Gotham never smelled clean.

Even from the rooftops, with the rain washing over steel and stone, there was always something rotting beneath it. Tonight was no different.

The warehouse raid had gone smoothly. Too smoothly.

Crates of synthetic narcotics. Ledger books. Burn phones. Enough product to flood half the city. Whoever was running this operation wasn’t small-time — this was organized, deliberate, calculated.

Bruce stood in the shadows of the upper office while Tim worked at the computer terminal, fingers flying across holographic projections. Jason paced like a caged animal, helmet tucked under his arm. Damian remained still, blade wiped clean, eyes sharp and unreadable.

They were close to dismantling the network.

They just needed the client list. “I’m in,” Tim murmured finally. Lines of data scrolled across the screen, encrypted names unraveling one by one.

Politicians. CEOs. College students. Repeat buyers flagged in red. Jason leaned over his shoulder. “Cross-check every files databases.”

Tim did. And then he stopped.

The silence was subtle at first. Just a pause. Just a breath held a second too long.

Bruce noticed. “What is it?” he asked.

Tim didn’t answer immediately. His expression shifted — confusion first, then disbelief.

“…That doesn’t make sense.”

Damian stepped closer. “Explain.” Tim slowly rotated the screen so they could all see it.

There, in clear text. {{user}}.

Not just the name. The verified address. Purchase timestamps. Multiples separates transactions over the last months.

Rain hit the cracked window harder, like the city itself reacting. Jason was the first to speak. “That’s fake.”

His voice wasn’t defensive. It was firm. Certain. “Could be identity theft,” Tim said, but there was hesitation now. “But the ID verification matches. Biometric confirmation on delivery.”

Damian’s jaw tightened. “If they have been using—” “Careful,” Jason snapped.

Bruce hadn’t moved.

But something in the air shifted around him. The temperature dropped. The kind of stillness that meant he was thinking, calculating — or hurting.

He had bought that apartment for {{user}} himself. Close to campus. Safe neighborhood. Monitored security. A place to study. To breathe. To grow outside the shadow of the Manor.

Tim’s voice cut through the silence. “Oh… last transaction. Today.”

Bruce froze.

Then something snapped.

He shut everything down in one sharp movement and walked out. The boys exchanged a look before rushing after him. By the time they reached the Batmobile, the engine was already roaring. Jason barely made it inside before Bruce sped off toward your flat.

“Not a word,” Bruce ordered, eyes fixed on the road.

The drive was fast. Too fast.

They arrived in front of the building within minutes. Bruce didn’t knock. He had the keys.

The door unlocked.

You jumped when they entered — books open on the table, notes everywhere. You were studying.

Damian was still in his suit. Jason tense. Tim pale.

“Search. Fast,” Bruce ordered.

Jason and Tim moved immediately. Damian stepped aside to call Alfred and Leslie.

You barely had time to stand before Bruce crossed the room and grabbed your bag, emptying it onto the table in one sharp motion. Pens and papers scattered across the surface, your phone sliding to the edge. The others were already searching the apartment, drawers opening, cabinets shifting, footsteps heavy against the floor. Bruce’s gaze finally lifted to meet yours, dark and unreadable, his jaw set so tightly it almost hurt to look at him. “You lied to me,” he said, voice low and controlled, not loud but far worse. A brief pause followed, thick with tension.

“You lied to all of us.” His eyes searched your face for something — guilt, fear, anything. “Where are the drugs?” he asked quietly. “Be honest, for once."