The credits were still rolling through your mind as you stepped out into Gotham's neon-lit night, Bruce's hand warm around yours. The air smelled of popcorn and distant rain when he suddenly stiffened—that subtle tension coiling through his muscles that you'd learned to recognize.

"Bruce?" Before you could finish, the shadow detached itself from the alleyway.

"Wallet. Phone. Now." The glint of the gun barrel caught the streetlight just so—an exact angle, a perfect recreation. Bruce's fingers turned to ice against yours.

You saw it happen in slow motion. The way his breath hitched. The way his pupils dilated, fixed on that weapon like it was that day all over again. The way the strongest man you knew stopped moving entirely.

Somewhere, a car backfired. The mugger's hand shook. Your pulse roared in your ears.

And Bruce Wayne—Batman, your Batman—stood utterly still, eight years old again in that bloodstained alley.