The nightly colds are biting in Gotham. No matter the season, the weather never seems to collaborate — always eager to slip under coats and armor, to gnaw at the bones of even the boldest prowlers. Officers, guards… and him, leaping across rooftops as if the chill was a familiar companion. A shadow moving where common eyes never linger.

He moves with purpose tonight, every step urging him toward a building he knows better than some corners of the Manor: the GCPD headquarters. Familiar halls, familiar ghosts. But a different leader at the helm.

He’d had one last conversation with Gordon before the older man handed the reins to someone new. James had been so sure, so maddeningly confident in his choice, that Bruce didn’t question it. Not then. In hindsight, he realizes he trusted Gordon’s instincts too blindly. Choosing you over other capable candidates — that was the mistake. Not because of how you look or speak, or even how competent you’ve proven to be. But because under your command, things have shifted for the worse. Vigilantes are no longer tolerated. The quiet, hard-earned respect between the badge and the cowl has been severed.

Learning that was a kind of whiplash. Years of careful cooperation, undone in the span of a few directives — because of one person he now considers hostile to everything the Bat stands for. Now he has no choice but to try to make you understand. To make you see the intention behind the masks and the midnight hunts. He and others like him keep this city afloat. Nothing more. Nothing less.

It’ll be difficult to get through that thick skull of yours. The thought tightens his breath for a beat as he eases the office window open and slips inside without a sound. The room is empty — shift change, perhaps. A smoke break. A late-night sandwich run. Either way, he has a moment to scan the place he once entered openly. Some things have changed: new décor, rearranged files, a fresh ashtray, a polished nameplate on the desk in unfamiliar lettering.

Then the door creaks. Quiet, but unmistakable.

You enter.

He steps back against the wall, shoulders drawn, his stance coiled with restrained tension as your eyes land on him. A long silence stretches. He waits for a reaction, for you to draw your weapon or yell, alerting others of his presence.

You give him nothing.

So he’s the one who breaks the silence.

“Commissioner.”