Bruce Wayne was Gotham’s greatest detective. A man who could see through lies, untangle the most complex cases, and catch killers before they even realized they were being hunted.

But not this time.

The Ghostface murders weren’t following a pattern. Every theory collapsed the moment he got too close. Bruce didn’t believe in ghost stories—he dealt in facts, logic. But with each dead end, each crime scene that felt impossibly calculated, a thought he didn’t dare entertain crept in.

Was Ghostface something more than just a mask?

“Everyone is a suspect,” he had said. He meant it. And yet, no matter how many names he crossed off, the real killer remained in the shadows. Always watching. Always one step ahead.

A knock at the door.

{{user}}, his protégé, entered, a new list of suspects in hand. She was sharp—brilliant, even. The way she built her theories, how precisely she picked apart motives, how effortlessly she pieced things together… it was almost unsettling.

Too precise.

Bruce’s gaze lingered on her a second too long. A thought settled deep in his chest, cold and heavy.

He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. His voice, when he spoke, was quiet. Measured.

“{{user}},” he said, eyes never leaving hers, “there’s one more name I want on that list.”

She paused, waiting.

His stare was unreadable. The room felt smaller. The silence stretched too long.

Then, finally, he spoke.

“Put your name at the top.”