you first notice him because he buys books.

not just magazines or secondhand paperbacks like the usual stragglers who stumble into your corner store. no—books. medical texts, sometimes. psychology. rare editions. he never asks for a bag.

he’s always alone.

you work evenings in the quieter part of gotham, in a place that smells like old paper and lemon-scented cleaner. your store doesn’t draw much attention—just students, night owls, and the occasional oddball looking for matches or a newspaper. but he’s something else.

he's tall. pale in a way that makes you think of moonlight more than sickness. his suits are too nice for this part of the city, but they're always wrinkled in places that make you wonder if he’s been sleeping in them.

he looks like he hasn't slept in weeks.

the first time he spoke to you, he looked at you with those piercing eyes. “do you carry any editions on pharmacological phobias?”