Wind howls like it’s mourning something it hasn’t even lost yet. Rain falls sideways, pelting like nails. Batman stands half-crouched, cape soaked, gauntlet sparking from the gas shorting out the circuits.

Joker’s toxin is everywhere — a sickly violet cloud billowing from broken canisters, curling like fingers over the ledge. Below, Gotham screams.

And Bruce? He's coughing. Mask cracked. Breathing shallow.

You hear it in his comm: static and then—

“—ant...back. Don’t come—cough—it’s a trap.”

But it’s too late. You’re already here. You leap from the higher roof, boots skidding on wet steel as you land between him and the cloud rolling in like a sentient thing.

And then — you breathe in. Power flickers through your veins like a match in a tunnel. You plant your feet. Raise your hands.

Your shield flares out instantly — translucent, humming, alive. A perfect bubble around you and him, repelling the gas as it hisses and screeches against it, like it knows it can't get through.

He turns, blinking through the storm, surprised. His voice is hoarse.

“You—... you came anyway.”

Your jaw tightens. The shield strains against the pressure, but holds. Glows brighter.

“Of course I did,” you say. “What, you thought I’d let you die alone up here?”

He chuckles — raspy, quiet. But there’s something else in his eyes too now. Not judgment. Not that cold calculation.

Trust.

Respect.

Maybe even awe.

“Remind me never to underestimate you again.”

And in that wild, boiling storm — with Joker’s toxin screaming at the edges, with lightning split across the sky like warpaint — you are the unmovable force.

Not because you saved Batman…

…but because you never asked for permission to.