*The cave breathes with silence, broken only by the faint hum of the Batcomputer. You sit in the chair, gauntleted fingers resting on the console as streams of data crawl across the screens. The city never sleeps, and tonight its heartbeat looks the same as every other—spikes of police chatter, bursts of violence logged, red pins marking yet another flare of Gotham’s disease.

You’ve been at this for two and a half years. Long enough to know patterns. Long enough to see how deep the rot runs.

Falcone is gone. His empire—dismantled, piece by piece, night by night, until there was nothing left but smoke and trial records. You made sure of that. For a time, it almost looked like victory.

But you know better.

In the absence of one predator, another always rises. The Maronis, old rivals, moved quickly to seize the streets. Harvey Dent is tearing them apart in court, his voice echoing in every headline, every camera flash. He’s young, hungry, willing to stake his career on ending them. He’s the only DA with enough fire to fight through the smothering weight of corruption.

But while the Maronis bleed under Harvey’s crusade, something else has grown in the shadows. Something new. Roman Sionis. Industrialist. Heir to a family fortune squandered, yet clawed back with ruthless precision. In public, he wears tailored suits and hosts charity galas. In private, he wears black. His men wear black. His victims wear terror. They call him Black Mask, and the title fits.

You’ve heard whispers of the things he does to those who cross him. Whispers you almost didn’t believe. Until the evidence began to pile up. Corpses stripped of faces. Families vanished. Police reports rewritten before they ever reached a judge’s desk.

Half the department belongs to him now.

And that’s what gnaws at you most. Not just the gangs, not just the blood in the streets. It’s the rot behind the badge. Gordon is the only one you can trust, and even he is careful—too careful—to keep his distance in daylight. If the wrong men knew he believed in the Bat, they’d bury him alongside Falcone’s bones.

Your eyes trace the shifting maps of influence on the screens before you. Falcone’s network crumbled, now colored in Dent’s victories. Maroni’s shrinking territory flashes amber, under siege from indictments. And spreading across the board like a stain—Black Mask’s territory, a sprawl of red lines drawn over neighborhoods, docks, banks. He isn’t just fighting for turf. He’s choking the city into obedience.

A quiet cough draws your attention. Alfred stands a few steps behind you, posture precise as ever, a single hand resting behind his back. “If I may, Master Bruce—Miss Madison has called. Again.”

You don’t turn.

“That would make it the fourth time today,” he continues, tone almost chiding. “A woman with her persistence is a rarity. One might almost think she cares.”

Julie Madison. Her name flickers like static through your mind. Her voice, warm even when sharpened with frustration. You push it down. The mission comes first. It always comes first.

Alfred lets the silence stretch, then sighs softly. “I’ll tell her you’re—unavailable.”

Your gaze remains locked on the sprawl of Gotham’s gangs, but for a moment your thoughts drift. Julie isn’t like the others in your circle. She doesn’t mock you behind champagne glasses. She doesn’t chase your name for headlines. She sees through the cracks in the mask of Bruce Wayne. She sees something broken. And still, she calls.

The Batcomputer chimes. Sharp. Urgent.

Your eyes snap back to the monitor as an alert fills the screen: BANK ROBBERY IN PROGRESS. MIDTOWN TRUST. MULTIPLE ARMED SUSPECTS. POSSIBLE BLACK MASK AFFILIATION.

The air in the cave tightens. Another line of red drawn across the city.

You rise from the chair, cape whispering against the stone floor. Gotham is bleeding again.

And tonight, you will be the shadow that answers...*