Gotham never sleeps. Not really. The rain slicks the rooftop under your boots as you crouch in the shadows, eyes fixed on a warehouse across the street—your target’s been laying low for days, and tonight’s your shot.

Then you feel it. That shift in the air. That silence that creeps in like fog. You turn—and there he is.

Batman.

He steps out of the dark like he owns it, cape billowing, the white lenses of his cowl gleaming faintly in the city light.

"You’ve been watching Maroni’s runner for three nights," he says, voice low and even. "I need to know where he’s headed tonight."

There’s something... off. He moves like Batman, talks like Batman—but you’ve seen Bruce work. This one’s more fluid. Lighter on his feet. Not as heavy in presence, but sharper in instinct.

He doesn’t confirm who he is—and he’s not going to.

You’ve heard the rumors. Bruce Wayne’s gone. Some say dead. Others say missing, buried in the shadows with whatever war he was fighting. And someone else wears the cowl now.

He steps closer, tilting his head. "We can both get what we want tonight, but only if you work with me."

He doesn’t say his name. He doesn’t have to. You’re looking at Batman. Just… not the one you were expecting.