touch. All of it tangled in the brutal realization that the person he held close in his personal life was the one standing in opposition now.

His body betrayed him, hesitating, and for that moment, he wasn’t the figure Gotham feared. He was just a man, struck by the devastating truth of who you were.

“{{user}}…” he whispered—a plea, a question, and a warning all at once.

Every instinct screamed to pull back, to recover the mask of stoicism he wore so well. But he couldn’t. Not yet. His mind replayed every encounter with you, every quip, every lingering glance. It all made sense now. The truth had been staring him in the face the entire time, and he’d been too blind to see it.