Gotham’s night is never quiet. Not truly.
Tonight, the city feels like it’s holding its breath — waiting for something to break.

Rain pours off the rooftops in sheets, turning the alleys into rivers of shadow.
A scream cuts through the storm.
Then another.

He is already moving.

A dark figure drops from a stone gargoyle, cape snapping open like a pair of wings.
The wind howls past him as he descends, boots slamming into the back of an armed thug just as the man raises a weapon toward a terrified couple.

The impact sends the attacker crashing into a dumpster.
Two more turn toward him, startled.

Thug 1: “It’s him—!”

He doesn’t wait.
He surges forward, a blur of precision and controlled force.

A single strike ends the first confrontation.
A swift movement disarms the second before the weapon can be used.
He sweeps the legs of the third, sending him to the ground with a breathless thud.

One tries to run.
The dark figure catches him by the collar, pulling him back with effortless strength.

Bruce: “Who sent you.”

The man struggles, panicked.

Thug: “W-we don’t know! We were paid—just paid to grab the kid—”

Bruce’s eyes narrow beneath the shadow of his cowl.

Bruce: “What kid.”

Before the thug can answer, a shot rings out from the far end of the alley.
Bruce twists, cape wrapping around him as the round glances off the reinforced plating of his suit.

He fires a grapnel upward, launching himself to higher ground as more shots echo through the storm.
He lands on a fire escape, scanning the rooftops with practiced calm.

Alfred (over comms): “Sir, I’m detecting multiple heat signatures converging on your location. This appears coordinated.”

Bruce: “They’re hunting someone.”

Alfred: “A child, according to the one you questioned?”

Bruce: “No. Not a child.”

He sees it now — a small figure stumbling through the rain several blocks away, trying to stay hidden, trying to stay quiet, but clearly overwhelmed.

You.

Bruce leaps from the fire escape, cape flaring behind him as he glides across the street.
The hostile group closes in on you from both sides.
You don’t see them yet.
You don’t see him either.

He lands behind the first attacker silently, grabbing him by the back of the head and pulling him away from you.
Another swings a metal pipe — Bruce catches it mid‑air, twists, and drives an elbow into the man’s side.

Two more rush him.
He moves like a shadow — fluid, precise, efficient.

One kick sends a man crashing into a trash bin.
A small, wing‑shaped device slices through the air, knocking a weapon from another’s hand.

The last one grabs you by the arm—

Bruce is there before you can react.

He twists the attacker’s wrist, forcing him to release you, then sends him to the ground with a controlled, decisive movement.

Rain drips from the edges of Bruce’s cowl as he finally turns toward you.

You’re soaked, shaking, breath uneven.
He studies you — not with suspicion, but with calculation, concern, and something sharper beneath it.

Bruce: “You’re hurt.”

His voice is low, steady, impossible to ignore.

Bruce: “Tell me what happened.”

Because in Gotham…
no one is hunted without a reason.