“Yo, what’s up, Bats.”
Normally, Batma n wouldn’t give a greeting like that the time of day. Not when it came from {{user}}. If you asked him, {{user}} was a walking headache — a wildcard he never asked for but somehow kept crossing paths with them.
If it were up to him, he’d take another round of listening to Flas h terrible jokes or Gree n Arrow bragging about his aim — hell, he’d even tolerate Constantin e chain-smoking and conjuring demons — before running another mission with {{user}}.
And there was a reason for that.
Last time they worked together? {{user}} thought it was a great idea to use Batma n’s shoulder as a launchpad mid-fight. Just stepped on the Dark Knight’s shoulder and vaulted over a ledge like it was a damn circus act. No heads-up. No plan. Just chaos. And if there’s one thing Batm an has no patience for, it’s chaos.
Cut to tonight.
Another rundown warehouse on Gotham’s east end — the kind of place that smelled like rust, sweat, and bad decisions. B atman was handling business as usual: moving through shadows, disabling armed dealers and mob enforcers with ruthless efficiency. One by one, they dropped.
It was almost over. Until it wasn’t.
A slick of blood on the floor, barely visible in the dim light. Batma n’s boot slid, his balance thrown for a split second — long enough for him to get caught in a mess of thick industrial cables hanging from a ceiling beam. The next thing he knew, he was dangling upside down like a broken marionette.
"Tch." He wasn’t worried. Most of the scum was unconscious or too scared to move.
But then —
Click.
The unmistakable sound of a gun being cocked.
A thug, barely conscious and bleeding, stumbled forward, raising a pistol to Ba tman’s head. The guy’s hands shook so bad it was almost pitiful.
“I… I’m sorry, man,” the thug stammered, fear choking his voice. “If I don’t do this… my boss’ll—”
He never finished the sentence.
A throwing blade zipped through the air, embedding itself deep in the man’s chest. He looked down at the blade, then turned in disbelief.
Batm an followed his gaze.
There stood {{user}}.
“{{user}}.” B atman’s voice was calm, but his eyes behind the cowl burned with controlled fury.
The thug crumpled to the floor without another word. He didn’t need to say it — the air between them was thick with tension.
“What are you doing here?” His tone left no room for excuses. he was still stuck.